This week, we saw the first picture of Harrison Ford as Indiana Jones in the fourth installation of the series, which is due in theaters sometime in 2008. And while we don't know exactly what is in store for Indy, we can all be pretty sure that a walker won't be part of it. It just wouldn't fit. You don't want to follow Indy as he rushes through downtown traffic to get to his dialysis appointment on time. You want to see him kicking Nazi ass, nailing hot chicks, and figuring out the mysteries of the world. Whether that will happen, who knows.

Indy isn't the only hero coming back. This summer, Bruce Willis reprises his role as Detective John McClane in Live Free or Die Hard. It's been almost twenty years since we first met McClane, but from the previews, it looks like he's still kicking ass and taking names. I don't know if you've seen ol' Bruce lately, but dude is looking ROUGH. Will he be able to pull this off? I'll report back, as I plan to see the movie as soon as it comes out.

This has me thinking about some other men that need to reprise their roles that we all know and love.

Macaulay Culkin: Kevin from the Home Alone series
This role single-handedly launched Culkin into stardom. It became one of the most noticeable pop culture icons for my generation, and everyone has seen the scene where he's in the bathroom putting aftershave on. In the new installment, Culkin still lives at home, but he's moved down to the basement, where he's a professional video game player. When his parents forget he's still living with them, they sell the house, to who else? Joe Pesci. Pranks and hilarity ensue.

Arnold Schwarzenegger: The Terminator
Come on Arnold! Just one more. Let's face it pal—your time in politics is limited. You haven't exactly made a great name for yourself, and you told us you'd be back. This time, we would see John Connor's last days in Twilight Peaks Retirement Community. But things aren't always as good as they seem. The Terminator shows up again, this time sent by John's rival at the nursing home--Bertram. Both John and Bertram are sweet for Bea, the hip young eighty-year old who recently arrived. In the future, Bertram had to watch as John and Bea get married, and sent back the T-man to flip the tables. Loaded with slow-moving action and more IV bag changes than the entire run of MASH.

The Predator: The Predator Movies
Whatever happened to this guy? He was in three movies, and that's it? I mean, true, he has a face only a mother could love, but he did some seriously hardcore acting, along with such greats as Danny Glover and the Governator. But what happens to his kind when they get old? When you're pissing five times during the night and every bowel movement is a victory, galactic domination moves down on the priority list. What happens when the Predator's partner in bridge fucks up a trick? How does he react to that? What happens when the Predator's favorite brand of prunes gets pulled from the shelves to make room for an inferior, generic brand? Will the Whispering Oaks Homeowner's Association ever recover from the time they ruled that the Predator couldn't slaughter his own livestock in his backyard and he went batshit crazy? These are the questions we need answered.

John Ritter: Jack Tripper
Before his untimely death, John Ritter was making a very substantial comeback in 8 Simple Rules...for Dating my Teenage Daughter. But I personally always wanted to see what old Jack Tripper would be up to at John's age. Let's face it—Jack was a pussy magnet. Hands down. Couldn't fight the pussy off with a stick. So what happens when Jack moves in with two twenty-something bombshells who dig older guys? A pussy parade, that's what. A pussy parade for old Jack Tripper. BONUS: this would have been an awesome place for Viagra and Cialis to peddle their wares.

I could go on and on. There are so many great roles out there to be picked back up again. Who do you want to see back in the saddle of your favorite character?

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So...yeah.

This weekend, about seventy people, all of whom were strangers at one point, converged on San Antonio to eat meat, have a good time, and abuse their livers. For three years, members of TotalFark and their friends and loved ones have gathered for this event, and this year, as a special bonus, several of the writers here at FTTW were able to join.

There was Josh, aka Baby Huey, as well as our favorite word whore, Ian. Mel was there (not so much) and it was great to meet everyone in person. Makes you reflect. This Internet thing is a pretty strange machine. Bringing people together and all that. I could wax philosophical, but honestly, I'm fucking exhausted.

So instead, I'll take this opportunity to quickly announce the fourth annual Texas Barbecue. It will be Father's Day weekend, as usual. I hope that you will all think about coming next year and have enough warning to save up money even if you decide that a motorcycle is a good investment (cough michele and turtle cough). Because I think a lot of us would call each other friends, but meeting in person takes it to a whole new level.

Uber's Corner Archives

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The End of an Era

Tonight, the HBO series The Sopranos will air its final episode. We will finally have resolution on the questions plaguing the audience since the beginning of the show. Will Tony die? Will Meadow, Carmella, or, God forbid, AJ take over the role as leader of the crime family? Millions of viewers will tune in to see what happens, and while I anxiously await the moment the clock strikes eight and I hear watch Tony driving through the streets of New Jersey one last time, I'm still royally pissed off.

Why? Because while The Sopranos has been one of the most groundbreaking series to date, the producers did a really shitty job of keeping it solid. For those who have watched the series for years, this season has been a welcome reprieve from the last three, which, technically speaking, sucked royal ass.

I'll make this quick. Those who have been reading my articles know that the art of storytelling is one of the most important things in my life. And in the beginning, The Sopranos took that art form to new heights. But the last few seasons, with unnecessary plot lines, ridiculous scenarios, and the penchant of the writers to use entire episodes as filler material, have been a pain to wade through. Did we even need the sixth season? Everything that happened in that season could have been boiled down to two episodes. The writers and producers have committed the worst crime a storyteller can commit: using crap to fill time.

Case in point: the Vito storyline. Was this anything but useless filler? I admit—I enjoyed watching it at the time. It was poignant and entertaining. But what did we get out of that little story? Mobsters don't like gay guys. And that's about it. I thought that maybe we'd see something more come of it this season, when the family had to come to the rescue when Vito Jr. was being such a little shit (and taking shits in the gym showers). But it looks like that storyline has come to a close, and for what? The little it added to the machine that is The Sopranos makes it obvious that somebody had to fill time in the sixth season.

I understand why that's necessary. The Sopranos is a cash cow. Has been for years. But look at what the creators of Lost announced not too long ago. There will be three more seasons of that show, each sixteen episodes long. Now, the producers, writers, and the audience have a goal to work towards. That is what was missing from The Sopranos—there was never an end goal. That's the question every storyteller has to ask themselves from the beginning: do I want to end this at a particular point, or do I want to let the story pan out and just end when it ends. There are advantages to both options, but as we've seen with The Sopranos, there are significant drawbacks as well.

Regardless, I raise my glass to this series. It has provided countless hours of entertainment. Even though it hasn't been the greatest storytelling the world has ever seen, it is definitely some of the greatest television. Capiche?

Uber's Corner Archives

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So, you want to talk about Texas

I'm a Texan. Native. And I'm damn proud of it. Why am I proud? Fuck if I know. We all need something to love. Some of you go crazy over your hometown hockey/baseball/basketball/football teams. I go crazy over my state. It's not like I'm a fanatic—I don't own a Texas flag, I have no idea what the exact date of our annexation is, but damn, I love this state, and I love living here.

I've traveled quite a few places in this country, and met people from all over the world. When you tell someone you're from Texas, no matter where they are from, they already have these set stereotypes they judge you by. Some of them are harmless. People unfamiliar with the state, they think we all have horses and ride them to school and work. They balk at the fact that I'm not wearing shit-stained bluejeans and boots, ask me where my Stetson is. And there's a reason for those stereotypes. A year ago, two guys from Canada, who I'd never met before in person, came down to stay with me for a few days to attend the Texas TotalFark BBQ. Sure enough, we're driving down the eight-lane road that leads to the interstate, and a person riding a horse crosses the road.

But that's cool. Not too many places in the world anymore you can see stuff like that, and that's part of what makes me proud of this state. But some of the stereotypes, they're harmful. For instance, just last week, I opened up the latest offering from Travis's column. I always look forward to reading Travis's stuff. The guy's fucking hilarious. So I was a bit dismayed to read this quote at the end of the first paragraph: “And you fucking assholes in Texas can eat a sugar frosting flavored fuck off the end of my dick, 'Everything’s bigger in Texas,' yeah like assholes and retardation.”

Such vitriol. Such hate! It wasn't the first time I'd run across this stereotype. In my time on the Internet, talking to strangers to pass the time at work, I've discovered that there are quite a few people who, for whatever reason, think of Texans as arrogant, self-centered assholes. There are others who think we're all complete morons just looking forward to drinking cheap beer and tipping cows.

Truth is, there ARE plenty of assholes in Texas. But then again, there's plenty of assholes everywhere. We've got our share of arrogance, but so do other places. And there are people who drink cheap beer and do stupid shit. But I'm willing to bet, wherever you are, there's at least one person in a five-mile radius that does the same.

I guess what gets me most about the bad stereotypes is that they ignore the diversity in the state. Three of our cities are in the top ten largest cities in the US, and with that population comes an enormous amount of diversity. When you think of a place like San Antonio, what kind of restaurants do you think we have? A bunch of taco stands and hamburger places? Well, you're right about that—those places are fucking everywhere. But there's so much more. Across the street from my house is an eclectic restaurant that serves the best Reuben sandwich in town—Pam's Patio Kitchen (which I've written about before here). Next to that is a four-star Italian restaurant. Less than two minutes down the road, there's the ubiquitous taco shop, but it's sandwiched in between a Jewish deli and a Vietnamese restaurant.

In Bedford, a part of the area known as the Dallas/Fort Worth Metroplex, my uncle goes to a church that does two different services simultaneously—one for the English-speaking congregates, and one for the Vietnamese congregates. These types of services are extremely common in the area, which boasts a substantial Asian population. Every Sunday, when the services are over, the two groups join together for lunch. And even though they don't speak the same language, they sit down at tables across from each other and eat, enjoying that communion.

My point is that Texas is a place with so much to explore, and more to understand than what you've seen in the movies. We have mountains, beaches, deserts, forests, almost every type of land you could think of. We have people from every place in the world living here.

And we're not assholes. I've never been anywhere else where 99% of the male population feels it is their responsibility to hold open doors for other people, particularly women. You rarely sit down to a home-cooked meal in Texas where people pick up their forks before the hostess picks up hers. In reality, Texas is a place where politeness and careful attention to appropriate social behavior is paramount to the social experience.

So to anyone who thinks that Texans are all arrogant assholes, I'll make you a deal. You always have an open door and an open bed at my house. You come down, and I'll show you what a fucking blast being in Texas can be. I'll give you the biggest dose of old fashioned Texas hospitality you can handle. Because if there's one thing Texans are more proud of than anything, it's the joy we take in opening the doors of our homes to people and showing them a fucking good time.

See y'all next week.

Uber doesn't realize that by doing this column, one of the Editors is going to do a "Why California is the greatest fucking state in the Union" post next week.

Uber's Corner Archives

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As some of you may have figured out by now, in addition to Uber’s Corner, the fine folks at FTTW have been publishing my serialized novel An Audience of Shadows. This Wednesday, the final chapter and epilogue will be published, marking the first time a full version of any of my novels has ever been published. I’m really excited, because I think the ending of the book turned out pretty nice, and hope it gives everyone who reads it the same satisfaction I got writing it.

The other night, after I finished typing the last word of AOS, I was smoking a cig with the fiancée, and she asked, “Are you sad that you’re finished?” The question took me by surprise. I think all of us are familiar with the feeling of being sad when we finish reading a book where we’ve fallen in love with the characters and can’t imagine them not being a part of our lives. But I had never thought of that as an aspect of finishing a novel.

No, “sad” is not part of the spectrum of feelings I experience when I finish writing a novel. AOS marks the seventh novel I’ve finished, and the experience is usually a happy one. If the ending turns out good, as I believe it did with AOS, it’s mostly complete ecstasy. So I told her no, I’m not sad. I’m relieved, and I’m proud, because, when it comes down to it, I’ve done my job.

This is my job: I’m a storyteller. Always have been, always will be. Hell, the first organized competition I took part in was a storytelling contest in the second grade. The way I see it, it is my job—my responsibility—to share what’s inside my head with the rest of the world (whether the rest of the world likes it or not). It’s my job to create something out of nothing. To start with a simple sentence, a simple idea, and create a universe out of it. To make that universe organic, so that those who enter it feel like it’s real, it’s alive, and the characters are living, breathing entities.

I’ve always wanted to write novels. But I’ve never wanted to be a James Joyce. I don’t want the fucking New Yorker to write about my work, praising it for “superlative urban underpinnings” or “sublime literary brain candy.” I want the New Yorker to HATE the shit I write. Because I want to be a writer for the everyman. I want what I write to be the kind of stuff you pick up at the airport, open while you’re waiting for your flight, and then read the entire time you’re in the air, cursing the pilot for making good time and interrupting your commune with my creation when you land fifteen minutes early. I want my work to be what makes you wake up with a book on your face because you couldn’t stop reading before going to bed. I want people to cancel plans so they can finish one of my novels. Do people do that when they’re in the middle of Ulysees? Fuck no they don’t! Hell, most people trying to get through that will take ANY opportunity to do something else. Was James Joyce a better writer than me? Hell yes he was! But I’m not a writer. I’m a storyteller. We aren’t even in the same category.

Storytelling is an art as old as communication. We’ve seen stories painted on caverns, and Anansi stories are still being handed down generation by generation, both orally and as printed books. It is pure entertainment. If your audience isn’t entertained, you haven’t done your job.

So I am not sad that I’ve finished writing AOS. I’m overjoyed, because in my estimation, I created a solid story (though there are some holes here and there that need to be filled in) with characters that are organic and come to life on the page (or screen, as it were). I also think I found a very substantial, meaningful way to complete the story. I hope you guys will let me know whether that’s the case when you read it on Wednesday. Because to be perfectly honest with you, nobody has ever read one of my novels. Friends who have expressed interest get copies, but then I never hear back from them. Even my fiancée hasn’t followed along with AOS (though she read the first couple of chapters back when I was throwing ideas around). My parents know that this is on the site, and my dad said he liked the first chapter, but other than that, nothing. So am I sad? There’s no way I could be. Because for the first time in my life, I feel like a true storyteller. And it is only thanks to those who have kept up with the novel and the editors who let me do this that I can feel that way. Thanks to all of you.

Uber's Corner archives

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Last week, I wrote about the difference between console and PC gaming. Please note: I did not leave out arcades for any reason other than they are very rarely found in homes. This is about home video entertainment, because that's where the majority of the video game market lies. Arcades, for better or worse, are things of the past. What will follow next?

Bowling alleys, for one. Now don't get me wrong, I'm using hyperbole folks. But let's look at something here:

Night out bowling for real:

Rentals for me and my fiancée/illegal escort: $35.00

Drinks for me and my fiancée/illegal escort: $10.00/$35.00

Cigarettes for me and my fiancée/illegal escort: $0.00/$10.00

Condoms for me and my fiancée/illegal escort: $0.00/$13.00

So you see, based on who I took bowling, I could easily spend up to $93.00 ($101.57 if I spring for French Ticklers).

Night out bowling on the Wii:

Beer: $30.

And that's it. Like I said, I know it isn't the same, but it's very interesting how much it feels like the same. If you haven't bowled on the Wii, you're missing a very intriguing experience, because you move just like you would if you were really bowling. Don't worry about some dumbass playing “Born in the USA” on the jukebox all night long—you can put on your own tunes, because you're at your house.

Some people might see this as a bad thing. May think of it as, “People aren't going to go out as much because they have this entertainment in their homes.” But I think that it's just a way to augment the entertainment already there. We have friends coming over tonight. And instead of sitting around, staring at each other, and then talking every now and then, we're going to play games—bowling, baseball, tennis—that we otherwise wouldn't be able to play with each other in such an abbreviated time frame. After all, we have to cook dinner and watch the Sopranos as well. So we've only got an hours to squeeze in ten frames of bowling, nine innings of baseball, and nine holes of golf. But thanks to the Wii, we can do it.

Yeah, I like Trivial Pursuit, Cranium's kind of cool, I can get some Scrabble going if I'm in the right mood, but I'm enchanted by this video game system that is really something anyone at a party can get into. I love to party, and I love having people come over to my home and enjoy themselves. The Wii allows this in a way most of us haven't dreamed of for years. We were once given a machine that allegedly had the power to do what the Wii does now: the Power Glove, a peripheral released for the very first Nintendo. Ah yes, I'll never forget the Christmas morning I woke up to the Power Glove, the dream of using it to drive a car in Rad Racer. But truth is, the Power Glove sucked a fat one. Fortunately for us, Nintendo learned from their mistakes.

Using a controller with infrared sensors and an accelerometer to gage the speed of movement, Nintendo offers everything the Power Glove was meant to do and more. Originally criticized for its incapability to duplicate the complex graphics and gameplay of the XBOX 360 and PS3, the other two “seventh generation” home video game consoles, the enormous sales and popular welcoming of the Wii show that it outshines its seventh-generation brethren in, at the least, bringing more people to the gaming table.

As a kid, I begged my dad to play video games with me. He obliged, but overall, didn't enjoy himself. But as I watched my mom the other night, bowling strike after strike on Wii Bowling, I couldn't help but think of the times we could have spent. Instead of sitting on the couch, watching TV, we could have been swinging our arms around like maniacs, laughing at and with each other, and playing games together. Even though we live in a society where spending time in front of the TV in general is looked upon as a waste, the Wii has shown me just how much video entertainment can do to bring people together. That's what is making the Wii rise to the top in the new console war: bottom line—it's a fucking blast. And you won't hear anyone but hard-core gamers say that about the 360 or PS3.

Uber wants you to touch his wii.

Archives

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For almost two decades, since the release of the original Nintendo Entertainment System, fanboys have been entrenched in one of the most dazzling confrontations since the Fans for Fonzie Alliance took on the producers of Joni Loves Chachi. Which is better for gaming: consoles, or PCs?

There have been times when each faction had significant advantages over the other. When DOOM came out in 1993, it marked one of several resurgences of the suffering PC gaming market. Soon, Super Nintendos and Sega Genesis machines the world over were collecting dust as gamers stepped into the most revolutionary first-person shooter to date. For awhile, it looked like PC gaming would rise to the top, with the only substantial next generation console offering found in the pathetic 3DO. But then, Sony stepped on the scene, and soon, the Playstation was the golden boy of gaming.

Since then, PC games and consoles have grown together as much as they have grown apart. Both factions seek out power to display the phenomenal games out there: PC gamers by constantly upgrading memory and video cards, consolers by shelling out six hundred dollars for the PS3. Looking at modern games on any system, you can see how far graphics have come in only four or five years: beautiful textures, never-ending horizons, and faces, bodies, and movement that are almost too human.

Aside from sharing titles available on consoles, that's where the similarities end. PC gaming, in general, is drastically different from consoles. Browse the respective game aisles in any store, and you'll see that PC games center primarily around strategy, while console games are all about action. In a PC game, you might go through hours of tutorials to learn how to move troops around the environment, build structures to get more troops, and accumulate the funds you need to build the structures to get more troops.

But consoles are all about letting you drop right into the gaming experience. Don't get me wrong—the lines have definitely blurred on many of the next generation consoles, but for the most part, you have a learning curve of less than half an hour before you can effectively explore and manipulate the environment. As such, there are many more strategy titles for the PC, titles which would have a very difficult time translating to their console brethren.

The truth of the matter is, neither the console or the PC are superior over the other. They are systems that allow us to see the natural evolution of electronic entertainment. When given different peripherals (mouse and keyboard vs. controller) such evolution is to be expected. And for years, gamers with their eyes on the horizon have wondered when a new advent in controller technology would drop into gaming's primordial ooze and completely reorganize gaming as we know it.

Fortunately, about six months ago, the ooze was infiltrated.

Next week: the Wii vs. Everything Else.

Uber spends many evenings playing with his joystick

Archives

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How many of you have said, "I can't write a novel/short story/screenplay/jingle for Mr. Bubbles because I just get started and then I have to go back and revise things, and then I decide I don't like those things, and it's a vicious circle and I get nowhere at all"?

When people tell me how much they admire the fact that I've written six novels and started countless others, I ask them why they don't do it themselves, and that's the answer I usually get. And why can't people seem to get past the editing stage when they're writing? Because people are pussies, that's why. For some reason, there's this subtle sense of shame that hangs over the creative process in our society, and that means that when people are writing—even when they're only writing for themselves, in the comfort of their own home—they can't get past the "What would someone else think about this" attitude.

Folks, that's not the way it has to be. My favorite times writing are spent when the words just flow out of my brain and through my fingers. Whether they're shitty words or not doesn't make any difference. The only thing that makes a difference is that they're MINE.

Maybe one reason it doesn't make sense to me is that I've always written like this. I've never been the type to revise as I go along. After all, that kind of revision is somewhat useless. Sure, if I find a good spot to insert a nice turn of phrase or an interesting metaphor, I'll stop, think on it for a minute, and try to come up with something to put in. But for the most part, I just go. When I'm writing fiction, I'm not trying to come up with the next point in the plot—I'm trying to discover it. The story already exists somewhere in the ether, and it's my responsibility to dig it out and bring it to light. That's where guerrilla writing comes in.

Guerrilla writing is analogous with exercise. If you are participating in a 100-mile bicycle race, you have to be very careful how you perform. You not only have to prepare your machine, you have to prepare yourself, and then when you are actually in the race, you can't just ride as fast as you can. You have to carefully choose when to shift gears, when to coast, when to fall behind, and when to charge forward. Guerrilla writing is nothing like that. Guerrilla writing is more like when you come home from a long day at work, air up the tires on your bike, and ride as fast and hard as you can. There's no preparation, no unnecessary attention paid to anything but the fact that you have to ride.

Sure—a lot of the stuff that you come up with while engaging in guerrilla writing is going to suck. But quite frankly (and yes, I'm looking at you) a vast majority of what you write sucks. There has been NOBODY in history who has spouted gold from their pen at a consistent rate. Every writer in history has produced works that amount to a steaming pile of dog shit. Whether or not we're exposed to them isn't the point—the point is that they exist.

The spirit of guerrilla writing is this: don't be afraid to write crap. It's ok. Everyone does it. But to purge the mind of all the shitty ideas you have to find that one that has some merit, you just have to sit down, place your hands on the keyboard, and start typing.

I have a challenge for whoever is reading this. It took me five minutes to write this article. I have not gone back and read it. I KNOW that there are absolutely shitty sentences in here, and I have no clue if I've effectively gotten my point across. But, given the subject of the piece, I couldn't have done it any other way.

Your challenge: go to that little comment box, enter your information, and then spend five minutes writing. It doesn't matter what it is. Just write. And then share it with us. Let's all show our creative genitals to each other. Bare it all. Trust me—you'll feel better once you do.

Uberchief is more gorilla than guerilla.

Uber's Corner Archive

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Anthony woke up with the urge to wash his hands. He felt small creatures traversing the folds of his filthy skin, which was dry and cracked, and bled on occasion. He thought, “I'll douse my hands in soap, lather them up, and get ready to start the day.”

The plastic cover for the mattress crumpled as he rose and placed his right foot on the white carpet. Shaking his head, he lay back down, carefully put his feet back in their original position, pulled sheets to chin and closed his eyes, imitating quiet, peaceful sleep.

Again he rose. With care, he placed his feet on the ground, this time his left one first. A slow sensation of triumph crept from his spine to his head, bathing Anthony’s thoughts in the warmth of seeming perfection.

He walked into the bathroom—always the last to get cleaned, usually the first to get used. Through a quirk of his condition, the filth that lurked there never invaded his conscious awareness. He urinated and left without even flushing.

Through the door, left foot first, in the hallway, counting steps, into the kitchen, left foot leading, to the sink: pristine, shining stainless steel. To the left of the long, slender faucet was the antibacterial soap, and he picked it up carefully with two fingers, touching it as little as possible. Anthony looked around until he saw his cleaning towel, light blue terry cloth, folded neatly where he placed it the night before. After picking up the soft fabric, he began to wipe down the bottle.

Once satisfied with his work, Anthony squirted a half dollar of soap into his palm. He began to rub his hands together, a silky white billow lathering up, and Anthony smiled.

Then he realized that he hadn’t turned the water on; his rare vision of happiness was shattered. Now he would have to touch the faucet, which would ruin everything. He reached out a sea-foam hand, and almost made another mistake by using his right one. Quickly, Anthony pulled it back and extended his left arm, turning the knob slowly until the clear water splashed musically on the metal below.

It was easy to wash the soap off his hands—just don’t let them touch anything but the water—but he had other decisions to make. He hadn’t washed the knobs yet this morning, and what if a bug had landed there during the night? He couldn’t risk dirtying his hands. Plastic salvation dangled from the shiny glove dispenser to his right, and he reached up, careful to touch absolutely nothing, grabbed a pair and put it on. The solution to the faucet problem lay on the counter four steps away. Extending his left foot first, then sliding in the bottle’s direction, Anthony crossed the linoleum floor and retrieved his rubbing alcohol. After retracing his steps, he opened the cabinet above the sink, barely touching the knobs with his fingertips, and reached slowly inside the plastic bag for his cotton balls.

Anthony carefully unscrewed the top of the bottle, placed a cotton ball on top of it, and turned it upside down. The cotton ball contracted, soaked, and a cold sensation overcame the tips of his fingers, the unmistakable smell of isopropyl alcohol filling his nostrils. He had the urge to sneeze. Keeping in mind what a mess that would make, he pushed his tongue hard against the roof of his mouth—a trick he learned as a small boy—to stave off the itching in his nose. Placing the bottle to his left, he began to swab the faucet heads, sure to cover every inch of their surface with alcohol. Once the visible surface was spotless, he turned his attention to the small space between the bottom of the knobs and the cold metal of the sink, which was only vulnerable to Q-tips and the edges of paper towels.

Four cotton balls, two paper towels, and fifteen minutes later, Anthony was somewhat satisfied and closed the cabinet, touching only the parts of the knobs he touched earlier. He then gathered up the balls and walked, left foot first, over to the closet in a corner of his kitchen. Anthony detested the closet; it was the dirtiest part of his small, one bedroom apartment.

Anthony opened the closet door slowly, as if something was waiting in the dark to jump out and grab him. Inside, his trash basket sat silently glaring at him. It was absolutely spotless—a beacon of cleanliness in a world so full of dirt and grime—but a rancid odor filled his nostrils whenever he saw it. He gagged; his face turned up into a grimace of disgust and hatred. But Anthony realized that if he did vomit, he would spend all day cleaning it up. He held in his insides.

Anthony decided to try his best at throwing the cotton balls in from where he was standing, nearly a foot away. His toss was accurate, but for one moment of horror, a ball teetered on the edge of the can until gravity pulled it inside.

Anthony slammed the closet door closed with such a force that he had to open it again to check and make sure it wasn’t broken. Once he was satisfied that it was in good condition, he walked back over to the sink; he needed a glass of water. First he carefully opened the cupboard beneath the sink and picked up a brand new sponge still wrapped in plastic. He decided to leave the wrapper on the counter until he was forced to take another trip to the trash can. After retrieving a glass from the cabinet, he picked up the soap and began scrubbing. In several minutes he was convinced that there was not an inch of glass left untouched and walked to the refrigerator to get his filtered water.

Thirst quenched, Anthony decided to start making lunch. It was nearly ten-thirty; he could prepare a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup by noon.

There was a knock at the door.

Anthony tried to ignore it; he really needed to get started on his lunch, and visitors spread germs he wished to avoid thinking about. But it continued and he heard a woman from out in the corridor.

“Hello?” queried the tiny voice. Anthony walked across the linoleum to the living room, but had to stop, retrace his steps exactly, and go back through the doorway, this time crossing the threshold with his left foot first. He walked in metered steps across the green carpet to the peephole, his outlet to the filthy outside world.

With terror he realized he hadn’t cleaned the peephole yet that morning. The voice came again from outside. “Sir or madam, I can hear you in there. I am here to help, that’s all.” She sounded reassuring, but opening the door meant inviting in all sorts of nasty things. After a moment’s thought, Anthony reached out with his bare hand and turned the doorknob, nearly retching at how unclean it was.

There stood a thin, pale woman of small stature, probably right around Anthony’s age. A long skirt with flowers dotting a white background draped what little figure she had, and the cuffs of a long sleeved white blouse bunched around her bony wrists. A long chain cascaded down her steep form; a golden crucifix hung in the crease of her breasts. In her hands, which were folded across her chest, were several pieces of paper and a Bible. The woman smiled hospitably, but Anthony was having a hard time keeping his wits about him; he rarely opened the door unless the delivery boy stood tapping his foot on the other side.

“Hello sir!” She reached out her hand to shake Anthony’s, but pulled it back quickly when she saw the horror on his face. “Do you mind if I come in?”

Before Anthony could say anything to dissuade her entering his apartment, she was in his living room. The woman sighed and turned around as Anthony was closing the door, still trying to hold in the water. He started to put his gloves back on.

“Have you found God?” she asked Anthony quizzically. A feeble ‘No’ was all he could manage, and after a couple of seconds, and stepping past her, left foot first, into the kitchen, he said, “I haven’t really been looking for Him.”

Her lips curled up into a pitiful smile, and she expressed her sympathy. “But God’s been looking for you! And I'm here to show you a new world, with Christ!” The woman walked over to Anthony, who was doing his best to keep her out of the kitchen, and cracked open her Bible to the middle somewhere. Without looking at the page, she handed the book to Anthony, her long index finger pointing to the beginning of a passage. He followed along as she recited.

“‘God gives the desolate a home to live in,’ ” she said with dignity, eyes closed in ecstatic reverence for her lord. “‘He leads out the prisoners to prosperity, but the rebellious live in a parched land.’ ” As Anthony closed the book, she smiled a large, pleasant grin. “Now, isn’t that lovely? And wouldn’t you like to be seated at His feet, so that you may see His glory?” Anthony considered this, and before he could stop her, she was in the kitchen, asking for a bit of water. She turned the knob on the sink and filled a glass from the tap. Anthony watched her drink the filth. She finished drinking, put down her glass on the counter, and grinned deplorably. Anthony saw the light glint off her bottom lip, and before he could do anything, a tiny drop of water fell on to the counter.

Anthony scuttled to try and catch the droplet, but it was too late. He nearly bowled the woman over when he slammed into the sink, grabbed the soap bottle, and squeezed until it squirted noisily.

“Sir,” she said quietly, “are you okay?”

Anthony, now scrubbing the countertop, could control his rage no longer. “No!” he screamed to the woman, now standing over his shoulder, her hot, putrid breath on his neck. “No, I am not okay! Now look at what you’ve done—I have to clean everything dammit! It’ll take me the whole day, did you ever think about that! It’s all so dirty now, it’s all so…”

He noticed that her breath wasn’t on his neck anymore, and turned to see her small frame silhouetted in the doorway to his living room. She was backing out of his apartment, leaflets and Bible in hand. By the time Anthony turned off the sink, she was at the door.

The Good Christian turned around. “I’ve never seen anything like this before. I will pray for your soul sir. You need to be prayed for.” She walked out into the hallway and slammed the door.

Anthony slumped down into the chair next to his computer. “Don’t pray for me,” he muttered. “I don’t need a prayer. I need help. Help me.”

Anthony began to sob, the tears a vain attempt at cleansing his face, much less his soul.

by E. Branden Hart

Uber's Corner Archives

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My parents didn't raise me to be ashamed of the things I liked to do. My dad probably would have liked me to play more sports, but he never pushed me. He always gave me the opportunity to do what I wanted, as long as I was serious about it. When I was 3 or 4, my folks signed me up for soccer at the local Y. If I remember right, I played for two years. Whether it was practice or an early Saturday morning game, one, if not both of them, were out there cheering me on. Every time I was picking flowers by the sidelines as the ball rolled past me and my coach was screaming at me, they were cheering me on. Every time I kicked the ball at the goal and somehow ended up kneeing myself in the crotch, they cheered me on. My dad used to treat me like I had won the entire game by myself, even though I usually got most excited about eating orange slices and drinking Hi-C during halftime. I think he knew from the beginning that sports weren't for me. So every day after those games, he would make me feel like a champion by taking me to Dallas. And that's where I found most of my true loves—the hobbies that really spoke to me.

We lived in a small city about an hour south of Dallas. There was shit-all to do in the town I was raised. Whenever we needed anything out of the ordinary, we had to go to Dallas. Every Saturday, we'd jump in his car and head up there. When I was really young, the best part of these trips was going to Toys R Us and finding the newest Transformer or a really cool Lego set. I'd rip open the packaging on the way home, too anxious to wait the hour it took to get back to Corsicana. As I got older, Transformers turned to video games (which my parents definitely didn't care for).

Then one day, my dad came home from work with a thin brown bag. He tossed it to me on the couch. Comic books. I fucking hated comic books. And Spider-man? That was kids stuff. I'm sure I said "thanks" in a way that made him think he had just shat on my foot. That Saturday, my dad and I made our usual trip up to Dallas. I went ahead and brought my comic books with me—after all, I had to read something on the drive up there, and I had read his Supra's owners manual from cover to cover.

I was floored. This Spider-man happened to be right at the beginning of the Venom story arc. Not only was the art amazing, the story was dark and moody. As a boy on the verge of becoming a teenager, it was right up my alley. When I finished, I asked him where we could get the next issue. He told me it wouldn't be out for awhile, but he'd take me to a comic book store where I could find some other stuff to read.

Lone Star Comics was in a strip mall. The first time I walked in, it smelled wonderful, a smell I would later come to recognize as fading pulp mixed with the Mylar bags it was stored in. I began browsing the stacks, all the time becoming more and more frustrated. There were all sorts of comics—comedy, drama, science fiction, horror—mixed in between the regular DC and Marvel fare I had so long associated with the word "comic." Why the hell hadn't anyone told me about this?!?

I don't remember what comic I bought that day. I just remember feeling like a new world had been opened to me. My dad and I continued to take our trips to Dallas, and soon, he told me we'd be spending a weekend up there to go to a comic convention called Fantasy Fair.

Before I went to Fantasy Fair for the first time when I was thirteen, I had never seen a man on a leash being held by a leather-clad woman with tits up to her chin. I had never seen anyone carrying around a three-liter bottle of Mountain Dew like it was a water canteen. At Fantasy Fair, my eyes were opened to the world of geeks. And I realized that, in their own way, they were pretty fucking cool.

My love for comics has risen again, as most of you know. And as I finished the last pages of Preacher last night, my eyes were opened another time. Today, I go to Austin, to a book store called Book People. I will browse their shelves of graphic novels, and even if I don't buy anything, I know I'll find something that I want to read, that I'll buy in the future. I can't help but thank both my parents for teaching me to love the written word, but I have to specifically thank my dad for teaching me what wonders can happen when the written word is combined with art. And for showing me that chick with tits up to her chin.

We all have hobbies. I know Michele likes comic books, she and Shawna love photography, and turtle builds things and burns Peeps. Tell us how you first fell in love with the things you love to do. Well, maybe except you turtle. I'm not sure I want to know why you like burning things so much.

Uberchief is a closet cosplayer. Whatever that means.

Uber's Corner Archives

Posted by Branden Hart at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (12) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Fanfiction.

The very mention of the genre may send chills up your spine.

But I'm starting to understand why people do it.

And it makes me feel very, very dirty.

So here's what happens. Some geek feels like Gene Roddenberry didn't take it far enough. "Why didn't Spock and Kirk end up together?" asks the geek plaintively. "I know—I'll write a story where Kirk and Spock are stranded on a planet together. They have to huddle for warmth, and then, Spock finally experiences emotion, and he and Kirk make beautiful love—Vulcan style—on the sands of this planet."

Pretty weird, eh?

Not really.

Because, when it comes down to it, fanfic is about one thing—the love for characters created out of the void.

There's all sorts of fanfic out there. You want to see how Harry Potter and his mentor Dumbledore pull a train on Hermione and Professor Snape? You're just a google away from finding out. Want to see what happens when Optimus Prime and Starscream invade the land of Rainbow Brite and turn that little bitch into a sex slave? Well, I'm working on that one. But the point is, people find these characters they love, that they can't let go of, and they start to create stories about them.

This isn't new. Remember Greek mythology, anyone? It's fucking fanfic. It wasn't created by one person—it was created throughout generations of people who told stories about how the gods influenced mankind. Fanfic has been around for ages. It's just up until now that, with the power of the Internet, it has gained notoriety.

Like I said, I finally understand where these people are coming from.

I'm on the verge of finishing the serialized comic Preacher, which I've talked about multiple times on this site. And it kills me that I'm about to end my run of acquaintance with the main character, Jesse Custer. I don't want to see him go. When the story ends, I want there to be more adventures for him. And that's the guts of fanfic.

Am I going to write fanfic about Custer? Hell no. But I'm starting to understand why people do it. It isn't something geeky or weird. It's something honorable. It's a tribute to those who create these characters that we fall in love with. And it's a tribute that every creator should cherish. I can only hope that one day, someone will come across this website and read my archives and think, "Man, I really want to see what happens to Ted Rhobe Rae, but Uber isn't writing about him anymore. Maybe I'll write my own Ted Rhobe Rae story."

Then again, maybe, once Audience of Shadows is done, I'll continue the adventures of Ted Rhobe Rae. Who knows? After all, he's a character I don't want to see shuffled off into the void. And that's the spirit of fanfic. It's about taking the characters you love to a level that connects you with them more intimately.

Ok, I feel dirty now. I'm going to take a shower. In the meantime, tell me about some characters you want to know more about. And then you can take a shower too.

Uberchief loves him some Harry Potter / Home Alone crossover slash

Uber's Corner Archives

Posted by Branden Hart at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (4) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

No matter where you live, there is always a local restaurant that blows you away each time you go. Someplace that, for myriad reasons, is special. When you live in a city like San Antonio or New York, one of the most exciting things to do is go out searching for new places to eat. In San Antonio, there are thousands of restaurants. Some are great, some have potential that they just haven't reached, and some leave you with a burning need for Pepto Bismol. I am fortunate enough to have one of those rare great restaurants within walking distance of my house.

With its small, unassuming front, one wouldn't necessarily expect four-star cuisine from this strip-mall occupant. But if you've been picking out restaurants as long as I have, you know to never judge a book by its cover. Pam's has a nice outdoor patio for days when it's pleasant outside, and when the candles are lit and the sun is setting behind the restaurant, it makes for a gorgeous place to spend time with friends and family. On the inside, Pam's is a nice, modern looking little joint, painted with bright colors and funky paintings from local artists. In one corner, they have a projector that displays old black and white films. As I discovered last night, "old black and white films" includes Mel Brooks' classic Young Frankenstein. Just another feather in the cap for this establishment. If I ever go and they have Monty Python's Holy Grail playing, I won't eat anywhere else—ever.

But enough about the establishment—let's get to the meat. And by meat, I mean meat. Pam's serves a wide variety of entrees. Their menu includes dishes from Thai Panang Beef Curry with thin strips of beef, coconut milk, and Thai curry, to Bistec Tacos with grilled Angus beef, sautéed onions, and homemade guacamole served on fresh corn tortillas. I have yet to try all these delicious dishes, but friends rave about each and every one of them. What I have tried is the filet with Roquefort. Two eight-ounce filets, served medium rare, topped with exquisite Roquefort cheese. When this dish comes out, the Roquefort is pleasantly melted, leaving the beautiful steak near sizzling. It is very rare that I find places that use bleu cheeses with any satisfactory results, but the combination of the premium cut of meat with top-quality Roquefort is a taste that I have yet to find rivaled anywhere.

Pam's Patio Kitchen is a local treasure. Pam herself will come by your table to say hello. It is one of the friendliest places you will ever dine in. So when you readers make it down to San Antonio next time, you let me know, and I'll treat you to some of the best food in town at Pam's. In the meantime, tell me about some of your favorite local establishments. Cheers!

Uber's Corner Archives

Posted by Branden Hart at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Dear Uberchief,

Thanks in advance, Harried Homebuyer.

Dear Harried Homebuyer,

Thanks for the note. Buying a home is a hard task, which is not made any easier by people who won't mind their own business. It reminds me of the story of Fat Freddy Frog, who used to live in Blue Lake west of Big Tree, in Deep Forest. One day in autumn, long ago, when nomadicElvis-impersonating transvestites roamed freely in the Grasslands outside of Deep Forest, Freddy Frog was getting ready for the winter by digging a hole in the bottom of the lake, where he could hibernate until spring. On the first morning of digging the hole, he kept having to come up to take breaks, because of what a fat frog he was.

"Fat Freddy Frog!" laughed Maven Mayfly, "you're so fat you can't even dig your winter hole without running out of breath! Why don't you quit eating for awhile and try to quit being so freaking fat!"

Panting, Freddy Frog said, "I did not ask for your advice, nor do I need it, thank you very much."

The next morning, Freddy Frog couldn't bring up the mud from his hole as quickly as he needed to, because he had not exercised in years and had little strength.

"Fat Freddy Frog!" laughed Maven Mayfly, "you're so weak you can't even bring up all the mud you need to get out of the hole you're digging for the winter! Why don't you go to the gym and try to bulk up some, you little wimp!"

Huffing and puffing, Freddy Frog said, "I did not ask for your advice, nor do I need it, thank you very much."

The following morning, Freddy Frog had finally finished his hole. He sat on his lilly pad, waiting for unsuspecting bugs to come by so he could eat them and get even more fat before hibernating for the winter. But every time one came by, he moved too slowly and missed it.

"Fat Freddy Frog!" laughed Maven Mayfly. "You're so slow you can't even get dinner for yourself! Why don't you just go on and hibernate--you're fat enough as it is!"

"I did not ask for your advice, nor do I need it, thank you very much."

"You can't even catch me if I'm in front of your face!" teased Maven Mayfly as he buzzed around Freddy's head. But Maven was wrong. Fueled by anger and years of being laughed at and teased, Freddy Frog concentrated as hard as he could. In a split second, his tongue darted out of his mouth and caught Maven in midair. He pulled his tongue back into his mouth and smiled, Maven's fluttering wings tickling him.

"Please don't eat me!" yelled Maven, still stuck to Freddy's tongue. "I promise, I won't give you any more unsolicited advice!"

"Oh, I'm not going to eat you," said Freddy. "I've got something much more important planned for you."

That evening, Freddy settled into his winter hole for a long, deep sleep. In several months, he woke up, stretched, shook the mud from his slimy skin, and looked to his right. There, mangled, wingless, with a look of absolute horror on his face, was the body of Maven Mayfly, held down by a small pebble, just as Freddy had left him. Freddy never told anyone what horrible, wonderful things he had done to Maven that autumn. By the time he resurfaced from hibernation, the animals who didn't hibernate had already begun guessing what had happened to Maven.

"I heard he was in love with Craig Caterpillar and couldn't bear it when Craig died so he killed himself!" said Percy Porcupine.

"Well, I heard that he got caught up in a heroin ring and left Deep Forest to get into gay porn to support his habit," said Mom Fox.

But only Fat Freddy Frog new the awful truth. Only he knew the terror Maven experienced in the last hours of his life. Only Freddy knew exactly how to make a mayfly scream for forgiveness by inserting various objects into his tiny mayfly rectum. But he never told anyone how to do it (unless, of course, they asked him first).

The moral of the story is: ignore unsolicited advice and just do what you think is best. One day, all those pompous assholes will get what they have coming to them.

Good luck with your new abode!

Uberchief

Uberchief did not participate in any blood orgies in the making of this post.

Uber's Corner Archives

Posted by Branden Hart at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (6) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

I’ve been dating Sarah for over four years. I knew for a long time that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her, but just didn’t know how to propose. I thought of something grandiose—maybe take her to a restaurant, hire a band to play in the background as I sang to her. Maybe take her hiking, and at the top of Enchanted Rock, serve a picnic with champagne and give her the ring.

But that ain’t what happened. What happened is that a week ago yesterday, after a weekend of serious partying and a few Miller Lites, I blurted it out. I decided I wanted to wake up with her as my fiancée the next morning. It was a complete surprise to both of us. Don’t even have a ring. But we’re both ecstatic.

So I’ve been thinking about love a lot this week. Because it’s much different than I thought it would be. I mean, sure, we had our period of puppy love, where I’d write her poems and shit like that. But that wore off. We still get romantic occasionally, but most of the time, we’re just together. Being best friends.

I always wanted to marry someone who is a best friend, and I’ve finally found that someone. See, love isn’t about butterflies in your stomach or gushing at each other or being all over each other in front of your friends. Love is about one thing, and one thing only: mutual respect. Sure, there will be times when we do things to one another that are disrespectful. Do we hold that against each other? Hell no. Friends ask me why we never get into fights. It’s because we always forgive each other. I don’t understand people who get off on fighting with their loved ones and then staying mad at them, holding grudges. I’d rather go back to playing Wii, talking trash to each other, and just enjoying where we are together in time.

\Parents: try not to expose your kids to too many fairy tale love stories. For some reason, most kids can understand that violence on TV isn’t real. But the portrayals of love that we see—that sticks with us. And it’s all bullshit. True love isn’t like that at all. Fairy tale love is one-sided, but true love is complicated. It has levels—levels you have to nurture and care for. You should grow to understand the person more and more every single day.

I didn’t know what love was until I went to my hometown one night for a wedding and Sarah stayed back in San Antonio. The night I was there, I had a dream where I watched her die. I’ll never forget the horror of that moment, of what I had lost. I had lost a best friend. A best friend I can have really great sex with, but a best friend nonetheless. And it killed me inside. I must have called her at least twenty times that morning. Finally got hold of her, and she was ok. But it didn’t stop my mind from dwelling on that emotion.

When I got back to San Antonio, she came over with her friends. I burst into tears as soon as I saw her face. Fortunately, she has long hair so I just acted like I really wanted to hug her to hide my tears so as not to ruin my macho man image. That was when I knew what love is. It’s when imagining your life without someone is worse than death itself.

I promise, I’ll never get this sappy again, ever, in one of my FTTW posts. But this is what has been on my mind this week. No drunken midgets, no petting zoo expulsions. What I realize is that, basically, this is just the beginning. I don’t know where it’s going to go from here, but I’m excited. And I know I have my best friend along for the ride. I love you Sarah.

Next week: Drunken midgets going batshit crazy at a petting zoo run by a Bob Barker lookalike who makes his own moonshine and throws knives at squirrels for fun.

Uber's Corner Archives

Posted by Branden Hart at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (18) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

My buddy AT helped me come up with some ideas for this one. Merry Christmas everybody!

The Christmas Rooster
A Deep Forest Fable

It had been a devastating autumn for the animals in Deep Forest. There had been an E. Coli outbreak at Duck’s restaurant and he was forced to cancel his Holiday Feast. A flu pandemic had at least half of the animals sick in bed, and had Dr. Fox practically living at the hospital. And to top it off, the year’s harvest was far less than in previous years, and the animals often fought amongst themselves over how to split up the meager supplies.

But the days before Christmas weren’t all sorrow and sadness. Some animals were still able to maintain a cheerful holiday spirit. The Buffalo Brothers cooked up some of their special holiday berry wine for everyone to enjoy. Percy Porcupine was giving away emergency contraceptives at the free clinic. And the Grasshopper family had decorated the Hollow in bright lights and fancy ornaments, for they planned to have everyone in Deep Forest come and enjoy a holiday feast at their home.

There were three animals, however, that couldn't quite keep their spirits up. The Hen sisters, Helen, Haley, and Honey, could be seen every day on the porch of the house they shared, braving the cold and complaining about cocks.

"There hasn't been a single cock in Deep Forest since I can remember!" opined Haley.

"You're telling me," replied Honey. "This girl needs a nice cock to make her happy."

"That's what we need for Christmas—a big cock," said Helen.

Despite seeing the Hen sisters complaining about the lack of roosters in Deep Forest, its citizens kept about their daily business, busying themselves for the upcoming holiday. But their spirits would be broken soon, when, on Christmas Eve, Bird called a meeting with all the animals to deliver some bad news.

"The shipment of food we were expecting did not arrive," he said among clamor and shouts from the animals who were gathered in the Grasshopper Hollow underneath Big Tree. "I am sorry—we will have no food for the feast this Christmas."

"Where did all the food go?" demanded Dr. Fox.

"How are we going to survive?" chirped Dad Grasshopper.

"Who is responsible for this?" shouted Brian Buffalo.

"I am," said a deep voice from the back of the Hollow. Amongst hushed murmurs, everyone turned and looked as a large, plump, beautiful rooster stood, shook out his gorgeous feathers, and began to strut to stand next to Bird.

"My friends, I am Richard Rooster, and it is I who was responsible for your supplies. Alas, I was set upon in the Grasslands outside of Deep Forest by the roving bands of Elvis-impersonating transvestites. They took everything in my caravan. Why, I wasn't sure I myself would make it here to be with you tonight."

A hush fell over the crowd. Bird shook his little head. "It seems that Deep Forest isn't the only place that has been trampled upon by the horrible weather this year," he said. "People are desperate even outside of Deep Forest!"

"What are we going to do for food?" yelled Dad Grasshopper.

Bird held his head up high until the din died down. "My friends, we are Deep Forest, and we will survive. We may just have to do so in a different way than in years past." The air filled with growls and groans. "Nevertheless," said Bird, raising his voice and hushing the crowd, "we must show our appreciation to Richard Rooster for putting his life in danger for our sake."

"Please," said Richard as he turned to Bird and shook his hand, "call me Dick."

"Fine then," said Bird. "Dick it is. Now, is there anyone who can handle Dick for the night? I know we all have our houses full, but if any of you have a place for Dick…"

"We do!" shouted three very similar voices from the back of the Hollow.

Yes, the Hen sisters, always hospitable and willing to put up a traveling cock, had volunteered their services for the evening.

"We'll have Dick at our house for as long as we can stand it!" said Helen.

"There's always room for a cock at the Hen house!" assured Honey.

"Ladies, I thank you," said Richard. "But as you can see, I've had my share of sweet bread and berry wine in my time, and I'm a little larger than I'd like to be." Richard patted his big, full belly. "I doubt that you will have a place large enough for me to sleep."

"Oh," blushed Haley, "there's no cock too big for the Hen sisters."

"Very well," said Bird as the other animals slumped out of the Hollow. "Richard…er…Dick shall be welcome in Deep Forest for as long as he needs to stay."

And so it was. That night, Richard went home with the Hen sisters, and all the animals in Deep Forest went to bed hungrier than they had been when they woke up that morning.

The next day was Christmas Eve. Percy Porcupine was cleaning out the abortion vacuum when he heard a knock at the door of the free clinic. It was Haley Hen.

"It burns when I pee," she said, shifting on her feet. "I think I might have caught something from that cock I was with last night."

Percy welcomed her in and had her in the back room giving a urine sample when there was another knock on the door. It was Honey Hen.

"I have bumps all over me…down there," she sighed. "I think there was something wrong with that Dick last night."

Percy took her to room one and had just taken a tissue sample when there was another knock on the door. It was Helen Hen.

"Look at my beak!" she said, pointing to the small read blisters popping up all over. "I knew I shouldn't have put Dick in my mouth."

Sure enough, all three of the Hen sisters had some kind of STD. They were all distraught, even though Percy assured them that through preventive medication, they could live their entire lives and never know they even had whatever Richard had given them.

As the three trudged home in the snow, discussing negative side effects and how they hated Dick, they met Dr. Fox. He was sad, because he didn't have anything to bring over to the Grasshopper's house for the Christmas feast the next day.

When they turned on the street to their house, they met Brian Buffalo. He was sad, for there would be no delicious sweet bread to go with his berry wine at the feast the next day.

Finally, they spotted Dad Grasshopper as they passed by the hollow. He was sad, for he did not think he could manage to have the Christmas feast at all.

"Ladies, there isn't any food in all of Deep Forest," he sighed. "I think we should all just consider Christmas cancelled this year."

The Hen sisters sat on their porch, as they always did, and talked. They talked for hours. And while Richard Rooster was inside sleeping, they came up with a plan.

Christmas morning came, and around Deep Forest, little animals woke up, but were too hungry to enjoy their presents. Stockings were hung by the chimney, but were not filled with the delicious candies that were normally there. It looked as if Christmas in Deep Forest was ruined, until Helen Hen's voice rang out through the streets.

"Merry Christmas everyone! The feast starts in two hours!"

Before long, all of Deep Forest was crowded around the porch of the Hen house, sniffing the wonderful scents wafting out. Just as the crowd began to get rowdy, Helen, Honey, and Haley stepped out of the front door.

"We have a feast prepared for you!" said Helen. "It isn't much, but it should be enough to restore the Christmas spirit to us all!"

"Merry Christmas everyone!" shouted Honey.

"Now come on in, and enjoy the meal!" said Haley, stepping aside.

On a table inside the house was a beautiful setup. There were aromatic candles burning, bright colored wreaths with the fauna of the season, and a giant plate of succulent, shredded meat that was enough to make everyone in Deep Forest at least a little full, and give all the children the energy they needed to go back home and enjoy their presents.

"This is wonderful," mumbled Bird through mouthfuls of the stuff.

"I've never eaten meat so tender!" praised Dr. Fox.

"Where's Richard?" asked Percy.

"Shut up Percy!" yelled all three sisters at once.

"I mean," said Honey when the room had fallen silent, "he left hours ago. Had a family of his own to tend to."

People continued to eat merrily.

"Honey, you have to give me the recipe for this," said Mom Grasshopper.

"Me too!" said Brian Buffalo. "What is this?"

"Tastes like chicken," said Percy.

"Shut UP Percy!" yelled the sisters again.

This time, everyone stopped eating, and stared at the sisters. Bird looked at his handful of meat and turned to them.

"Ladies, we aren't eating Richard Rooster, are we?"

The sisters all shook their heads. "No, no," said Haley. "Like we said, he left today."

"Then what is this?" asked Bird.

"It's…um…" Helen stumbled to find words.

"It's…it's cat. That's right, we're eating cat meat."

"Cat meat?!?" yelped Bird. "But cat meat is tough, and stringy."

"Well, we basted it several times," replied Honey.

"Oh!" said Bird, who then shrugged, and began to dig in again.

Indeed, that night, everyone finished all of the meat, and the Hen sisters went from being the old, grumpy women they were once known as, to Christmas saviors. People left their house full, happy, and ready to enjoy the holidays as the holidays were meant be enjoyed.

The moral of the story is: sometimes, the only thing that can get people in the holiday spirit is a little bit of cock inside.

Merry Christmas from Uberchief and FTTW!

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It happens to all of us. You wake up in the morning feeling like shit, you get yelled at for being a dumbass at work, you leave work to find you have a flat tire, you break a finger changing your tire, the people at the tire place charge you an inordinate amount of money to plug the tire, you get stuck in horrible traffic, you're out of cigarettes, and THEN, a song comes on the radio. A song you haven't heard in years. A song that transports you back to a time in your life that, as you listen to the melody, becomes clear as crystal.

Let's face it—our brains can do some pretty weird things. One of the strangest things to me is the way our brains form associations between the events in our lives and the mundane things that were present at those events. When this happens, you're left with a feeling of nostalgia that transcends all others. It's something different than regular reminiscence—it's something more.

So here a few of the memory-inducing things in my life.

1. Bob Dylan's Tangled Up in Blue

The very first time I heard this song I was driving back from Austin to San Antonio after what I can say is one of the best weekends of my life. Basically, a good friend who happened to be a gorgeous woman was in town, we went out to a huge party, there was lots of extremely unexpected sex and lots of booze. So the weekend was infused with plenty of intense emotions in the first place. I had just bought Dylan's Greatest Hits Volume 3 and hadn't listened to it yet. I popped it in after I dropped my friend off. I'll never forget cruising down I-35, the sunset in front of me, and hearing the first chords of that song. I'd never heard it before, and being that it's about unexpected love and old lovers reuniting, it was instantly significant to me. I can't hear that song now without thinking about that weekend. It's a brilliant feeling.

2. Final Fantasy II

I'm going with the American numbering system here. This game was THE reason I had to have a Super Nintendo. Fuck Super Mario World, fuck the new Zelda, FFII was what I needed. When I finally got it, one of my best friends and I played for days until we finally beat it. Now, this game is something else. The story is incredible. You go to the moon, for Christ's sake. I would be out mowing the yard as fast as possible so I could get over to Ryan's house and find out what happened next. Would the Dragoon eventually betray us? Would the summoner chick ever take her clothes off? So when, about six months ago, Final Fantasy IV Advance (which is a duplicate of Final Fantasy II—I know it's confusing, all you need to know is it's the same game) I picked one up for my DS. From the first screen, memories of my time playing that game flooded back. It was a great time in my life—I was in seventh grade, things were going my way—but I'll never forget the first time I was exposed to a video game that I can truly say is artistic.

3. Michael Ende's The Neverending Story

The book, not the movie. I mean, the movie was great—a classic. The sequel with Jonathan Brandis (RIP) sucked donkey balls, but even after watching it, I felt compelled to read the book. This novel is hands down one of the greatest children's stories ever written. Tolkein's longwinded ass has nothing on this book. I read it when I was ten, and while I had been writing for years before that, this book is single-handedly responsible for inspiring me to write novels. I was taking the bus to school in those days, and it got to my house damn early. I had about an hour and a half from getting picked up to when school actually started, and all the guys on the bus and in the cafeteria were busy playing thumps or scorps and getting bruised up, so I had plenty of time to bury my head in books. The adventures in that story are so amazing that I actually started a novel immediately after finishing it. Being ten, I didn't really have the dedication to finish it, but every time I see that book in a store, or take out my old copy and read a few pages, I can actually smell that cafeteria, can feel myself sitting in my old desk in Mrs. Goodman's classroom, rushing through my math work so I could read another chapter.

4. Outkast's Southernplayalisticadillacmusik

You go to college for your first year. You taste freedom—you relish it. You come into your own. And then, the year is over, and you go home to stay with your parents for the summer. If you have gone through that experience, you remember it, because it sucks. All of a sudden, your freedom is ripped from you. It doesn't matter that your parents tell you just to let them know when you get home—you don't have a curfew anymore. It doesn't matter that they say you can have people over and drink as long as nobody drives home. It doesn't matter that all of the rules you were accustomed to in high school are gone. There's still that freedom missing. Not to mention I had started drinking and partying, and found a whole new circle of friends to hang out with. Combine that, and you have a summer you'll never forget. And my soundtrack for that summer was Outkast's first album. Not only is it an unbelievable freshman album, it was perfect for rolling around to parties. Step out of the car with Crumblin' Herb bumping, and you feel like a fucking champ. I can't hear that CD these days without thinking of driving to pasture parties, drinking Old Milwaukee, and reuniting with old friends.

In each of these examples, there is something underlying the memory: unforgettable sexual experiences, the genesis of a desire to write, reunions with friends. I suppose that's the key to embedding memories in a song, or a book, or even a videogame. It's the combination of intense emotions and aesthetic pleasure. It only comes along once in awhile, but when it does, it's one of the most pleasurable experiences anyone can have.

So what things remind you of other things? It's time to reminisce folks. Let's try not to get all teary.

Ah, Uberchief. Once again you've mistaken something for something.

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You remember it like yesterday: your lips touching the edges of that sweet, succulent hole. For some of us, it might have been a hole the size of a baseball; for others, just a small, round "O." You stick your tongue out a little bit, just to get a little taste and make sure you like what you're getting yourself into. Pretty soon, you drink of the juices, and it's good, and before you know it, you can't stop.

Yes, we've all experienced it—our first taste of alcohol.

So drinkers, prepare to reminisce, because I have some questions for you, and I need some fucking answers.

1. When was the first time you got drunk and what happened?

I was 18. Yeah, I was 18 the first time I got drunk. Look, not everyone feels the need to rebel against authority, alright? Some of us actually fucking like the rules. We know they keep us safe. And that's the way I was when I was sixteen. But then, when I turned seventeen, all of that changed. I started drinking my parents' liquor. Just sneaking shots here and there. Never getting drunk, just tasting them. One night my senior year of high school, I played piano at an event for my father's work, came home before my parents, and celebrated my first paying gig with a whiskey and coke. God, was that thing horrible. I wish I could go back to myself that night and say, "Listen dumbass, you want two or three shots in there—not five. And dammit—use some fucking ice!" But no, I fixed a shitty whiskey and coke, and couldn't even get past the first few sips.

I suppose all that makes this next bit even more pathetic. Because the first time I actually got drunk, it was off of Zima. FUCK OFF IT WAS ALL WE HAD. And this wasn't any ordinary Zima. This shit had been sitting behind a radiator for two weeks. Because that's the only place my girlfriend could hide it.

My girlfriend's mom didn't give a shit what we did, so one night we just started drinking Zima, then got naked, messed around, and watched TV. I can't explain the feeling of being drunk that night. So fun, so funny, just a wonderful time. I'll never forget that first night being drunk with my naked girlfriend. It's one of the best memories I have of that crazy whore.

2. What did you drink the most of when you started drinking?

NOT ZIMA JESUS SHUT UP ALREADY.

The answer is, anything and everything. I went through it all: vodka, tequila, trashcan punch, kegs of Keystone Light, forties of Mickey's and OE, MD 20/20, Boone's Farm, a wonderful concoction by a wonderful man named Bernard called The Gin Bucket, and Thunderbird. Well, ok, not Thunderbird—even I had enough sense not to mess with that shit.* Our favorite though was cheap beer. Which, for me, meant Old Milwaukee. Not The Beast. The Beast's older, grumpier brother. I have no idea why I drank this shit. Maybe it was because I could get a twelve-pack of tall boys for six bucks. Maybe it was because everyone else hated it so I never had to worry about anybody drinking my beer. Come to think of it, there's no maybe about it—those are precisely the two reasons I drank that beer.

*No offense meant to connoisseurs of this fine beverage.

3. What do you drink the most of now?

Miller Lite. I know—not too far from the Milwaukee's Best. But it's a gulping beer, and I like to gulp. It's perfect for my budget too. And while I love a good ale from Avery or whatever Dogfish Head has put out recently, my reliable, everyday beer is Miller Lite.

4. What is the most fun you've had while drunk?

Pecan Island—Louisiana. It was one of the best times of my life. My buddy Mule had a cabin up there, and about twenty of us drove from San Antonio to Louisiana to drink, hang out in an absolutely gorgeous spot of nature (yes, Louisiana has some gorgeous scenery), sleep, and eat. And fornicate. Which most of us were too drunk to do, but I know a couple of people… Anyway, it was a transcendental experience. I puked on a cat. Good times.

5. What is the drunkest you've ever been?

Hands down, this was in one of the first months I started drinking. I started out the day at three at a frat house. Drinking from a keg before a soccer game. We took the keg to the soccer game—drank there, got belligerent, went to the campus kitchen to get food. Went back to friend's dorm room, and started taking shots of vodka. I took at least twelve in less than three hours. We left for a party, and the last thing I remember is stepping into the backseat of my friend's car.

Here's what happened over the next five hours, according to eyewitness reports:

Back at the frat house, I play quarters and drink at least six or seven beers. Then I move on to playing Asshole. By the time I'm through, I'm falling down drunk and have to be carried into the back of a truck to be taken home. I'm walked back to my dorm room, put in bed. But I'm not satisfied—oh no. I proceed to get up and walk about two miles to a party I know about. There, I hit on every chick in sight, completely bite ass in front of everybody, and make a total fool of myself. My good buddy scooped me up and asked his friends—all women and his sister—to drive us both home. In the car, I'm singing as loud as possible, and one of the girls makes a comment to the effect of, "Man, you sure are drunk!" This part I actually remember, because I thought it would be hilarious to say something along the lines of, "Man, what do you guys know—you're just a bunch of bitches!" I thought that, at least, my friend would find it funny. And he did, but he knew better than to laugh. I didn't. I ended up getting thrown out of the car and busted my knee on the curb.

The next morning started out with booze and strippers. But that's a story for another time.

Five essential questions, ladies and gentlemen. We've all had our ups and downs with that wonderful mistress that is alcohol, with her chocolate coated breasts and minty starlight kisses. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to kick my broad's ass in Wii bowling. And drink some beer while I'm at it.

Uberchief needs some answers, and he is RUNNING OUT OF TIME.

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If there is one thing I’m positive the editors and readers of FTTW share in common, it isn’t venereal disease—it’s a love of live music. Last Tuesday, I went to legendary concert venue Stubb’s Barbeque in Austin to watch one of the most amazing concerts I’ve ever seen: The Roots.

The Roots are one of the most important hip-hop ensembles ever to exist. Started by Black Thought and ?uestlove (pronounced “Quest love”) the band relies heavily on jazz beats and melodic progressions, as well as live instruments and as clever, often poignant rhymes. They are known for their exceptional live shows, and this one was absolutely incredible. Not to mention they were playing with LUPE FIASCO, who I’ve mentioned several times over the past few months.

When we got downtown for the concert, we stepped out of the car (where we were listening to Lupe Fiasco’s American Terrorist) and into the street (where we could hear Lupe doing a live version of the same song). Even though it was completely surreal to go from recording to the same live song instantaneously, my heart sunk, because it meant one thing—I was missing Lupe. We mistakenly figured that Lupe would do some songs with The Roots, but ended up being wrong. No matter, we were able to listen to the Lupe songs as we stood in a line that was fifteen fucking minutes long, trying to get in.

When The Roots finally took the stage, we had our beers and were ready to go. This drunk idiot and his drunk ass girlfriend bought me a beer in exchange for a cigarette, so I was trying to balance three beers while standing there cheering for the band. “Why didn’t you just get two beers?” you ask me. “You obviously don’t know me that well,” I reply. But I digress.

The band had everything. ?uestlove plays the drums. Other instruments include sax, keyboard, trombone, and a Sousaphone. That’s right. A FUCKING SOUSAPHONE. At a hip hop concert. I couldn’t believe it. And that Sousaphonist was rocking out man. Moving as much as he could. I thought he was going to fall over at one point. When the other members took a break, ?uestlove (who doesn’t take breaks and is known to DJ at local clubs after concerts), the guitarist, and the Sousaphonist covered Bob Dylan’s Masters of War. The Sousaphonist did the bass line, dancing on stage the entire time. It was the second truly surreal experience of the night, and absolutely amazing to see.

The band played a lot of their more popular songs, then did a lot of covers as well. I realized at one point I was bobbing my head to an instrumental version of Justin Timberlake’s Sexyback. I promptly punched myself in the testicles. Other than that, hearing The Roots cover a song is something special: not only do you get the feeling that they understand what the song is about, but that they really care about the song in the first place.

The big thing for me about seeing live music is the different senses you can observe music with. For example, the bass produced by the giant speakers on either side of the stage was body shaking. I could watch the sleeves on my shirt vibrate against the sound, and I was at least one hundred yards away from the stage. Being there, seeing the band live, kind of negates some of the things we take for granted when listening to an album or an mp3. You begin to realize the organic nature of what you’re observing, and it’s then that the music takes on a new feeling. THAT’S what is important about live music to me.

The concert ended after about two or three hours. My friends, who have seen the band before, said that every time it gets better, and every time they leave a concert they start looking forward to the next one. Lord knows I’ll be back in Austin next time the band plays. I might even find out where ?uestlove is playing afterwards so I can go listen to him, because I know that the experience will be unlike any I can experience anywhere else, no matter how great my home stereo system is.

So readers, what are your favorite groups to see live? What about favorite concerts? What do you love about seeing live music? Where’s your favorite concert venue? Let’s chat it up motherfuckers. In the meantime, I’ll be waiting for you in the beer line.

Uberchief rocks it sousaphone style.

*eds note: he's wrong. we really do all have VD

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I'll get right down to it: the Nintendo Wii lives up to all the hype that's been heaped upon it like so many mashed potatoes with gravy. White gravy. I can't stand that brown gravy. Does anyone really like that brown gravy? Or is it just cheaper to make? Maybe Wii'll never know. Which brings me back to my original point: the Wii is fucking awesome.

During early development of the Wii, Nintendo called it the "Revolution." Indeed, this little, relatively cheap machine (compared to its next-gen Microsoft and Sony counterparts) marks a true revolution in home gaming. The idea of active gaming, where the player is required to move to perform actions in-game, isn't anything new. I remember going to comic conventions back in the day and playing "virtual reality" games in these big ass helmets. The games looked like shit, but you actually had to move around inside this little podium they set up to play. Then arcades were hit with a storm of skiing and snowboarding games, where you stood on a platform and could manipulate it with body motion that mimicked the act of skiing or snowboarding. Next was Dance Dance Revolution, which took active gaming to the fat-burning level. Kids actually lose weight doing this stuff—I shit you not. Integrating physical action into the video game experience is not an innovation—it's been around for quite some time.

What is an innovation is the way the Wii executes this integration. It uses motion-sensing technology to interpret the movement of the Wii-mote and corresponding Nunchuk into real-time actions on-screen. This means exactly what you think: endless possibilities. Upon unwrapping your brand new Wii (or slightly used Wii if you go on eBay like I did) you'll find a copy of Wii Sports (unless the guy selling the slightly used Wii is a complete fucking cheapskate and keeps the copy of the FREE fucking game for himself and slips an old Bananarama CD into the sleeve so that at a polite glance it looks like the game is there. The bastard) which contains a collection of sports simulations including golf, baseball, bowling, tennis, and boxing. Bowling is the most fun, hands down. You swing the Wii-mote in the exact same way as you would bowl a bowling ball. You use other buttons to adjust where your shot is going. You can put spin of any kind on the ball. It's simply amazing.

I'll be honest, I haven't played much else. I started The Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess, but haven't gotten too far because I usually start it after ten or twelve games of Wii Bowling, and I'm pretty drunk by then, because it's like a rule or something that you have to drink while you bowl. I don't know, I read it somewhere. Anyway, in Twilight Princess, you can use your right hand to slice with your sword, and your left to use your shield. Think of how many times kids in our generation (that's kids born between 1976 and 1986 for those older FTTW readers (and editors)) dreamed of being able to do something like this. And now, here it is.

The big downfall of this system is the launch lineup. Not too impressive. Trust me—you'll find plenty of games that will make investment in this machine well worth your while. But there are simply too many licensed titles. Every cute movie from Happy Feet to Open Season has a spot on the Wii lineup. While these games appeal to children (which has been Nintendo's target market for its machines for years) I worry that Nintendo isn't paying enough attention to the needs of long-time gamers (not the same as hard-core gamers) and that it will hurt them in the end.

True, the Wii isn't a system for hard-core gamers. People who worry about frame rates and HD need to go with the 360 or the PS3. The Wii is a system for everyone. As I type, my girlfriend is playing Wii tennis. And this broad HATES video games. But this is the second time a product from Nintendo has enticed her to spend substantial time playing video games (the first was the handheld DS). We're waiting for two friends to come over so we can play a few frames of Wii bowling. The Wii takes video gaming back to its roots, when entire parties could be built around video games (and I'm not talking about LAN parties—I'm talking about real parties with chicks and beer (no offense to folks who have LAN parties with chicks and beer)). I know for a fact that the next time my mom is in town, she'll be surprised and probably even enjoy playing the Wii. It's that good.

Wii is a great name. It lends itself easily to branding, and has already been used cleverly within the system setup (avatars you create to represent you or other players are called Miis). But Revolution would have been the best name to describe this machine. It will change the way the world views video entertainment forever. Who would believe you if, seven years ago, you said that Nintendo would one day make Microsoft and Sony its bitch both at the same time? Only crazy people and drug addicts—that's who.

It's been so exciting, I have to recall the moment I got my hands on other systems from days of yore. There are three I can remember as monumental:

1. Nintendo Entertainment System

This was the first year I decided I didn't believe in Santa Claus. I was seven years old. I woke up and my parents took me into the living room. I walked in and saw the opening screen to Super Mario Bros. Fucking magical. I just looked at my folks. I had to say thank you. Because Santa, you're cool, but I know who really got this for me. And that's when my love affair with video games began.

2. Nintendo Gameboy

Wait—I can play Final Fantasy in the car?!?! Oh, it's just dull green pixels. Wait, here come accessories! A LightBoy! Now I can play anytime in the car—even if it's dark! The original Gameboy, while not really great on the eyes, was the first time my generation really got our hands on a worthwhile portable gaming system. I spent hours with this machine, mostly on Final Fantasy Legends. It saved me from boredom in so many situations—long drives, going with my mom to trade shows, even sitting on the toilet was transformed into an ass kicking experience if you had your Gameboy and plenty of batteries.

3. Playstation

I didn't drink in high school, so when I graduated, some friends and me went to a party, made fun of the drunks for awhile, then went back to my buddy's house for the night. I played a card game called Booray all night with his older brothers. Even though I had no fucking idea what I was doing, I won about $200. The next day, I went out and bought a Playstation. This was a great system, no question. But the reason it means so much to me? Final Fantasy VII. Those of you who have played it know what I'm talking about.

So take this time to share your video game memories. And feel free to ask me questions about the Wii. But I guarantee you, this is the first game console in years that appeals to gamers of every level, and maybe the first console ever to appeal to people that aren't gamers. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to kick this broad's ass in Wii baseball.

Uberchief giggles like a schoolgirl every time he says "Wii"

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You can act tough and say you never succumb to “work talk.” But you know you do. We ALL do. If you work in corporate America, chances are, you’ve said most of the things I’m going to talk about here. Because, overall, you can’t get away with not saying them. Yes, it’s the dreaded work lingo. Every office has something unique about its lingo, but there are several universal things that everyone knows and understands. And while it may be stupid, it’s also necessary, unless you want to be the office dick.

1. Days of the week

There are three days during the standard five day work week that are used in work lingo. The first is Monday. Here’s the standard Monday morning conversation:

Bob: How’s it going?

Mary: Pretty good—for a Monday!

*hearty chuckles all around*

Bob: Yeah, I know what you mean. The weekend just isn’t long enough.

Well no shit Bob. Of course the weekend isn’t long enough. It’s only two fucking days. And most of the weekend, you’re miserable, because you drank too much on Friday, so you woke up and started drinking again on Saturday, and that puts you in really bad shape on Sunday, and you have shit to do on Sunday, but you don’t feel like it, so you start drinking again and play video games until you pass out on the couch with half a Ding Dong hanging out the side of your mouth and your girlfriend screaming that you’re a worthless good for nothing and that she should have taken her mom’s advice and married that rich Asian kid from down the block when she had the chance.

But I digress.

Next comes Wednesday. “It’s Hump Day!” Here’s Bob and Mary on a Wednesday.

Bob: Hey Mary! How’s it going?

Mary: Pretty good—halfway there!

Bob: I know! The weekend’s in sight now.

Wait a second, weren’t you complaining about how short the weekend was just two days ago Bob? And now you’re looking forward to it? See, Bob’s your standard American business man, who looks forward to things that he knows are going to disappoint him in the end. And why does he do this? Because he’s a spineless little sheep, that’s why. So, Bob and Mary spend a good portion of their Wednesday informing other people that it is Wednesday, as if this is some cause for celebration. Then comes Wednesday’s bastard child Thursday—not much ever happens on a Thursday. Next is the mother of them all: Friday. Let’s drop in on Bob and Mary and see how their conversation goes Friday.

Bob: Hey Mary! How’s it going?

Mary: Great—it’s Friday!

Bob: That’s right! The weekend is finally here!

Yes Bob, the weekend is finally here, the weekend you’ll be complaining about being too short on Monday, when this whole crapfest starts all over again.

2. Touching Base

This usually means “I want to make sure you’re doing what you’re supposed to be doing.” Let’s see what happens when Bob has something he needs from Mary.

Bob (peeking around the edge of Mary’s cubicle): Hey Mary! Just touching base to see how those expense reports are coming.

Mary (trying to not look suspicious while closing an Internet browser window. She’s probably reading an email about someone’s cat or forwarding some stupid “Microsoft will give you a dollar” shit to everyone in her goddamn address book. You know the kind of person I’m talking about.): Pretty good Bob! Should be able to get them to you within the hour.

Bob: Woah! That’s great! But no pressure, no pressure—take your time.

No pressure. Right Bob, you presumptuous asshole. You presume that Mary doesn’t have her shit together (you are right about that, though) and then you presume that she has a bunch of pressure on her about finishing these expense reports. But Mary doesn’t give a shit about the expense reports. She’s still thinking about that janitor she sucked off in your office the night you made her work late, and whether you’ve ever noticed the stain on your leather chair. Next!

3. Action Items

Might as well just call this what it is—shit you need to do. But no, this is business, and we need to make sure that all our words and phrases sound like something they really aren’t. Let’s take a peek at what happens at the end of a meeting with Bob and Mary.

Bob: Ok group, let’s look at the action items resulting from this meeting. We’ll start with yours Mary. Your first action item is to retrieve the industrial hole punch from Accounting.

Mary: I’m on it Bob.

Bob: Next, you need to find some Vaseline.

Mary: Not a problem, Bob.

Bob: After that, I want you to help me insert the handle for the hole punch into my anus. Jack will take care of getting the dress I’ll wear while we’re doing this, so you don’t have to worry about that.

Mary: Sounds good Bob.

See what Bob did there? Basically gave Mary the worst job anyone could think of, but made it sound exciting by calling it an action item. As you can see by now, Bob is one slimy dude.

4. Ensure quality/quality control

This really just means, “We’ll do our best not to fuck this up.” When used in conjunction with “Action Items,” it means “We’ll do our best not to fuck this up next time.” This is one I use ALL the time. But it isn’t because I fuck up all the time. It’s because other people fuck up and I have to clean up their messes. Just like our friend Mary.

Mary: Bob, the handle is stuck on your asshair.

Bob: What's wrong?

Mary: Well, it seems that, due to shoddy craftsmanship, the handle has several metal splinters sticking out from it.

Bob: What are you going to do about that Mary?

Mary: From now on, I will implement a serious quality control system for all office supplies that you may want to have inserted into your anus.

Bob: Excellent! You sure are a go-getter Mary!

The thing is, we all say this shit. You can't get away with NOT saying it in corporate America. It's our plight, really. We're all stuck in a fucking nightmare. So share your nightmare with me guys. What lingo do you despise at your workplace? If we're going to be scared, we might as well be scared together.

Uberchief will leverage the paradigm synergy in your butt.

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Or at least, movies with thousands of pictures drawn by hand. Or created on the computer. Or created using stop-motion animation. Whatever.

So, you guys like talking about cartoons, eh? Well, there's even more to talk about than just what comes on TV every week. I've always been a huge fan of animated motion pictures, mostly because they always seemed to contain so much more content (and often, more mature content) than their television cousin, the Saturday morning cartoon. There are thousands of animated motion pictures out there, ranging from the family-friendly Disney movies we all grew up with, to Japanese hentai, which even some (maybe most?) adults can't bear to watch. Below are my personal favorite animated motion pictures.

1. Flight of Dragons (1982)

What American kid doesn't know the work of Arthur Rankin Jr.? From Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer to The Hobbit, I don't think there is a person in this country who hasn't been touched at some point by this man's work. One of his later films was Flight of Dragons, a fantasy piece set in a world where dragons, wizards, and warlocks exist and do battle to save or destroy humankind (as well as a venerable cast of other nasties). The cast includes John Ritter, who voices Peter Dickinson, a writer who has created a game in the vein of Dungeons and Dragons. James Earl Jones is a treat as the terrifying Ommadon.

The movie is based on books by Peter Dickinson and Gordon R. Dickinson. And while, as is the case with many animated movies, the story could use a little more fleshing out, it still represents a valued edition to the cartoon lexicon.

2. The Last Unicorn (1982)

Rankin strikes again, this time in an adaptation of the Peter S. Beagle novel of the same name. The all-star cast includes such familiar names as Alan Arkin, Jeff Bridges, Mia Farrow, Angela Lansbury, and Christopher Lee. Music for the movie was done by the group America, and though some people pan the sappy lyrics and often over-melodic tunes, I still get chills everytime I hear the opening theme. Documenting the quest of the last unicorn on Earth to find her brothers and sisters, it's a fascinating adventure, filled with its own lore and history, as well as characters that are often endearing and terrifying at the same time.

From drunk skeletons to trees with HUGE breasts, this movie has a bit of everything. Classic film for both kids and adults alike.

3. Jan Svankmajer's Alice (1988)

This adaptation of Lewis Carrol's classic tale Alice in Wonderland is NOT for children. In fact, if I had watched this movie as a kid, I would have ended up way more fucked up than I already am. Nevertheless, it remains a remarkable testament to Svankmajer's legacy as one of the best stop-motion animators of all time. While there is an almost incomprehensible story line and some scenes are completely nonsensical, the artistry that went into achieving the final product is amazing in and of itself. This is a movie you should watch when you are in a mood to just sit with your jaw dropped. It's that good.

4. Wizards (1977)

From Fritz the Cat to Fire and Ice to Cool World, Ralph Bakshi's contribution to animation can't be denied. But my favorite Ralph Bakshi film is Wizards, a story about the world that emerges on our planet after we obliterate it with nuclear weapons. Part a treatise on the value of learning from history, part fantastic adventure story, we follow the wizard Avatar on a quest to destroy his brother Blackwolf, who has begun using a film projector to portray films from the time of Hitler to terrify and help overcome his enemies. Fortunately, this film isn't all serious: it contains the cantaloupe-sized breasts that are a highlight of all Bashki films. And fortunately, most of them are on the women.

5. Fantastic Planet (1973)

This pioneering film by Rene Laloux is a wonderful science fiction piece. Taking place on another planet, filled with giants who turn humanoids into their pets. We then follow the humanoids on their quest for equality. This is a wonderful journey, with great psychedelic animation that portrays a fantastic world so unlike our own, but filled with characters and situations that reflect some of the problems we still face in our world today.

6. Light Years (1988)

Another Rene Laloux film, this time based on a novel by Jean-Pierre Andrevon. In a foreign world, those from Gandahar live in harmony with nature, until a threat from a thousand years in the future begins to threaten the peaceful land. It is left up to Sylvain, a young man, to find and demolish this threat. The animation is beautiful, and like Fantastic Planet, there are many psychedelic elements to the world created.

7. Akira (1988)

Arguably, Katsuhiro Otomo's Akira single-handedly changed animated movies forever. The quality and detail involved in the movie, as well as the sprawling storyline, are simply masterful. Taking place in a Tokyo that was destroyed twenty years before by a powerful catastrophe resembling a nuclear bomb blast, we follow the story of Kaneda, leader of a miscreant bike gang, and his sidekick Tetsuo, as they become unwillingly involved in government conspiracies and, in the end, a transformation that threatens the entire world. By all means a classic, the movie has typical Anime qualities—which means plenty of boobs, plenty of blood, and a particular scene at the end that can only be described as fantastically gross.

8. Triplets of Belleville (2003)

I'm particularly drawn to this movie not only for its superb animation, but because it doesn't have a lick of dialogue. I find that masterful—the ability to create a ninety minute story and then tell it without having the characters say one word is a true storytelling achievement. This movie is truly a work of art that should be experienced by everyone.

I know there are films I left off. And I know that the readers at FTTW will let me know what those movies are. Sound off motherfuckers!

Uber isn't really bad, he's just drawn that way.

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When I was growing up, Saturday morning meant cartoons. I was never the kind of kid who slept in on the weekends. I was usually up by six in the morning, fixing myself cereal and orange juice, and watching whatever was on. Hell, I really can’t even remember what cartoons I used to watch religiously. I don’t think I had any. I just watched whatever caught my eye when I was flipping through the stations.

Things change. As an adult, I can still enjoy some children’s cartoons. But what I really enjoy are the adult cartoons out there. I’m not talking about hentai. I mean, seeing some woman get fucked by a guy with a cock that talks and has moving parts has its plusses, but I’m really talking about shows like the Simpsons. Cartoons are firmly rooted as a viable form of entertainment for all ages.

I found out today that on Sunday, one of my favorite cartoons—King of the Hill—will start its eleventh season. So I thought this would be a good time to share my favorite adult cartoons of all time.

1. King of the Hill

I grew up in Texas, so this show is right up my alley (no pun intended) anyway. But what makes it special is that, unlike recent episodes of The Simpsons or Family Guy, it doesn’t rely on gimmicks. It's a sitcom, through and through. Hank, a stalwart man, trying to fight change, and his family are just a pleasure to watch. This is a cartoon unlike any that are on television. Stories are heartfelt, with subtle references to the subjects being lampooned. It's worth noting that King of the Hill was only the third prime time cartoon to succeed (the first was The Flintstones, the second was The Simpsons). Quite the accomplishment for Mike Judge (co-creator of the series) which leads us to the next entry.

2. Beavis and Butthead

I owe a large amount of my sense of humor to this show. The stories and ten-minute episodes were often hilarious, but looking back on them now, they seem a little stilted and don't really stand the test of time. What DOES stand the test of time is the classic B&B commentary on music videos. If you have not seen Beavis and Butthead comment on videos, you have missed an essential part of American humor. From Beavis imitating Andy Rooney during a critique of the video "Funk That," to Butthead's unrivaled excitement at seeing a Gwar video, these segments are classic in American television. People have screamed in horror when buying early compilations of the series when they discovered that the videos weren't included. But that time has passed, as the Mike Judge collection of Beavis and Butthead has been released, and includes many of the video judgments we all know and love.

3. The Simpsons

Is there anything more classic? The Simpsons have been part of our lives for two decades. From a lowly start on The Tracy Ullman Show, America's favorite family grew into its own. And while the last few seasons have been disappointing, nobody can deny how much this show has influenced television, as well as American society. I remember my mom forbidding me from watching this show because she didn't want me to adopt Bart's flagrant underachiever attitude. Well, I love you mom, but you were wrong. Bart's attitude about life, school, and all things fun is satire at its finest. With distinguished writers like Conan O'Brien, this series has packed more laughs in its run than most TV sitcoms put together.

4. Dr. Katz, Professional Therapist

I'll admit that, for the most part, Dr. Katz was a place where up-and-coming comedians basically did their act in an animated form. But there's something about the squiggly animation (seen most recently in Home Movies) and the interaction of Dr. Katz with his patients, son, and secretary that is simply charming. I used to stay up on Sundays to watch this show. It came on Comedy Central after The Critic (another underrated animated series) and it's downright hilarious. The first and second seasons are on DVD right now—you better believe I have both.

5. Aqua Teen Hunger Force

What can I say? This is by far one of the most absurdly hilarious series ever to hit television. Documenting the antics of a large milkshake and his buddies—a wad of meat and a huge, flying carton of French fries—this is one of the most innovative animated series to come out in the past decade. If there is any series that leaves you saying, "What did those guys smoke before they came up with that?" this is it.

I know I've left out so many great animated shows. Sealab 2021, Family Guy, American Dad, Futurama—they're all great. But these five take the cake for me. Yet it can't be denied that there is a vast multitude of cartoons that we should all pay attention to beyond this list. So, I leave it up to you readers to tell me what those are.

Uberchief still has Spongebob Squarepants sheets on his bed.

Archives

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A few weeks ago, I wrote about how excited I was to start reading Bone, Jeff Smith's epic comic that has recently been captured in a single volume. I've always been a fan of big books, so I was pleased when I opened the box the book was shipped in and found the tome to be over 1000 pages and about the size of a large-print Bible that includes the Book of Mormon (though, in my estimation, it's a much better read).

I'm about 900 pages into this riveting book, and thought it would be a great time to talk about good stories and comics. I've always been a fan of stories with mysteries. The kind of story where both you and the main character start out with little to no knowledge of what is happening in the fictitious world being described. Stories where you join the main character as a hapless adventurer, where you release yourself to a world that slowly reveals its deepest secrets to you page by page. I've found so many of these stories in my life—Brian Jaques' Redwall series, Twin Peaks, and most recently, the TV series Lost. I love all of them. As I read through Bone, I find the same kind of storytelling at play. Old questions are answered, but in a way that brings up even more mystery than you first thought was there. Stories that contain dynamic characters who change from the way you first saw them. Ancient rituals and powers, and forces strong enough to bring the "regular" world to its knees. And Bone has it all, mixed in with a light-hearted comedic aspect that would thrill children of all ages. This book has me thinking about two things right now.

1. Comic books. I doubt there is anyone who writes for or reads FTTW that hasn't picked up a comic book and read it. I'd be willing to be that there are even people here who counted themselves as avid collectors at one point or another. When I was twelve, I started collecting comic books with my dad. We read everything we could get our hands on. This was during the early nineties, when comic books entered what many have called a second golden age. New publishers popped up every week. The land of comics became even darker, with companies like DC spawning off lines like Vertigo, which were expressly created to explore this dark subject matter. There were new, dark heroes, who defied the expectations of what a hero was in the first place (John Constantine, The Sandman). Things had changed for the world of comics (except, thankfully, female characters with boobs the size of cantaloupes—they're still around). Finally, people began to think of comics as literature. With Neil Gaiman's Sandman series, subject matter such as the true authorship of Shakespeare's plays—which has so long be one of the greatest mysteries of literature—found its way onto those pulpy pages. Besides the stories, the art became more legitimate, and you couldn't go to a comic convention in the early nineties without finding booth after booth of 'original prints' from your favorite books.

2. The serial mystery. This is a type of story that transcends genre definition, because it can be done well by a successful storyteller in any genre. There are serial murder mysteries, science fiction mysteries, or fantasy mysteries. They can happen in any time, or any place, because in the end, it's only the storytelling that matters for these works of art. The reason I use the word serial is because that defines part of the storytelling process. There are other works of storytelling art that contain the same elements. The Hyperion chronicles by Dan Simmons are an excellent example. But those weren't told in a serial manner. You didn't read ten pages and then have to wait another week to find out what was going on. You could just plow through the books. Serial storytelling, however, is something different entirely, and is indeed one of the most important aspects of engaging storytelling. We've all heard the legend of Scheherazade telling her tales over the course of 1,001 nights. Many of us probably had parents who engaged in serial storytelling every night before we went to bed. It's the anticipation that's created in the waiting for the next installment that is so important to serial storytelling, and it's that anticipation that paves the road for success in serial mysteries. We all know about these—Carnivale on HBO was a great serial mystery (FUCK YOU HBO FOR CANCELLING). Twin Peaks was the same way. And while I personally think Keiffer Sutherland sucks donkey balls, many of the writers (and perhaps the founders) of this website find the serial mystery 24 one of the greatest shows of all time.

Combine both of these elements, and you have Bone. And though the serial aspect of it is somewhat marred since it can now be had in a single volume to satisfy the consumer's need for instant gratification, it doesn't make it any less exciting to experience the adventure.

Writing this article was entirely selfish, and I'll tell you why: I wrote this in hopes that all of you can share with me two things:

1. Your favorite comic books—comics you think everyone should read at least once in their life.

AND

2. Your favorite serial mysteries. I already have the old TV series The Prisoner on my list of serial mysteries I need to experience.

Because hey, we all need to have a couple of good books, comics, or series waiting in the wings for when we finish our current infatuation. After all, the anticipation of starting the next great adventure is sometimes as exciting as the adventure itself.




Uberchief thinks stuff is the Worst. Stuff. Ever.

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To uber man:
I have two friends I think would make a perfect couple, but there is one small problem: he is deaf and she is blind. How could I ever get them together?!?!

No mercy in Searcy:

Dear No mercy in searcy,

Unfortunately, I don't feel I can give any specific advice on this question, since I don't know your two friends. However, I can offer you a little fable that may help you understand what a difficult task bringing two people together can be, depending on the situation. You see, for weeks, the animals in Deep Forest had been facing a very serious problem. Bill and Brian Buffalo, the brothers who ran the local liquor store, which was always stocked with the finest berry wine, were in the midst of a deep, troubling argument, and had closed the store indefinitely. The animals missed their berry wine something fierce, and several of them were experiencing significant withdrawal. Why, Dr. Fox had to put Skunk on a steady diet of benzodiazepines to keep him from dying due to withdrawal, and a large prescription of naltrexone to make him throw up if he tried to drink something with alcohol, like paint thinner. One day, Bird called a meeting of all the animals in Deep Forest to talk about what could be done to help the two brothers reconcile and bring back the booze.

"We should just break in there ourselves, take everything we want--even not pay for it!" yelled Terry Turtle. "They have caused enough problems for us--we deserve some compensation."

There was a resounding "Hear hear!" from the rest of the animals.

"Ah," said Bird, quieting the crowd, "but Terry, if we were animals that behaved that way, we would have all broken into your pet store when you had to close it down, and taken all the supplies we could ever need for our pets."

Abashed, Terry looked at his feet.

"Well then let's all break in and pay for what we take," suggested Dirk Duck. "Then they would get all the money they deserve, and we bring back the booze to Deep Forest!"

This time, the animals silently waited to hear Bird's response.

"But Dirk," said Bird, "how would you feel if you had to close your restaurant, and we all went in there, used your supplies to cook a meal, and then left you money?"

"You filthy animals using my kitchen to cook?!?! That would be disgusting."

"You see," Bird said, addressing them all, "what we need to do is help Bill and Brian help themselves. We need to guide them into the loving, brotherly relationship they used to share! Who is willing to be the mediator between the Buffalo Brothers?"

Ron Rabbit put down what he was doing and said, "I'll do it!"

"Of course, Ron. Here's what I want you to do."

After Ron heard Bird's plan, he set off to the northern part of Deep Forest, where the Buffalo Brothers lived in separate houses. First, Ron hopped and hopped and hopped until he arrived at Bill Buffalo's house. He knocked on the door and waited patiently outside.

"What do you want, rabbit?" growled Bill when he opened the door. He smelled strongly of berry wine and had a burned-out cigarette dangling from his mouth.

"Hello, Bill," said Ron, a little uncomfortable. "I am conducting a survey for the new Deep Forest Demographics Department. I was wondering if you have time to answer some questions."

"Yeah, whatever," mumbled Bill. "Go for it."

"My first question is: who is your worst enemy in Deep Forest?"

Bill laughed deep and low. "That's easy," he said. "It's my brother, Brian Buffalo."

"Uh-huh, ok," said Ron, writing this down on a legal pad. "And if you were being held at gunpoint and had to say something nice about Brian, what would it be?"

Bill stood thinking for a second, and finally said, "Well, he is a hard worker. He would stay at the store every night as late as it took to count up the till."

"Great! Ok, thanks for answering the questions. I promise your identity will be kept confidential when we report our findings."

Ron turned and began hopping as fast as he could to go to Brian's house. Finally, he arrived on the doorstep, huffing and puffing and ever so tired.

"What do you want, rabbit?" roared Brian when he opened the door. He smelled strongly of cigarettes and had a half-empty bottle of berry wine in his hands.

"Hello, Brian," said Ron, a little uncomfortable. "I am conducting a survey for the new Deep Forest Demographics Department. I was wondering if you have time to answer some questions."

"Yeah, whatever," said Brian. "I got nothing else to do."

Again, Ron asked his questions. As was to be expected, Bill was Brian's worst enemy in Deep Forest. But, when asked the second question, he answered Ron with, "Well, he always knows when I need a hug."

Satisfied, Ron scrambled all the way back to Bill's house. Huffing and puffing even more than before, he knocked on the door.

"Bill!" he said when the door opened. "I just talked to Brian! He was walking to the store. He said that he had enough sitting around and was ready to get back to work. He looked really depressed."

Bill thought for a second, and finally said, "Probably needs a hug. Maybe I ought to go down there and help him out."

Bill headed off in the direction of the store, and Ron ran back to Brian's house.

"Brian!" he panted when Brian opened the door. "I just saw Bill. He said he was inspired by your impeccable work ethic, and was ready to go back and start working the store again! He was on his way down there!"

"Really?" said Brian. "So he thinks I'm a hard worker. Well, maybe I'll go down and help him out."

Rabbit ran off to tell Bird and the others that soon, the Buffalo brothers would be back at the store and have it open for business. The plan had worked! All the animals, so excited that they would finally have their booze back, rushed to the store, ready to stock up on the latest shipment of berry wine. But when they got there, Brian and Bill were standing outside, arguing.

"Well I think YOU need to start working the till at night," yelled Brian. "I've always done it, and I stay up here late while you go get drunk off berry wine and go to the strip club!"

"And I think YOU need to go to therapy," roared Bill. "You're always looking for hugs, always depressed, you're an embarrassment to the Buffalo family!"

"FINE!" sobbed Brian. "You do what you want with the store! I quit, you lazy good-for-nothing jerk!"

"No!" screamed Bill. "I quit! You do what you want with the store, you wimp!"

The Buffalo brothers stormed off in opposite directions. Upset and forlorn, the rest of the animals went back to their homes to spend yet another evening in the nightmarish grip of sobriety.

A few days later, Bill Buffalo was in his backyard by Babbling Brook, fishing, and thinking about what a wimpy brother he had. Just a mile down the bank, Brian Buffalo sat in his backyard, fishing, and thinking about how much his brother could use some sensitivity training.

Suddenly, both of them heard something splash into the water and cry out in terror.

"Oh no--that doesn't sound good," said Bill Buffalo, rising and running in the direction of the screams.

"That doesn't sound good at all!" said Brian Buffalo, who was already running toward the noise.

Right at the same time, Brian and Bill arrived to find the source of the screams: Katherine Kitty had fallen into the water and was drowning.

"I'll get you!" yelled Brian.

"No--I'LL get you!" screamed Bill.

Before the two could start fighting, Bird, who had heard the commotion from his nest in Big Tree, landed on a limb that stretched out across Babbling Brook. "I'm sorry you two," but I think you're going to have to work together this time. You can't either one of you save Katherine by yourself."

"He's right," said Brian.

"Yes," said Bill. "Let's put our differences behind us for the sake of Katherine."

So Brian waded out into the brook and turned around backwards, while Bill held on to him tight. "Katherine!" he yelled. "Bite my tail, as hard as you can. I promise, it won't hurt me." By that time, Brian was already ankle deep in the thick, brown mud at the bottom of Babbling Brook. He couldn't even move his feet.

Once Katherine bit his tail, Brian yelled, "Ok Bill--pull!" Bill pulled as hard as he could and, just when he thought he could pull no more, Brian felt the thick mud start to release its grip on his hooves and said, "That's it! Keep pulling brother!" In a few seconds, Brian and Katherine were both out of harm's way.

"Wonderful!" shouted Bird, as Katherine showered Brian and Bill with kisses, praises, and thank yous. "You guys overcame your problems and saved little Katherine's life. I suppose, though, you'll go back to fighting after this?"

Brian and Bill both looked at each other. "You know, we really should open the store up again," said Bill.

"Yeah, I'm almost out of money anyway," said Brian.

"Sorry I called you a wimp," said Bill.

"Sorry I called you a good-for-nothing jerk," said Brian.

That night, the Buffalo Brother's Boozery opened--for good. And though the brothers argued from time to time, never again in their days did they have an argument they couldn't resolve through rational, civil conversation (and perhaps a bottle or two of berry wine).

The moral of the story is: sometimes, it is extremely difficult to bring to people together. Sometimes, all it takes is a wet pussy.

Hope this gives you some guidance in your matchmaking endeavors,

Uberchief

Uberchief is a closet furry. I just know it.

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Ted Rhobe Rae is unable to write this week, as he is dealing with a joint lawsuit brought against him by Child Protective Services and the Association for Protection of Midget Rights. Below, Uberchief dishes out advice in the form of a fable from the magical land of Deep Forest, where animals can talk, get drunk, and contract venereal disease.

Dear Uberchief,

I have a friend who has been having an affair with a married man for a year an a half. A few months ago, she had a fling with another guy and feels that she has "cheated" on the guy that she is having the affair with. WTF??

Signed,

My friends are nut jobs

Dear My friends are nut jobs,

Wow, that is quite a quandary! On one hand, your friend sounds like quite a slut, which is always a good thing in my book. On the other hand, she sounds batshit crazy. It reminds me of the tale of Ron Rabbit.

Ron Rabbit was the most caring rabbit in all of Deep Forest. When Craig Caterpillar needed a ride to the methadone clinic, Ron put down what he was doing to take him. When Lucy Ladybug needed to get tested for HPV and herpes, he put down what he was doing and took her to Planned Parenthood. When Bird needed someone to help clean his nest out for Spring, he put down what he was doing and went to help. There was nobody in Deep Forest who didn't count on Ron in some way.

One day, Percy Porcupine was walking by as Ron Rabbit was fixing the door to his rabbit hutch.

"Good morning Percy!" said Ron, smiling.

"Not for me, it isn't," grumbled Percy. "One of the workmen at the clinic must have stopped up the toilet--there's crap all over the floor and it stinks worse than usual in there."

"That sounds horrible Percy! What can I do to help?"

"Could you bring your tools and help me figure out how to fix it?"

"Sure!" said Ron. He stopped fiddling with the door to his hutch, grabbed his tools, and followed Percy to the free clinic. Sure enough, raw sewage was everywhere, and it was even seeping out from under the front door.

"Well, this is going to take some work Percy," sighed Ron. "But I'm up for it! They don't call me the most helpful animal in Deep Forest for nothing!"

"That's the spirit!" said Percy. "Let's get to work!"

They worked and worked all morning long. By late that afternoon, tired and ready for a nap, Ron announced that he had found the source of the backup and was done with his work.

"Thank you so much Ron!" said Percy. "I don't know what I would have done without you!"

"No problem!" said Ron.

The next day, Ron was working on fixing his door when Luther Lion walked by.

"Good morning Luther!" said Ron.

"Not so good for me," growled Luther. "I lost every single bit of my money at the track last night. And I thought I had a sure thing!"

"I'm sorry," said Ron. "You know you shouldn't be gambling. Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Actually," whispered Luther, "if you can help me fix tonight's race, I'll get my money back, and enough extra to help you buy a new door!"

Though Ron didn't agree with Luther fixing the race, he had never turned anyone down who asked for help. "Sure!" said Ron. He stopped fiddling with the door and followed Luther to the track.

"Now what I need you to do," said Luther when they arrived, "is spread a rumor that Number 5 is sick and won't be racing well today. Then I'll be the only one who bets on Number 5, and we'll be rolling in cash!"

"Well, this is going to take some work Luther," sighed Ron. "But I'm up for it! They don't call me the most helpful animal in Deep Forest for nothing!"

"That's the spirit!" said Luther. "Let's get to work!"

All it took was a couple of well placed whispers, and in minutes, the entire park was abuzz with news of Number 5's recent illness. Soon enough, Luther was the only animal with money on Number 5. Ron and Luther watched the race in silence, and sure as Sun, Number 5 placed first!

"Oh Ron, thank you thank you thank you!" he handed Ron the money for a new door, and went off to celebrate.

The next day, after going to Home Depot with the money Luther gave him, Ron was working on installing his new door when Betty Bat flew by overhead.

"Good morning Betty!" yelled Ron as she zoomed around overhead.

"Purple skyscraper cheesecake!" shouted Betty in a high pitched voice.

"Um...excuse me?" asked Ron.

"Purple--a purple one! Brown is fat. Rename the brown fat!"

"I...um...maybe I'm not understanding you..."

"Young tampon ridiculous! Ridiculous tampon! Pew! Pew!"

Ron was losing his temper. Why was Betty always so crazy? Every time she flew close to him, he tried to ask her what she was talking about, but every time, she would zoom off, babbling about young, ridiculous tampons over and over again.

"Wow--she is crazy!" thought Ron to himself. "I'm going to try and talk some sense into her."
The next time Betty swooped toward him, Ron, using his strong bunny legs, jumped up and grabbed her out of the air. He took her and shook her and yelled, "What are you trying to say you crazy bat!" to which Betty replied in her loudest, highest, screechiest voice, "PURPLE YOUNG RIDICULOUS TAMPONS!" and began flapping her wings as hard as she could. Before Ron knew it, she had carried him high into Deep Forest--so high, he couldn't see the ground.

"Betty!" he yelled. "Put me down!"

"Tampons!" she screeched.

As they flew higher and higher, Ron saw Bird perched in his new nest. "Bird!" he yelled. "Look what crazy Betty is doing! How do I get her to put me down?"

"You can't!" yelled Bird. "She's crazy, and crazy people don't listen to reason. Better just hold on tight, and try to enjoy yourself."

And that's just what Ron did. By the time Betty got tired and flew down to the ground (now just whispering things about tampons quietly to herself) Ron had seen parts of Deep Forest he had never seen before! The crisp, sparkling waterfall and the crystal clear lake, the hills that jutted out of the south above the tip tops of the trees. They were beautiful! And for the rest of his days, when he felt life was too boring, or something exciting needed to happen, he just sat back and dreamed about the day Betty Bat took him on a wild, crazy adventure.

The moral of the story is: you can fix a toilet, you can fix a horse race, but you can't fix crazy. Might as well just hang on and enjoy the ride!

Your friend,

Uberchief

Archives

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Goodbye 2006! Yes, it's the new year, and if you're reading this, it means you didn't drink yourself to death last night. Congratulations on that.

There are several things I'm looking forward to this year.

1. Getting rid of this hangover.

Should be easy enough—I made sure there's beer in the fridge for this morning, and we have OJ and champagne for mimosas. Next!

2. The Sopranos finale

"Is this series ever going to end?" I cry softly into the night. And the night answers, "Why yes it is—this year, in fact." That's right, HBO is finally bringing its mobster drama to a close. Let's face it—the last few years have been pretty bad for this show. The series is languishing in petty side-stories, and nonsensical plot twist mar the landscape of what was at one time television's most respected drama. I hope that the final episodes bring closure to those of us who have faithfully followed this series. But seeing the way writers have treated the Sopranos universe over the past two seasons, I think the only finality we'll see is that it's all finally over.

3. Lost season 3—continued

This is by far my favorite television series right now. That may completely change come February, when new episodes of Lost begin airing. The mysteries and twists in this show are right up my alley. It's captivating, and the world being created is simply amazing. But the question is whether it's too amazing. There is a wonderful serial storytelling methodology at play here: every time you answer a question, raise another question. That's the key to the Lost storyline. However, as in all serial storytelling ventures, you have to be very careful not to rely on one method too heavily. Some of the work on this show has been pure genius to this point, and I hope that we see that tradition continued in the upcoming episodes.

4. God of War II

God of War II could possibly be the last great game released exclusively for the Playstation 2. The followup to the 2005 ultraviolent action game looks to be every bit as intense, with several new additions to Kraitos' arsenal of weapons and items, including Icarus wings. I found the original God of War to be a fine game, but didn't think it deserved the accolades it received. It didn't redefine the action genre, and came to an extremely disappointing close with one of the most anticlimactic boss battles ever. Nevertheless, I'm excited about this game, because despite its downfalls, God of War was a blast to play. The sequel is shaping up to be just as fun, and with new weapons, items, enemies, and more gruesome death sequences, it should be a fine addition to any PS2 owner's game library.

5. Buying a Wii

It's going to happen. I will buy a Wii this year. When, I'm not sure. I'm not going to spend an exorbitant amount of money on eBay, and other than that, the availability is pretty sparse. But with the demand for this revolutionary game system through the roof, I think we can plan on seeing Wii availability increase, especially by mid-year. We can also plan on seeing the game lineup for the system become more respectable, because right now, it isn't too impressive. It can't be denied, though, that Nintendo has finally done something right with this system. When videogamers are actually getting sore playing games, you know that the revolution has arrived.

6. Lupe Fiasco's Cool

The followup to my favorite album of 2006 should be out this year. And I can't wait. Because this album will determine the rest of Lupe's career. Is he going to continue with his clever, cerebral raps that plumb the depths of human nature and experience? Or is he going to go the way of celebrity rapper, and tout bling, cars, and money? Will he abandon the brilliant instrumental backtracks that were a signature on last year's album for drum kits and cheap production? I hope not. Lupe has a choice—to be himself, or to be commercial—and I hope that he chooses the former.

7. Reading Bone

The comic Bone, which came out in 1996?, has been on my list of must-reads for just as long. Right now, I have the complete collection on its merry way to my doorstep, courtesy of the fantastic Austin-based book seller BookPeople. The drawing is simplistic and complex at the same time, with the cartoonish Bones contrasted with intricate scenery and creatures. The story is intriguing—when the Bone brothers are run out of Boneville, they end up in a forest, where they meet horrible creatures and discover that they have a destiny beyond their wildest dreams. I've only read the first six issues of the series, and can't wait until my tome containing all 50? issues arrives, so I can entrench myself in this world that captured my imagination first over a decade ago.

So, as you sit nursing your hangover, think for a second about what you are most looking forward to this year, and tell us about it.

Happy New Year everyone!

Uber has obviously forgotten about the new season of "24" but we will let it slide this time.

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Posted by Branden Hart at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (3) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

My buddy AT helped me come up with some ideas for this one. Merry Christmas everybody!

The Christmas Rooster
A Deep Forest Fable

It had been a devastating autumn for the animals in Deep Forest. There had been an E. Coli outbreak at Duck’s restaurant and he was forced to cancel his Holiday Feast. A flu pandemic had at least half of the animals sick in bed, and had Dr. Fox practically living at the hospital. And to top it off, the year’s harvest was far less than in previous years, and the animals often fought amongst themselves over how to split up the meager supplies.

But the days before Christmas weren’t all sorrow and sadness. Some animals were still able to maintain a cheerful holiday spirit. The Buffalo Brothers cooked up some of their special holiday berry wine for everyone to enjoy. Percy Porcupine was giving away emergency contraceptives at the free clinic. And the Grasshopper family had decorated the Hollow in bright lights and fancy ornaments, for they planned to have everyone in Deep Forest come and enjoy a holiday feast at their home.

There were three animals, however, that couldn't quite keep their spirits up. The Hen sisters, Helen, Haley, and Honey, could be seen every day on the porch of the house they shared, braving the cold and complaining about cocks.

"There hasn't been a single cock in Deep Forest since I can remember!" opined Haley.

"You're telling me," replied Honey. "This girl needs a nice cock to make her happy."

"That's what we need for Christmas—a big cock," said Helen.

Despite seeing the Hen sisters complaining about the lack of roosters in Deep Forest, its citizens kept about their daily business, busying themselves for the upcoming holiday. But their spirits would be broken soon, when, on Christmas Eve, Bird called a meeting with all the animals to deliver some bad news.

"The shipment of food we were expecting did not arrive," he said among clamor and shouts from the animals who were gathered in the Grasshopper Hollow underneath Big Tree. "I am sorry—we will have no food for the feast this Christmas."

"Where did all the food go?" demanded Dr. Fox.

"How are we going to survive?" chirped Dad Grasshopper.

"Who is responsible for this?" shouted Brian Buffalo.

"I am," said a deep voice from the back of the Hollow. Amongst hushed murmurs, everyone turned and looked as a large, plump, beautiful rooster stood, shook out his gorgeous feathers, and began to strut to stand next to Bird.

"My friends, I am Richard Rooster, and it is I who was responsible for your supplies. Alas, I was set upon in the Grasslands outside of Deep Forest by the roving bands of Elvis-impersonating transvestites. They took everything in my caravan. Why, I wasn't sure I myself would make it here to be with you tonight."

A hush fell over the crowd. Bird shook his little head. "It seems that Deep Forest isn't the only place that has been trampled upon by the horrible weather this year," he said. "People are desperate even outside of Deep Forest!"

"What are we going to do for food?" yelled Dad Grasshopper.

Bird held his head up high until the din died down. "My friends, we are Deep Forest, and we will survive. We may just have to do so in a different way than in years past." The air filled with growls and groans. "Nevertheless," said Bird, raising his voice and hushing the crowd, "we must show our appreciation to Richard Rooster for putting his life in danger for our sake."

"Please," said Richard as he turned to Bird and shook his hand, "call me Dick."

"Fine then," said Bird. "Dick it is. Now, is there anyone who can handle Dick for the night? I know we all have our houses full, but if any of you have a place for Dick…"

"We do!" shouted three very similar voices from the back of the Hollow.

Yes, the Hen sisters, always hospitable and willing to put up a traveling cock, had volunteered their services for the evening.

"We'll have Dick at our house for as long as we can stand it!" said Helen.

"There's always room for a cock at the Hen house!" assured Honey.

"Ladies, I thank you," said Richard. "But as you can see, I've had my share of sweet bread and berry wine in my time, and I'm a little larger than I'd like to be." Richard patted his big, full belly. "I doubt that you will have a place large enough for me to sleep."

"Oh," blushed Haley, "there's no cock too big for the Hen sisters."

"Very well," said Bird as the other animals slumped out of the Hollow. "Richard…er…Dick shall be welcome in Deep Forest for as long as he needs to stay."

And so it was. That night, Richard went home with the Hen sisters, and all the animals in Deep Forest went to bed hungrier than they had been when they woke up that morning.

The next day was Christmas Eve. Percy Porcupine was cleaning out the abortion vacuum when he heard a knock at the door of the free clinic. It was Haley Hen.

"It burns when I pee," she said, shifting on her feet. "I think I might have caught something from that cock I was with last night."

Percy welcomed her in and had her in the back room giving a urine sample when there was another knock on the door. It was Honey Hen.

"I have bumps all over me…down there," she sighed. "I think there was something wrong with that Dick last night."

Percy took her to room one and had just taken a tissue sample when there was another knock on the door. It was Helen Hen.

"Look at my beak!" she said, pointing to the small read blisters popping up all over. "I knew I shouldn't have put Dick in my mouth."

Sure enough, all three of the Hen sisters had some kind of STD. They were all distraught, even though Percy assured them that through preventive medication, they could live their entire lives and never know they even had whatever Richard had given them.

As the three trudged home in the snow, discussing negative side effects and how they hated Dick, they met Dr. Fox. He was sad, because he didn't have anything to bring over to the Grasshopper's house for the Christmas feast the next day.

When they turned on the street to their house, they met Brian Buffalo. He was sad, for there would be no delicious sweet bread to go with his berry wine at the feast the next day.

Finally, they spotted Dad Grasshopper as they passed by the hollow. He was sad, for he did not think he could manage to have the Christmas feast at all.

"Ladies, there isn't any food in all of Deep Forest," he sighed. "I think we should all just consider Christmas cancelled this year."

The Hen sisters sat on their porch, as they always did, and talked. They talked for hours. And while Richard Rooster was inside sleeping, they came up with a plan.

Christmas morning came, and around Deep Forest, little animals woke up, but were too hungry to enjoy their presents. Stockings were hung by the chimney, but were not filled with the delicious candies that were normally there. It looked as if Christmas in Deep Forest was ruined, until Helen Hen's voice rang out through the streets.

"Merry Christmas everyone! The feast starts in two hours!"

Before long, all of Deep Forest was crowded around the porch of the Hen house, sniffing the wonderful scents wafting out. Just as the crowd began to get rowdy, Helen, Honey, and Haley stepped out of the front door.

"We have a feast prepared for you!" said Helen. "It isn't much, but it should be enough to restore the Christmas spirit to us all!"

"Merry Christmas everyone!" shouted Honey.

"Now come on in, and enjoy the meal!" said Haley, stepping aside.

On a table inside the house was a beautiful setup. There were aromatic candles burning, bright colored wreaths with the fauna of the season, and a giant plate of succulent, shredded meat that was enough to make everyone in Deep Forest at least a little full, and give all the children the energy they needed to go back home and enjoy their presents.

"This is wonderful," mumbled Bird through mouthfuls of the stuff.

"I've never eaten meat so tender!" praised Dr. Fox.

"Where's Richard?" asked Percy.

"Shut up Percy!" yelled all three sisters at once.

"I mean," said Honey when the room had fallen silent, "he left hours ago. Had a family of his own to tend to."

People continued to eat merrily.

"Honey, you have to give me the recipe for this," said Mom Grasshopper.

"Me too!" said Brian Buffalo. "What is this?"

"Tastes like chicken," said Percy.

"Shut UP Percy!" yelled the sisters again.

This time, everyone stopped eating, and stared at the sisters. Bird looked at his handful of meat and turned to them.

"Ladies, we aren't eating Richard Rooster, are we?"

The sisters all shook their heads. "No, no," said Haley. "Like we said, he left today."

"Then what is this?" asked Bird.

"It's…um…" Helen stumbled to find words.

"It's…it's cat. That's right, we're eating cat meat."

"Cat meat?!?" yelped Bird. "But cat meat is tough, and stringy."

"Well, we basted it several times," replied Honey.

"Oh!" said Bird, who then shrugged, and began to dig in again.

Indeed, that night, everyone finished all of the meat, and the Hen sisters went from being the old, grumpy women they were once known as, to Christmas saviors. People left their house full, happy, and ready to enjoy the holidays as the holidays were meant be enjoyed.

The moral of the story is: sometimes, the only thing that can get people in the holiday spirit is a little bit of cock inside.

Merry Christmas from Uberchief and FTTW!

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Posted by Branden Hart at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

We all have wishes for Christmas that are, well, impossible for anyone—even Santa Claus himself—to grant us. And while we might wish for these things in vain, it sure is fun to fantasize about what we'd like to see under the tree on Christmas morning. Whether it's peace on Earth, an end to hunger and poverty, or other crap like that, all of us have dreams about what we'd like to receive on this holiday. Here are mine.

1. Midget Licenses

Everyone knows that midgets are extremely useful. Especially midgets with super-strength—the kind Hannibal used to carry him across the mountains so he could vanquish the heathens in Romania. But I digress. The sad fact of the matter is that even with support in both houses of the Congress, legislation to make it legal to carry concealed midgets has failed since the dawn of that glorious establishment. For those of us who find firearms to be a primitive—albeit useful—source of self defense, we turn to the midget world, only to have our desires squashed by bipartisan bickering as well as intense lobbying campaigns from the Midget Anti-defamation League. Every Christmas I wake up and look in my wallet, hoping to find a shiny new license to legally carry a midget, only to find that jolly old Saint Nick hasn't gotten off his jolly old ass and read my Christmas letters. The adult in me knows that it's time to move on to better things, but the kid in me will always come back on Christmas morning, and will ever open my wallet in expectation, only to have his hopes dashed by the cold-hearted bitch we call Reality.

2. An Ivory-billed Woodpecker

Jesus fucking Christ I'm sick of hearing about this thing. Since early 2004, birdwatchers and avian scientists alike have been creaming their collective drawers over news that this bird—once thought extinct—had been sighted and videotaped in the National Wildlife Refuge in Arkansas. Now, teams the world over are setting out on treks to find this elusive little fucker. About once a month, there will be another report: "Ivory-billed woodpecker sighted in swamp!" WHO GIVES A FUCK. I have woodpeckers in my yard, and they are annoying as hell. They are the emo kids of the bird world. "Look at me. I'm almost extinct. Watch as I slam my head into this huge fucking tree hundreds and hundreds of times in a row." God, if you're there, please give me an ivory-billed woodpecker for Christmas. I'll tape myself with it, sell the tape for a shitload of money, and then eat that fucker. (This rant is not intended to offend michele.)

3. Livers on Demand

I've spent a good portion of this holiday season reflecting about how my penchant for beer is going to eventually affect my health. And while a more prudent way of avoiding the negative effects of imbibing my favorite beverage would be to stop drinking it all together, I have to be more realistic. After all, you can't live in a dream world every second of the day. So while scientists sit in their golden palaces, dreaming of ways to make computers faster and global warming slower, I can't help but think their attention would better be turned towards the liver. Yes my friends, our friendly organ the liver gets all too little attention these days. What I want is to be able to go to a store when I'm fifty—a store I go to every day. I want to walk up to the cash register with a twelve-pack of Shiner Bock and a nice forty of Schlitz. I want to hear the cashier say, "How's that cirrhosis today?" And I want to be able to answer, "Not so well. That's why I'll take your freshest liver available."
The clerks eyes would light up—this is the biggest sell of his day! He'll finally be able to buy little Jimmy that hoverbike he's been asking for so long. And in a dark back room of the convenience store, our friendly clerk will merrily cut me open, take out my scarred, fatty liver, and replace it with a new shiny one, which will be ready to process all the alcohol I can throw at it for years to come. It's the least I deserve. After all, what has science done for you lately?

4. Kevin Federline's Head on a Stake
I don 't think this one needs any explanation. Call me a hater all you want K-Fed. Just don't forget to jumbo size my junior bacon cheeseburger this time.

5. Ossie Davis to Rise from the Grave

Seriously—this guy was awesome. Every time I hear more news about the sequel to Bubba Ho-tep, I start looking for witch doctors in the phone book. Someone who, with a little bit of blood from a virgin and a live chicken, could bring back this wonderful actor, who would then reprise his role as a delusional black man in a nursing home who thinks he's JFK. Of course, the sequel is actually a prequel, but that doesn't mean the producers couldn't fit in, at the least, a cameo with our good buddy Ossie. Plus, I'd like to see a sequel to Grumpy Old Men, where Ossie, Jack Lemmon, and Walter Matthau all get raised from the dead, only to come back and bone hot sorority girls in the spine-tingling thriller, Grumpy Old Men Get Laid, then Go to the Free Clinic.

So there you have it—my list of things I want for Christmas that nobody can give me. What completely irrational things do you want to see under the tree when you wake up on Christmas morning?

Uber will settle for nothing else. Give him his midgets.....

..now....

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Posted by Branden Hart at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (7) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

When people ask me what languages I speak, I'm often tempted to answer, "English and music." It's not an answer I would ever give, because we all speak the language of music to some extent. Some of us just understand the subtleties of the language a little more than others. I've been reading sheet music since I was five years old. Put a sheet of music in front of me, and I can look at it and start to understand what's being expressed by all the black on white of the page.

I always thought that everyone had this unique relationship with music, just because it's been such an important part of my life for so long. Before I started playing piano, my dad would play. One of my best memories as a young child is sitting in our living room, listening to my dad play Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata. Hearing that—the control he had over the instrument, and his ability to make it say exactly what he wanted it to—is what drove me to start playing myself. I took piano lessons for fourteen years, from the age of five until my freshman year of college. And while I didn't enjoy every minute of it—the practice times were excruciating—it fostered within me a love for the language of sound that will never die. So I thought that this kind of thing was natural, that everyone loved music the way I did. I would meet people at college who wanted to go up to the big baby grand in the student union and play until the late hours of the morning. Me and one of my best friends would sit on our balcony, playing guitar and singing. Hell, we didn't even need beer. Just our guitars.

But I was wrong—not everyone shares this passion. Before things started picking up for me at work lately, I spent a lot of time on a website some of you are very familiar with—Totalfark. Beside the point, this is one of the best websites of all time. One of the great things about Totalfark is that you have this sense of community, and you share your ideas with other people, and get almost immediate feedback.

One day on the site, the conversation turned toward music. I mentioned a song that I was listening to that made me cry—Elton John's Indian Sunset. It's a song about an American Indian (Native American, whatever) and how he dealt with the impending near-extinction of his species. It is a heartbreaking piece of music, and an example of the near-perfection Elton John and Bernie Taupin were able to achieve in the beginning of their careers. Someone on Totalfark picked up on my comment, and started making fun of me. While I don't have the exact transcript of the conversation, this person was quick to inform me that crying at a piece of music made me a pussy. I was shocked. And I tried to talk reason into this fellow, telling him why I was so emotionally moved by this collection of sounds and lyrical poetry, but he wouldn't budge. He still thought that this outpour of emotion due to a piece of music made me less of a man. I finally told him that I felt sorry for him, because due to my sensitivity to music, I was experiencing a part of the human emotional spectrum that he could not even dream of.

Music is not something I take for granted. It's a part of my daily life. I still play the piano. Most days, I find relief from the "daily grind" by coming home, cracking open a beer, and sitting down at a console piano that used to belong to my girlfriend's grandfather. My communion with music has taken me places that I fear all too many people will never travel.

I have been fortunate to find friends who share this love with me. Friends who understand that when I put on one of my many copies of Ravel's Bolero, it's time to sit back and listen. Friends who understand that my tears that come from a listen to Sir Peter Maxwell Davies' An Orkney Wedding with Sunrise are tears of joy. Friends that understand why I continue to play Lupe Fiasco's Kick, Push over and over and over again (my girlfriend has been especially understanding about that particular piece). But I still grieve for those whose lives are not augmented by the language of music.

As for my friends at FTTW, I know you all share this same passion. And though an expression of thanks would have been more appropriate a few weeks ago, I want to thank you all for reminding me that there are people in the world who would gratefully admit that they too speak the language of music.

Tell me about your relationship with music. What music makes you cry, what music makes you laugh, what music makes you want to fuck? This site is written in English, but every single writer on FTTW speaks in music as well. Tell me about it.

Uber would like to ask you a few other things but we think it would be best if he just stuck to this question for now.

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Posted by Branden Hart at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (4) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

It finally happened. After sweating through a high of eighty-two degrees on Tuesday, a cold front finally hit us here in San Antonio. Which means that soup season has officially hit my kitchen. I love soups, stews, anything you make, and then heat up for about two hours. I love cooking food that takes a long time to cook (just asked my friends who were over the time I smoked a brisket for 17 hours). And one of my favorite things to cook is chili. So today, I give you a recipe for chili, and a recipe for taco soup.

Aunt Susie's Taco Soup

There's only one way I can describe my great-Aunt Susie—she was a kickass woman. She didn't take shit from anyone. She was an incredibly strong woman, and she loved her family. She also loved cooking for them, and I'm so glad I have this recipe as part of her legacy.

Ingredients:

1 lb. ground turkey

1 medium onion, diced

2 15-oz. cans hominy

2 15-oz. cans pinto beans

1 can Rotel tomatoes

1 8-oz. can tomato sauce

1 15-oz. whole kernel corn

1 envelope Hidden Valley Ranch dressing mix (the kind that calls for buttermilk)

1 pkg. taco seasoning

2 cloves garlic

First—brown that meat. Throw in onions or bell peppers to add some extra flavor. Once it's done, drain it well, and set it aside. Then mix all the other ingredients together. Next, put everything in a pot and add at least 2 cups of water—more if you want some extra juice. Simmer for an hour and you're done. We'll usually throw in cheese, sour cream, and tortilla chips, and a lot of people love it with avocado.

This recipe was first published in the cookbook Come to the Table that my mom wrote for our church when I was growing up. She worked her ass off to get this book together, and she included many family recipes that I'm always glad to have. When you're cooking a recipe that was invented by your blood over one hundred years ago, it is a truly humbling event. Which is why I love the next recipe—my chili—which my mom taught me how to make.

Branden's Blow-out-your-ass Chili

My mom once told me that unless you are just a plain bad cook, it's very difficult to make bad chili. Just go get a pack of chili spices—my favorite is Wick Fowler's 2-Alarm Chili Kit—and it tells you all the ingredients you MUST have to make chili. That's the easy, boring part. The fun part is making your own variations of the chili. Here's mine.

Ingredients:

1 pack of Wick Fowler's 2-Alarm Chili Kit

2 pounds coarse ground beef

1-8 oz. can tomato sauce

2-8 oz. cans water

2 large onions

2 jalapenos

1 habanero pepper

1 red or green bell pepper

salt and pepper (to be used at your discretion to taste)

Frito chips

Sliced cheese

Sour cream

It's so simple, and so good. First brown the meat. Throw in a diced onion and the bell pepper. Get it good and brown and drain it. Then follow the instructions on whatever packet of chili mix you get about adding spice. Most chili kits come with masa and red pepper, which don't get added in right at the beginning. Regardless, now is the time to throw in all of your ingredients except for the jalapenos and habaneros. You'll get the solution simmering and let it go for about 20 minutes. Then put in the jalapenos and habaneros. You can do whatever you want with the jalapenos—cut them up, put them in whole, whatever—but be very careful with the habenero. Don't cut it up, don't touch the skin if you can avoid it. And if you can't, don't touch anything on your body until you wash your hands. Habaneros are among the hottest peppers in the world. They have an oily skin, and you get that oil on your hands and then inadvertenly scratch your eye, you will regret it for about half a day. So what you want this pepper to do is just sit and simmer, because aside from their spicy attributes, habaneros have a delicious taste. Now, you'll let this solution simmer for another fifty minutes or so, and depending on your chili kit, you'll have a masa solution to mix in at one point. You can also add navy or pinto beans, but I'm from Texas and would get my ass kicked for pulling shit like that.

Serve it then with the cheese and the Fritos, and add some sour cream if you need to take the edge off the righteous spice that habanero will give the dish.

These are both dream dishes for me on a cold day I want to spend inside, cooking and drinking beer. What are some of yours? Please remember, "Booze" is not a recipe (though it is delicious as an appetizer or compliment to your entrée. Or as dessert).

Uber still thinks that booze is somewhere in the food pyramid. It's just hidden

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Posted by Branden Hart at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (11) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Ted Rhobe Rae is unable to write this week, as he is dealing with a joint lawsuit brought against him by Child Protective Services and the Association for Protection of Midget Rights. Below, Uberchief dishes out advice in the form of a fable from the magical land of Deep Forest, where animals can talk, get drunk, and contract venereal disease.

Dear Uberchief,

In middle school, I threatened a kid with a knife (with no intention of following up, of course). He ended up reporting it to the school, and we had a meeting with the Guidance Counselor and my parents.

Naturally, I lied my ass off and said I didn't do it, and that it was all a misunderstanding. So he got in trouble for lying. I saw a report in the newspaper the other day, and it turns out he's now in jail for trying to steal the shoes from a hobo (he was on drugs at the time). Should I feel bad about this?

Thanks,

Troubled Liar

Dear Troubled Liar,

Thanks for your note. Your situation reminds me of the story of Gary Grasshopper. Long, long ago, when the air was clean and there was no such thing as Internet pornography, Gary Grasshopper lived with his Mom and Dad in a hollow underneath Big Tree. Big Tree was the strongest, biggest tree in all of Deep Forest, and because of that, all the other animals would come to the Grasshopper hollow when weather was bad.

One day, Mom and Dad Grasshopper had to go out for food.

“We're leaving you alone in the hollow," said Dad Grasshopper.

“That's right," said Mom Grasshopper. "If it starts raining and other animals come by looking for shelter, you be sure to let them in and give them something warm to eat.”

“Yes ma'am," replied Gary Grasshopper as his parents closed the door behind them.

"Alright!" thought Gary to himself. "I can do anything I want!"

First, Gary went to the cupboard and ate all the sweets he could find. Then he went to the cabinet and ate all the junk food he could find. Finally, he got into Dad's "special" cabinet and drank an entire bottle of something called "Rum" that tasted like rubbing alcohol. Just as he was finishing the bottle, he heard a loud BANG of thunder. He put down the bottle and turned to the window to see that it was raining outside. As was to be expected, there came a knock at the door. He threw down the bottle and hurried to answer it.

“Gary!" said Percy Porcupine as Gary opened the door. "Are your parents here?”

Gary shook his head. "They went out for food. Can I help you?"

“Well," said a now-shivering Percy, "I was on my way home when this storm blew in. Can I come inside and sit for awhile?"

Gary nodded and stumbled out of the way. Percy walked inside and saw what a mess the house was. There were sweets wrappers everywhere, junk food containers spilled all over the floor, and an empty bottle of rum rolling slowly across the table.

"Gary!" yelled Percy. "Have you been drinking?"

Gary tried to shake his head, but it felt heavy. He could feel himself falling toward the ground, and before he knew it, he had passed out drunk.

When Gary woke up, he had a horrible headache and his face hurt from where he fell on it. After looking around, he realized that Percy was still there, fast asleep and snoring in the chair beside the fire. Gary knew that porcupines are prone to sleep soundly, and he knew what he had to do.

Soon, the rain let up, and not long after that, Mom and Dad Grasshopper came home to find Percy Porcupine passed out by the fire with an empty bottle of rum in his hands, and Gary working his best to clean up the mess he had made.

"What on earth?" roared Dad Grasshopper, startling Percy from his nap.

"Gary, what happened?" demanded Mom Grasshopper.

Before Percy could say anything, Gary shook his head, put his hands on his little grasshopper hips, and said, "I'll tell you what happened. I let that damn porcupine in just like you told me to. Well, he came in here, ate all the food in the kitchen, drank a bottle of something from your special cabinet, tried to sodomize me, and then passed out over there."

“What?!?" screamed Percy. "I never, ever..."

But it was too late. As soon as Gary mentioned sodomy, Dad Grasshopper sprung into action and, avoiding contact with Percy's quills, pinned him down and yelled at Mom Grasshopper to call the cops. Before long, federal agents arrived at the house and arrested Percy on child molestation charges. All that day, and indeed, for the rest of his life, Gary's parents let him do anything he wanted, for they felt so bad that their son had almost been raped by a porcupine. And Gary enjoyed every single minute of it.

The moral of the story is: it may feel good to lie, and it may feel even better to lie and not get caught. But it feels the best when you lie and someone else suffers for it, and you come out clean. AND THAT'S OK.

Thanks again for the letter. I'm glad your knife-wielding days are behind you.

Yours truly,

Uberchief

Posted by Michele Christopher at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

It's been a long time since an album has completely blown my mind and changed my outlook on music and self expression. You all know what I'm talking about. The kind of album that you listen to, and then breathe a sigh of relief. "That's what I've been waiting for." It's been over a year since it happened to me. Last time was with Frank Zappa and MOI's Hungry Freaks, Daddy! I'll cover that one at some point in the future. But right now, you all need to go out and BUY (yes—BUY, not download) Lupe Fiasco's debut album, Food and Liquor.

I'm listening to NPR the other day when some old white dude starts reviewing this hip hop album. Thing is, I've heard this white dude before, and he's right on when he talks about hip hop. Hearing an old white guy talk about "beatz and rhymez" kind of gets your attention. But when you realize he knows what he's talking about, you start listening. And this week, he was talking about Fiasco's debut. From the beginning, I heard something I rarely hear done well in hip hop—complex instrumental backtracks. These weren't four second clips of sampled strings played over and over again—they were composed backtracks, with players deviating from the standard lines through improvisation. Even if the improv is minimal, it makes the music more organic. Listening further, however, you hear Fiasco himself, and once you hear what he has to say, you won't look at hip hop the same again.

The featured track on the NPR segment was the single from this album, Kick, Push. This song had me from the beginning. With an astounding instrumental backtrack that's a signature on this album, Fiasco spins the romantic tale of a young boy who is growing up as a skateboarder. Something about this song just pulls me in. From unconventional rhymes to the relaxed, meandering hook, this song is a highlight of the album. Check out the first part of the first verse:

First got it when he was six, didn't know any tricks

for a week he had to talk with a lisp, like thish...

There are other songs that are fantastic as well. One of those few albums I can listen to all the way through. Daydreamin' samples several songs to create a somber tone, highlighted by vocals from the always sumptuous Jill Scott. He Say She Say chronicles the parallel thought processes of a mother and son who have been abandoned by the son's father. It is a poignant and thought-provoking look at what so many families go through today, and it is done with class, style, and a necessary touch of desperation. Pressure featuring Jay-Z is hip hop as I've never heard before. It pays an undeniable tribute to eighties hair bands through the guitar-laced backtrack. The only song on this album I haven't listened to all the way through is American Terrorist. I started it, but it's a very disturbing song, and I was drunk and in a happy place, and didn't want anything to do with it at the time.

Unconventional, thought-provoking lyrics and incredible backtracks aren't the biggest highlights on this album. The biggest, most impressive highlight is that you can understand Fiasco's EVERY FUCKING WORD. That's right my friends. For a suburbanite middle-class white boy like myself, it's a relief to hear an entire hip hop album that I can understand at first listen. Normally, even with my favorite hip hop groups, I find myself wandering over to the computer to get online and look up lyrics. And sometimes I get the feeling that the folks writing those lyrics down don't really know what the artists are saying either. So it is something special when you can hear Fiasco enunciate every word while maintaining a natural inflection and not sounding stilted or stiff.

All in all, this album is a must have, and has immediately jumped up into my top ten of all time, bumping Barney the Dinosaur Live at San Quentin down to the number eleven spot. If you love hip hop, go out and buy this CD right now. Even if you don't love the genre, you may well find that this is one of those rare CDs that has universal appeal.

Now it's your turn—tell us about the last album you bought that you think is an absolute must have for everyone's collection.

Uberchief own the cassette, 8track and vinyl versions of Barney at San Quentin

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Posted by Michele Christopher at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (5) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

By the time Lester was fifteen, Dysentery Weekly had gone from the nickname for a trip I took to Nicaragua to a poorly-respected publication that had a circulation of 500 people, 400 of those people being inmates at the county prison. I still sucked at math, and Lester had already completed high school, college, his masters, and was studying for the CPA exam while handling the expenses for the magazine, as well as my personal budget.

It wasn’t a huge job, except that Dave the Costa Rican drug dealer was editor in chief, and Lester and I spent most of our time making sure he didn’t spend petty cash on pot or hookers. But my finances were a complete mess, because I hadn’t paid taxes in years. So reconciling back taxes for me had become Lester’s regular job, and after months of working on everything, there was finally an end in sight.

“I think about two more days and I’ll have this all straightened out,” he said one morning as he stared at the reams of scattered paper lying on the table in front of him. “Then we’re going to teach you how to pay taxes so we don’t have to deal with this again.”

“Now Lester,” I said in my fatherly tone, “I didn’t buy you off the black market and raise you to be an accountant just so I could pay my own taxes—that’s your job.”

“But what about when I want to move out on my own?” he said. “I can’t live here with you and Dave for the rest of my life.”

A tear formed in my right eye, and I’m sure I would have had one in my left eye as well, if a transvestite goat herder hadn’t stabbed me in my tear duct back in ’78. I never liked to think about the inevitable day when Lester would move out. We did so much together—walking through the park and pointing at weird people, eating burritos and then riding on the bus and ripping ass, going to Bible study at the methadone clinic. He was my right-hand man, even though he was still technically a boy.

“Well, let’s not think about that right now. Right now, I’m hungry. Let’s go find a drunk hobo and steal his money to get a hot dog—what do you say?”

We headed out of the apartment and down the street. We couldn’t go bug the bums in Hobo City, because the last time I went down there, the head hobo basically put out a fatwa on me. Hoboville was all the way across town, and I was too hungry for that walk. But then, we saw Crazy Randy walking our way, screaming about the end of the world and what that meant for tacos.

“Hey Randy?” I said. “Got any money we can borrow?”

“Money,” he growled. “I’ve got it all. But it’s not good for normal monetary transactions, no? Tracking—they track this money. The numbers are on it, and they know them. Use it for a taco, they know where you live. It’s blasphemy!”

“Uh-huh,” I said. “Yeah, well, so can we have it?”

“Take it—take all of it!” he said, throwing several dollar bills and coins into the air. “Take it and let them shackle you to corporate consumerism. Running uptide won’t realize big feats of pleasure!”

“Ok then, thanks Randy,” I said as we walked off, nudging Lester, who was trying to stifle his laughter.

“It isn’t nice to laugh at crazy people Lester.”

“I know Dad, but that guy is just too over the top.”

“Who are you to say that he’s not the sane one, and you and me are the crazy ones?”

Lester looked at me. “Dad, have you been eating those brownies Dave baked last night?”

Before I could answer, I remembered something. I hadn’t locked the door. And if I hadn’t locked the door, that means Dave might have wandered into the apartment. And if he was in the apartment, with no supervision…

“You forgot to lock the door, didn’t you?” asked Lester as he noticed the look on my face.

At once, both of us took off in a sprint back towards the apartment.

Outside the door, we could smell lingering marijuana smoke. Ok then. If Dave was just smoking a joint, we were probably alright. I opened the door and stepped into the haze.

“Jesus Christ Dave!” yelled Lester when he walked in. “You on a mission to kill the last of your brain cells?”

“Why don’t you chill out Lester—I’m trying to get in the zone to write my next editorial. I think it’s going to be about the history of midgets. So why don’t you get off my case and have a little smoke.”

“You know I don’t smoke Dave—drugs make you stupid. Just ask my Dad. But use small words.”

I shrugged. “He’s right Dave—if it weren’t for drugs, I probably wouldn’t have to be messing with these back taxes right now.”

Just then, Lester screamed. “MY PAPERS! WHAT HAPPENED TO MY PAPERS!”

I looked at the table. Most of Lester’s papers were gone. Then I looked at the honker of a joint that Dave was smoking.

“Dave, what did you roll that thing with?”

Lester looked at him, saw the familiar writing on the outside of the joint, and leapt screaming through the air. “Dave you dipshit!” he yelled. “That’s two months worth of work down the drain!”

“Now Lester,” I said as I pulled him off and calmed him down. “It isn’t Dave’s fault you left sensitive documents out on the table.”

“What do you mean it isn’t his fault?!? You don’t just go into someone’s house and grab the first papers you see to roll up a doobie!”

“I do,” said Dave from the couch.

“Lester,” I said calmly. “You made a mistake. And that’s ok. But now you know how important it is to take all this seriously. After all, you’re dealing with money here, and if you don’t take money seriously, you aren’t going to get very far in this world.”

Still frustrated, but calming down, Lester replied, “I don’t see how any of this has anything to do with me taking money seriously.”

“Oh really?” I said, sitting down in front of him. “Well, then allow me to tell you a little story that may clear it up…”

Next time with Ted Rhobe Rae: How an Ethiopian Prostitute Stole my Wallet This One Time

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Posted by Michele Christopher at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (6) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Ted Rhobe Rae was hospitalized early this week after a juror in his court case threw a midget and hit him in the nose, breaking it and fracturing his skull. He is expected to make a full recovery. Uberchief fills his shoes this week with some haikus and a beer review.

Haikus
by Uberchief

Sex with animals.
It doesn't hurt anyone.
Except animals.

---

Oh pornography.
Girls get naked for money.
And have butt sex too.

---

I love petting zoos.
Except the one here in town
Has banned me for life.

---

Sometimes I jerk off.
Not because I am horny,
But because I'm bored.

---

The Playstation 2.
The controller says to me
"Stick me in your ass."

----

Strippers need respect.
I will give them my respect
With ten dollar bills.

----

I should be working
But I am surfing the web
My hands on my balls.
----

'Tis the Season

I woke up feeling like shit today, all thanks to my good friend Sierra Nevada Celebration Ale. That's right friends—it's that time of year, when alcoholics the world over can look forward to seasonal offerings from their favorite brewers. My favorite American brewery, Sierra Nevada, releases this brew every holiday season, and each year, the first bottle is like opening a Christmas present. Now, I'm no beer reviewer, so I can't attest to the way the hops tickle the back of your throat, or how many fingers the head is if poured the correct way, but I can say this—this is a damn fine brew. Very strong, with an alcohol content approaching seven percent per volume, this is not your standard American beer. It has bite, from the initial blast when it hits your tongue, to the smooth aftertaste you can feel in your nose as it trickles down your throat. NOT FOR CHUGGING. This beer grabs you by the balls, spins you around, and sits you on your ass faster than you can pay the barkeep. We all love the holidays for different reasons: family, friends, people dressed like Santa and begging for donations in front of Wal-Mart. But for me, it wouldn't be the holidays without a nice, cold Sierra Nevada, whether shared with my dad, who first introduced me to the brew, or sipped after a hard day of work in the backyard, letting the cold winter wind force you to pull your jacket tighter around you, and sip your Celebration a little faster than you probably should.

Tell us at FTTW what your favorite seasonal beer, wine, or liquor is. We could all use more suggestions...

Uberchief is, by law, forbidden from seeking employment in the farming industry.

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Posted by Michele Christopher at 12:07 AM | Permalink | Comments (5) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Ted Rhobe Rae is unable to write this week, as he is dealing with a joint lawsuit brought against him by Child Protective Services and the Association for Protection of Midget Rights. Below, Uberchief dishes out advice in the form of a fable from the magical land of Deep Forest, where animals can talk, get drunk, and contract venereal disease.

Dear Uberchief,

My sister recently went to the local Sperm Bank and got artificially inseminated. I have reason to think she might have chosen one of my (many) samples.

Should I say anything?

Spanky in Spokane

Dear Spanky,

So you think that you may be the father of your sister's child? I've got just the moral for you. Your situation reminds me of when Pete Pelican moved to Deep Forest. Now, this was a long, long time ago, during the economic recession brought on by the conservative fiscal policies of Brian Badger (who was thankfully run out of office when the feds found over six gigs of kitty porn on his computer) and the animals of deep forest were having a very hard time finding jobs. Terry Turtle had to close his pet store and let all the Giblets run free. Percy Porcupine had to close the free clinic, and even Bird couldn't afford to live off of what meager offerings he received from those seeking advice. Pete had picked a bad time to come to Deep Forest. But he was a determined bird, and pretty soon he was going door to door, asking for work.

"Excuse me?" he said when Dr. Fox opened his door. "I'm Pete Pelican, and I'm new to Deep Forest. I wonder--do you have any work for me?"

Dr. Fox shook his head sadly. "No, I'm sorry. Normally I would, but because of the way things are right now, I even had to lay off most of my staff at the hospital. Sorry."

Next Pete went to Terry Turtles house. "Excuse me?" he said when Terry opened the door, "I'm Pete Pelican, and I'm new to Deep Forest. I wonder--do you have any work for me?"

Terry shook his head sadly. "No, I'm sorry. Normally I would, but because of the economy, I even had to shut down my pet store. Sorry."

Finally, Pete came to the Hollow at the bottom of Big Tree where the Grasshopper family lived. "Excuse me?" he said when Mom Grasshopper opened the door, "I'm Pete Pelican, and I'm new to Deep Forest. I wonder--do you have any work for me?"

Mom Grasshopper thought for a second, then said, "Ah, yes. I need a coat hanger for Dad Grasshopper's new suit. Will you go to Bill Buffalo's corner store and get one for me? I need one so I can hang up Dad Grasshopper's new suit when I'm done ironing it. He has a big job interview today."

"Don't you remember?" said Dad Grasshopper from where he was sitting by the fire, "Bill had to close the store down."

"Then how will I get your suit ironed and keep it nice for your interview this afternoon?"

Just then, Mom Grasshopper noticed what a large beak Pete had. "Why Pete!" she squealed. "I think your beak would be a perfect place for me to hang the suit! I tell you what--if you will stand and hold the suit in your beak for an hour while Dad Grasshopper gets ready, then you can come over to our house for dinner every night this week!"

"That sounds great!" said Pete, proud of himself for being so industrious. He went inside and stood patiently next to Mom Grasshopper as she ironed Dad Grasshopper's new suit. When she was done, she took the jacket and the pants and turned to Pete.

"Now Pete," she said, "Open your mouth."

Pete opened his pelican mouth wide. Mom Grasshopper took the edge of the pants and the collar of the jacket and situated them on the edge of his bottom bill. When they were just so, she stood back and said, "Now, Pete, close your mouth!"

Pete snapped his mouth closed. Mom Grasshopper clapped. "That's great Pete!" she squealed. "Now the suit won't get wrinkled or dirty!"

Pete held the suit and indeed, it was crisp and clean for Dad Grasshopper's interview. That night, Pete and the whole Grasshopper family sat around the table celebrating, for Dad Grasshopper had been offered the job (and had several compliments on his lovely suit!).

The moral of the story is: sometimes a closed mouth is the next best thing to a coat hanger.

Hope that helps Spanky,

Uberchief

Posted by Michele Christopher at 9:00 PM | Permalink | Comments (6) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

We at fasterthantheworld.com want to say that we think stay-at-home mothers are some of the strongest, most important people in the world - TRR

Lester’s formal education began when he was five. And while it was hard to see him get on the bus to kindergarten the first day, I knew that he had much, much more to learn about tax law than I could teach him. So, with his “Wolverine vs. Luke Skywalker” lunchbox in one hand, and “Tax Laws as Applicable in Twentieth Century Non-Profit Organizations” in the other, I wished him well, and saw him off.

The first day without Lester was hard. I hadn’t had a drink since he showed up, and this was the first time I felt like I could get away with getting a little drunk.

I went walked down the street to the nearest convenience store. Inside, I found a nice, cold bottle of Zinfandel. Not exactly as strong as I used to drink, I thought to myself, but it might be time to take it easy. After all, Lester would be home in less than seven hours, and then it would be time to sit and play, then eat dinner together, then clean up the kitchen, then study tax laws with emphasis on exemptions.

On my way up to the counter, I noticed that they had new confections in the freezer. “Baun-bauns,” I said out loud, reading the label on the new, apparently-German frozen candy. “Vanilla ice cream scoops wrapped in chocolate shells,” read the description. I was sold.

By the time I got back to the apartment, I had the candy and the wine, as well as some flowers and a little good-smelling lotion I bought to pamper myself. After putting everything in its place (and spending an hour cleaning the kitchen which was an AWFUL mess) I turned on the TV and sat down with my glass of Zin and some baun-bauns. Judge Judy was on, and the jury was IN.

Judge Judy raised hell this time. There was the one guy who ran into his sister’s car while he was having sex with his girlfriend’s mother, and then the other guy who worked at a pet store where he rented prostitute monkeys to bachelor parties in Mexico. After that, I remember something about a goat, and the next thing I knew, I woke up beside the empty bottle of Zin, chocolate all over my shirt, with Lester poking me in the face.

“Wake up Dad!” he said. “I want to tell you about my first day of school!

“Of course you do!” I said as I threw up a little in my mouth. Take my advice—if you quit drinking for a couple of years, don’t down a bottle of Zinfandel in four hours—especially if you have a kid to take care of.

“Well, first we all introduced ourselves and told what our parent’s did, and I said exactly what you told me—Mom’s a whore and Dad’s a writer!”

“Good boy!”

“And then they asked me what my favorite subject was, and of course I said torte reform...”

“Oh, you’re going to fit right in...”

“And I met a girl!”

“Does she have big tits?” I asked.

“What?”

”Nevermind, nevermind. So you had a good first day at school?”

He smiled, and looked at his shoes. “It was more fun than staying at home.”

I went to hug him. “It’s supposed to be more fun,” I said, stroking his hair. “You meet new people, you get to learn about all sorts of new stuff aside from economic policy and escrow standards, and what’s more, there’s chicks with tits.”

“Chicks with what?”

“Nothing. Just remember this—you are going to learn a lot at school. But you also need to have fun.”

He nodded as if he understood. But he didn’t understand. The kid didn’t even understand that it was useless to order a cheeseburger without cheese. But he knew the tax code, and he knew exemptions, and he was going to make a hell of a kindergartner.

Next week: How I Raised an Asian Baby to be my Accountant Part III

Ted Rhobe Rae fantasize about a threesome with him, Judge Judy and the bailiff from Moral Court.

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Posted by Michele Christopher at 12:04 AM | Permalink | Comments (4) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

There I was, a father! My month-long dream had been realized at long last. In my arms was a stinky little bundle of life, all my own! I looked down at his little scrunched up face, with his little tuft of hair waving wistfully in the breeze. Then I realized that I shouldn’t have a baby in an apartment that had a breeze blowing through it and I’d finally found my reason to fix all the rat holes in the wall! There’s one point for the baby.

I had so much to do. First and foremost, I had to name him, according to the instructions on the birth certificate Dave left by the blanket. I already had his middle name figured out—Dorothy—after my favorite uncle (I never knew what I loved the best about Uncle Dorothy—the smell of his perfume or playing “Snake Spit” with him) but the first name was more sensitive. After all, that’s what he would be called the rest of his life. I had to choose wisely. If I picked the wrong name, the little guy would be picked on his whole life. I thought of several different names, only to immeditately think of ways to use them to humiliate their defenseless owners. Scott—Scott the Twat. Duke—Duke the Puke. Leslie—Leslie. While I thought, I took the toaster out of the sink, filled it with water (the sink, not the toaster) and gave the little guy a bath. By the time he had been thoroughly disinfected, I’d happened upon the perfect moniker: Lester.

Next, I knew I needed to feed Lester and give him something to drink. I had that covered. I walked into the kitchen and opened a cabinet where I kept baby food (you try eating anything else after being up for thirty-six hours taking shots of Everclear and shooting up heroin in the back of an abandoned free clinic with two priests, a Rodney Dangerfield impersonator, and your grandmother). Then I opened up the fridge and got out some milk (that was the only thing grandma could keep down the next day) and took out the bottle I had over the sink (I never knew why grandma needed that). I fed the little guy—he totally got off on the squash—and then got him ready to go out. I knew the first thing I had to do was take Lester to the doctor and get him shots—at least, that’s what I did with Francis, and the doctor told me it was the best thing I could have done.

Now I had a dillemma. I had been tripping on acid for about 24 hours. I didn’t think I needed to walk down the stairs holding Lester, much less take him out and about on the street. I needed someone reliable, someone sober, to carry my baby out with me. Just then, I heard the gentle cooing of my loyal dog Francis. “Of course!” I thought. “Francis and Lester are already getting along! I’ll just tie the little guy to the dog and we’ll be ready to go!”

You never know until you need to know just how much toilet paper it takes to tie a baby to a dog. It’s a lot. But I finally got Lester snug and tight on Francis’ back, and Francis seemed happy to have a job to do. The three of us left, and set out on the short trek to see the doctor.

It’s safe to say I got very frustrated when we finally got to see the doctor. We had to wait an hour, and while I got to read an awful lot about flea medication and heartworms, Lester was pretty grumpy by the time the doctor called us in and told me he couldn’t give a human baby a shot.

“Sir, this is a veterinary clinic. We only give shots to animals,” said the doctor impatiently.

”But I thought humans were animals?”

“Sir, by ‘animals,’ I mean ‘everything besides humans.’’’

Well, I just didn’t have time for a philosophical debate about the difference between ape and man. I had Lester to take care of for Christ’s sake! And I told the doctor so while he was pushing me out the door and yelling at me to walk three blocks south to the hospital.

Francis followed as I steamed toward the hospital. What if Lester had rabies or heartworms, or God forbid, mange! That fucking doctor wouldn’t do anything about it. Well, at least there was one good thing—I felt like I was almost completely off of my acid trip. Soon, I could release Francis from his carrying duties, and release Lester from his soft, quilted, two-ply prison. By the time we reached the doors of the hospital, I felt fine, and slowly unwrapped little Lester and took him inside.

I walked straight up to the front desk, where a friendly nurse asked, “What can I help you with?”

“I do believe some shots are in order?” I replied.

She looked from me to Lester, and said, “Is something wrong with the boy?”

I shrugged. “Just got him today. Was counting on you folks to tell me that.”

She looked confused for a second, then smiled. “Oh, I see. You’re taking care of him for a friend! Does he have a fever?” She felt his head with her hand. “Nope! He’s fine. You’re such a sweet man though for bringing him in to make sure! No, all this little fellow needs is to sit in a loving lap and have a sweet man read him a book.”

Well, the book store wasn’t far away, I thought, and it would be a hell of a lot cheaper than shots. Francis followed as we walked to the nearest bookstore. Once inside, I held Lester up in front of the shelves, letting him look at all the different books, until finally, we found one that both of us thought was fantastic.

That night, after we all had dinner, I sat in my recliner with Francis at my feet and Lester in my lap. I opened the book we bought together and started reading the first page.

“Taxes and tax law are the foundation of American economics. In 1797...”

Next week: How I Raised an Asian Baby to Be My Accountant Part II

Ted Rhobe Ray is a loving, doting father who gave up his 100 dollar a week acid habit so his son could go to Accountant Camp for Gifted Asian Babies

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Posted by Michele Christopher at 12:05 AM | Permalink | Comments (4) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

This is the response we received when we showed Ted Rhobe Rae the cease and desist letter from the Wei Raleigh Sook Corporation:

"Fuck them."

He then submitted the conclusion to "I Sold Vaccuum Cleaners for Two Days."

I Sold Vaccuum Cleaners for Two Days Part III

At ten PM, we pulled up to what I considered a nice-looking house in a decent neighborhood. By nice-looking, I mean there was a minimal amount of animal feces on the front lawn, and by decent neighborhood I mean there weren't cops sucking off drag queens for cigarettes in back alleys (at least, that I could see).

"Now look, I know your first day is tough," said my boss, "so I've decided to bring you here. I have a friend here--good guy--who has bought from us before. That was about ten years ago though, so I think it's time he bought something new. I want you to get in there and give the presentation of a lifetime, you got it? Let him know you're there to sell, and won't take no for an answer."

"But it's ten at night," I protested. "Won't he be a little bit bothered by me showing up?"

My boss just smiled. "I'm not paying you to talk to me boy. I'm paying you to talk to him. Now go."

Before I could remind my boss that he wasn't paying me anything until I actually sold a vaccuum cleaner, he pushed me out the door of the car. I walked up to the house and knocked. Minutes later, a skinny black man half opened the door.

"You're here about the vaccuum cleaner, aren't you?" he asked. His breath smelled like a drink I used to make called the "Eye Opener," and though I can't remember the recipe exactly, I know the main ingredients were cough syrup, tequila, and cod liver oil. It was a nice drink to start the day with, if you didn't have anywhere to go and your toilet wasn't backed up.

"As a matter of fact, I am..."

"Did 'they' send you?" he asked, looking around frantically.

"If by 'they' you mean the Wei Raleigh Sook Corporation, then yes, they..."

He grabbed me by my shirt and pulled me into the house. In the time it took him to activate all twelve of the locks on the door, I was able to take in my surroundings.

In one corner, there were at least twenty guitars. Of all the instruments in the world, the guitar disgusts me the most, primarily because of an unforunate incident in a Mexican prison involving a mariachi band and two large jars of mayonnaise. So I was confused, and more than a little frightened, about why this man might have two, let alone twenty, guitars at his disposal. But, since I saw no mayonnaise laying about, I was able to calm down about it.

I would say the rest of the house was normal, except for the flags. There were flags everywhere. Only three were anything of notice. There was one with a map of the world and a big, spraypainted "X" through it, right next to the Confederate flag, right next to the flag of the Nazi party.

"Ah," he said after he had set the final lock (with careful precision, I might add), "I see you're admiring my flags. Yes--the flag. One of the most important pieces of fabric ever to come through a sewing machine. You like sewing machines?" he asked.

"Not as much as I like vaccuums."

"Yes, well, vaccuums are fine and good, but do they make anything?"

Initially, I thought that was a rhetorical question, but he kept waiting for me to answer, so I finally said, "They make your house a clean and pleasant place to live."

"WRONG!" he yelled, throwing his hands up in the air. "They make money for the bureaucrats! They make money for the bigwigs! They make money you and I will never see, brother! How's that for a deal?"

"Doesn't sound like a deal at all to me," I said.

"Exactly." He sighed and walked up to the three flags I had noticed. He pointed to the Confederate flag first. "My great-great grandfather lived in the confederate states. He was lynched for having sex with a white woman. You ever have sex with a white woman?"

"I have," I answered.

"And there wasn't anything criminal about it, was there?"

"Well, I was in Alabama, and the laws are a little lax there..."

"Of course there isn't," he said, not listening. "But he got lynched anyway. So you probably want to know why I have this flag. Same reason I got the Nazi flag--to remind me of the injustice done to people in this world for things they never asked for. And I bet you want to know why I spray-painted on this other beautfully stiched flag. You know who's flag this is? It's the flag of the United Nations. And you know what the United Nations is?"

I stood there befuddled.

"The United Nations is the devil." He was in my face, breath so potent I thought I probably shouldn't drive anytime soon. Then I remembered that my licence had been revoked after I ran over a puppy (which turned out to be the mayor's puupy) after a night of drinking, and didn't have to worry about that. And then, from the depths of my brain, I thought of something--something ingenious--a way I could bring this guy back from his paraniod fantasies into my world--the world of unwanted particulate matter.

"SO, would you say that the United Nations sucks?"

"Oh, you bet!" he yelled.

"Well, they certainly don't suck as much as the Sook 2000x!" I said as I began pulling the vaccuum out of it's box.

"Listen my friend," he laughed as he witnessed my labor. "You are falling victim to what so many before you have tried to overcome. You're working for the man! You don't want to be here any more than I do. But here we are! We're here, not in some fairy tale make-believe land where good folks like you and me can contribute what we wish to society, where all we need is provided to us, even if what we feel like we need includes getting sodomized by a unicorn with a tennis ball on the end of his horn!"

I couldn't argue with that.

"So why don't you and me just relax--just sit here, and talk until your boss comes back. Let me tell you about society--about the society you don't know about--and you'll leave here a little more informated than you were when you walked through that door."

"I don't think 'informated' is a word," I said.

"That's what the man wants you to think!" he cried. "You know that Webster's Dictionary is written by the Illuminati, right? They censor that shit! There are words for things you and I couldn't even imagine. You ever heard the word 'lemtrappist'?"

I had to admit I had not.

"That's a person that makes his living popping the anal glands of dogs and using the results to make gourmet sherbert. And you and I would be using that word on a daily basis if the goddam Illuminati weren't editing the shit out of Webster's."

"What about the Oxford English Dictionary?"

"Written by out of work aliens from another galaxy. And what's really fucked up is how well they grasp the English language. But the Illuminati pays for their welfare checks and colostomy bags, so they do pretty much whatever they're told."

Several hours passed, in which I learned that Rod Roddy from The Price is Right was a KGB operative, and he only died when Bob Barker (who was NSA) learned his true identity. I also learned that tomato soup can talk to you when exposed to radiation from nuclear plants, and that if you buy a copy of The Peanuts Collection Vol. 3 by Charles Shultz, the FBI will track you as a terrorist because of the section where Snoopy (as the Red Baron) crashes his plane into Snoopy's (just regular old Snoopy) doghouse in a kamikaze attempt.

Needless to say, by the time I was done, I had enough. It was fifteen past midnight when I walked out of the crazy man's house and into the van parked outside. I told my boss I just couldn't do this anymore. He shrugged, and said something unforgettable.

"Well son, sometimes the man sells the vaccuum. But sometimes, the vaccuum sells the
man."

He didn't say anything else as we drove back to the office, which gave me time to think about what he said, and decide I didn't understand what the fuck he was talking about. We shook hands, said goodbye, and he assured me that if I ever wanted another chance at the job, the van door was open.

I was thrilled to get back to my apartment that night. It was 1:30. I had been at work 17 hours spanning over two days. My dog Francis wagged his little tail as I walked in the door. Poor guy had been inside for hours. I was pretty tired, but the little guy needed a walk, so I took two hits of acid to wake up, grabbed a bottle of Mescal I stole from a hooker the last time I was in Laredo, and put Francis on his leash.

"Come on bud," I said joyfully, "we both need a nice walk."

I was so busy I didn't notice that someone had been in my apartment. And by the time I got back, the acid had kicked in, and I was too busy staring at the bottom of the dirty bathtub and listening to it sing to pay attention to anything else. So, the next morning, I was shocked to find Francis sniffing around a small bundle wrapped in a blanket, with a note pinned to the front.

Dear dude,
Prison sucked.
I'm picking up some PCP tonight if you want any.
Here's your baby.
Love,
Dave

Uber's Corner - weekly stories about dysentery, Jesus, drunk boll weevils and other stuff that defies description is written by Uberchief and appears Mondays on FTTW.

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Posted by Michele Christopher at 12:02 AM | Permalink | Comments (8) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

We at fasterthantheworld.com regret to inform you that we cannot legally run Ted Rhobe Rae's most recent column, I Sold Vacuum Cleaners for Two Days Part III. Below is the cease and desist order we received from his former employer.

[please click image to view orginal cease and desist letter]

Wei Raleigh Sook Corporation
2499 Hamstring Way
Bakersfield, PA 08992

To the editors/owners of fasterthantheworld.com:

On Monday, September 18, 2006, at approximately 10:00 AM, an article titled "I Sold Vacuum Cleaners for Two Days" by one Ted Rhobe Rae appeared on your website. Not only was it vulgar and extremely inappropriate for a website that could be easily accessed by minors, it represented our company in a very poor light. Exactly one week later, you published "I Sold Vacuum Cleaners for Two Days Part II", which showcases an inebriated Mr. Rae representing our company. While the Wei Raleigh Sook corporation takes pride in rehabilitating the so-called "miscreants" of society, we would never allow someone under the influence of a drug such as mescaline to sell our wonderful products. In this same article, Mr. Rae not only spoke untruthfully about his employment with our company, but outright lied about the methods by which we sell our goods.

Mr. Rae, who is remembered by employees at Wei Raleigh Sook as "the smelly guy with
the recipes for roadkill", was employed at our offices for far more than two days, as the title of his article suggests. He was a salesman for nearly eight months. And though he may not remember much of his time with us, what with being drunk and stoned for the majority of his tenure, we remember his time clearly and have abundant documentation attesting to that.

1. At Wei Raleigh Sook, we abandoned the cold calling strategy of sales over twenty years ago, in 1985. Please note that Mr. Rae was employed with us during the 2000 fiscal year. Our standard procedure is to set up appointments via referrals, which each salesperson is required to do him or herself. Mr. Rae was stripped of this privilege on his first day in the office, when a coworker discovered him seducing the telephone. When asked why he was whispering "I want to take you in the back room and make you scream" to the Motorola 2400, he replied by stumbling into the broom closet and urinating into the mop bucket (this was not discovered until much later, when the custodian at that office complained that his mop water "smelled like poor people"). Because of this incident, Mr. Rae's schedules from then on were made for him by his boss. While most corporations would fire an employee for this behavior, please note that Wei Raleigh Sook takes pride in participating in the rehabilitation process, and random, public urination is therefore not cause for termination of an employee.

2. Mr. Rae claims that his first day of work was a Saturday because all of the Wei Raleigh Sook offices all over the world were working that day. We never require our employees to work on Saturdays, and have never had an event of the magnitude Mr. Rae speaks of in his article. Mr. Rae, however, does not seem to understand that there are seven unique days in the week, because he always insisted that every day was Saturday. For eight months, his last question before leaving every night was, "Do we have to work next Saturday?" And then, when it really was Saturday (or Sunday, or a holiday, for that matter) he showed up at the office. Most of the time, there was someone else there to tell him to go home, but on more than one occasion he was found on Monday morning, curled up on the front steps of the office, wrapped in the welcome mat and resting in a pile of cigarette butts, being licked in the face by his "dog" (see number three).

3. Mr. Rae was cited on more than one occasion for bringing his "dog" to work. I put the word dog in quotes because nobody at the office was sure what kind of animal it was. It was almost completely hairless, had a lazy eye, a tail that was nearly two feet long, and a severe case of obsessive compulsive disorder (it barked at pencils, defecated anytime someone talked about "Sweatin' to the Oldies," and ate Post-It notes (but no other paper products)). Despite repeated warnings, he continued to bring Francis into work, creating a hostile work environment for Florence (who loves Richard Simmons) and Eugene (who collects pencils from different parts of the world).

Mr. Rae was eventually let go for his behavior. Here at Wei Raleigh Sook, we take pride in hiring the downtrodden folks in society. We regularly hire crack addicts, meth junkies, kiddie porn addicts, kitty porn addicts, and the like, in the hopes of rehabilitating those that society has forgotten and discarded in the gutter like so many Jehova's Witness pamphlets. But after consultation with our public outreach counselor, an addiction specialist, and a very expensive veterinarian, we came to the conclusion that Mr. Rae was beyond help. Upon hearing his job had been terminated, his only response was, "Thank god. I was sick of working Saturdays."

Consider this letter an informal cease and desist order on any of Mr. Ted Rhobe Rae's writings that concern our organization. If this letter is ignored, we will not hesitate to take the necessary legal action to ensure that this does not happen again.

Sincerely,
Uwantu Sook, III
CEO Wei Raleigh Sook Corporation

Posted by Branden Hart at 12:29 PM | Permalink | Comments (11) | TrackBacks (1) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Below continues the story of how Ted Rhobe Rae sold vacuums for two days.

Please note: we at fasterthantheworld.com do not condone doing any drugs while on the job. Especially mescaline.

On we drove. I was still high from my first sale, as well as some mescaline I popped when the Jesus lovers weren't looking. My boss was saying something to me, but so was the air conditioning vent in the car, and I couldn't pay attention to them both. So I listened to the air conditioner.

Continue reading "I Sold Vacuum Cleaners for Two Days Part II" »

Posted by Michele Christopher at 8:33 AM | Permalink | Comments (19) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

by Ted Rhobe Rae

Back when I was in my late twenties, I decided I was ready to have a child. So I paid Dave, my Costa Rican drug dealer, to find out what the going rate for a healthy baby boy was on the black market. He came back and asked me what kind of baby I wanted. It wasn't a question I was prepared for, so I told Dave I'd think about it. After drinking steadily for a couple of weeks, I decided I wanted an Asian baby, but Dave said that the premium on Asian babies had gone up. After thinking some more, I finally gave him the money for my baby, but on the way to retrieve my bundle of joy from the whorehouse he went to on Wednesdays, he was arrested because he forgot to pay his ticket for public indecency, which was weird, because I could have sworn I watched him mail the check in the same envelope as the checks for public urination and public defecation (it had been a weird weekend). I had no idea when I'd see Dave again, and it looked like my life's savings, which he was supposed to use to purchase me a mathematically-proficient infant, was gone for good. So, I decided I needed to get a job.

Continue reading "I Sold Vacuum Cleaners for Two Days Part I" »

Posted by Michele Christopher at 1:05 PM | Permalink | Comments (9) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Ted Rhobe Rae is the executive editor of Dysentery Weekly. Below are some of the thousands of letters he receives each week in regard to his publication.

Dear Mr. Rhobe Rae:

I want to start by saying how much I love your publication. I look forward to opening my fresh, crisp copy of Dysentery Weekly every Friday afternoon. However, I am writing today to inform you of some aggregious historical innacurracies in an article from your August 28 issue entitled, "Midgets throughout the Ages."

Continue reading "Letter to the Editor of Dsyntery Weekly" »

Posted by Michele Christopher at 10:01 AM | Permalink | Comments (8) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

And just when you think that Uberchief's first piece was good.... Well, here's a moral tale that trumps the rest... It may seem harmless at first.... Just a goof... But be warned..... Warned by Uberchief!!!
-finn

One day long ago, when the Earth was young (not too young, but young enough to still be self-important and industrious) Ant, Fox, and Boll Weevil were taking a walk in the woods. Ant was riding on the back of Fox, while Boll Weevil struggled to keep up.

"Guys!" he gasped, "I can't keep up with you on my little boll weevil legs! Wait up!"

Ant turned his head to look at Boll Weevil. "Why don't you hop up on Fox's back with me? That way, you don't have to run so fast, and we don't have to wait on you."

"But boll weevils can't hop!" shouted Boll Weevil.

Fox turned his furry head in Boll Weevil’s direction. "What if I put my tail down so you can climb onto that?"

"But boll weevils can’t climb!' whined Bole Weevil.

"Well what the fuck can boll weevils do?" asked Fox.

"Boll," said Bole Weevil.

"How do you boll?" asked Ant and Fox simultaneously.

"Usually around 270--though I did boll a perfect game once!"

The three of them stopped: Boll Weevil to laugh maniacally at the joke he made, and Ant and Fox to stare at him.

"See," Boll Weevil began explaining, "I said 'boll,' but I meant 'bowl.' What I was trying to do...

"Oh, we know what you were trying to do," replied Ant. "We just didn't like it."

The three of them stood there for awhile in silence. Finally, Boll Weevil said, "Well, do you guys know any jokes?"

Both Ant and Fox said, "No," and then Fox turned and began jogging away. Pretty soon, boll weevil couldn't keep up, and before long, he was watching the last little bit of Fox's furry tail disappearing over the horizon. Depressed and forlorn that he had lost his only friends, Boll Weevil turned to alcohol and drugs for comfort. Pretty soon, he was sucking dick in parking lots for a hit of H or a line of coke. His depression deepened, until the only thing he could feel was the prick of the needle as it pierced his tender bole weevil skin. He lived from hit to hit, and in the rest of his days, he never told another joke. One morning he was found dead in a pile of his own refuse, with a bottle of whiskey and two five-by-seven glossy photographs of Scott Baio shoved up his little bole weevil rectum.

The moral of the story is: Bad jokes may seem harmless at first, but ultimately lead to a path of self destruction filled with drug addiction, crippling depression, and sodomy.

Uberchief

Posted by A Guest Author at 9:13 PM | Permalink | Comments (5) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

I have no idea how to introduce this story by Uberchief... Except to say that my neighbors didn't take too kindly to my joyous laughter echoing down the breezeway this morning, followed by my immediate coughing fit as coffee flew out of my nose and splattered on the table in front of me.... The older couple two doors down looked out their window and told me to be quiet... Here he is, Uberchief...
-finn

You know, this reminds me of the fable of Turdburglar Cockpiece, the Dog with an Unfortunate Name. Little Turdburglar loved playing with his friends, but they always made fun of him for his name. They made fun of him enough, in fact, that he began to hate his parents. After a particularly gruesome ribbing by Percy Porcupine, Turdburglar decided to go talk to Bird about his problem, as was the custom in those days.

"Bird," said Turdburglar, "why did my parents give me such a horrible name? I hate them for it."

"That's not very nice," said Bird. "Your name can't be that bad. What is it?"

"Turdburglar," said Turdburglar.

Bird scrunched up his little birdy face. "Wow, that is a pretty bad name. You know, this may be a problem that's too big for even me to deal with. But I have a friend who is good at this kind of thing."

Bird took a piece of bark from the tree and pecked and pecked and pecked. Then he gave that piece of bark to Turdburglar, who looked and saw that Bird had given him the phone number for Kyle Menendez.

The moral of the story is: if you need help solving a really tough problem, might as well head right to the source.

Uberchief

Posted by A Guest Author at 1:01 PM | Permalink | Comments (10) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It