Do you notice how the cool kids wear their baseball caps on backwards?  Neato.  Groovy, as well.  This is how one can identify the quarterback on the football team or whose daddy is a lawyer in town.  It is a time honored tradition.  Thirty years ago the cool kids often wore their hats on backwards.  Actually, when I think about it, wearing your hat on backward should no longer be cool.  Are short basketball shorts cool?  How about mullets?  Well, mullets are still cool for hockey players.  Regardless, I digress.  I guess wearing your hat on backwards will always be a cool thing for kids to do.

That does not excuse, however, the number of grown men I have noticed wearing their hats on backwards.  You are thirty five, with a wife and three kids.  You aren’t cool.  How can you be when you act like a child yourself?  Middle aged people buy themselves a Mercedes or BMW and own 6000 square foot houses.  That’s how old people do cool.  Maybe they put a lot of gel in their hair, but they definitely do not wear an Under Armour hat on backwards.  Poor form.  Plus, it cuts into the kids time in the sun.

It is kind of like when forty year old women wear tall boots and short skirts.  No.  I don’t care if you look good or not.  That isn’t the point.  You are a member of the PTA and have a Soccer Mom sticker in the back window of your black SUV.  Retain your dignity.

Retain your dignity.  There is a phrase that has been put to mothballs.  I understand that people don’t want to get old.  It’s depressing.  But there is no stopping it.  I just don’t see any reason to lose one’s self respect along the way.  If you are in your late thirties and standing there with your wife watching your ten year old play PeeWee football, I can guarantee there are a couple of seventeen year old kids mocking the hell out of you.  And they should be.

Mocking old people is one of the few things that I remember from my youth.  When I was twelve the word “awesome” became suddenly call.  Everything was awesome.  I lied.  Not everything.  You know what was not awesome.  It was not awesome when somebody’s mom used the word “awesome.”  It was plain sad.  Just as your wearing a ball cap backwards is plain sad.  You aren’t an athlete anymore.  You know how I can tell.  Because the quarterback doesn’t have a receding hairline and a beer belly.  That is what old guys have.

You know, the MO should start mocking old people.  I mean, people who were twenty years older than me when I was 17 are still twenty years older than me.  It is just that they are retired now.

“Look at old man Anderson over there blowing the leaves out of his driveway.  He thinks he is really cool.  What a dork.”

“Did you see Mrs. Wilson at the ballgame.  She had on those jeans with the spangly ass pockets.  Christ, she must be heading toward seventy.  Who in the hell has caramel colored hair?  That style is like five years behind the times.  She probably still listens to Journey.”

I feel much better now.  Maybe I should grow my mullet back out.  After all, why should hair in the back of my head be punished because the hair in the front is falling out?  That is cutting off my hair to spite, well, my hair.  Eh.  Everything isn’t Shakespeare, you know.

I had something else I was going to write, but I’m starting to get tired now.  Time for a little tea and some reading.  At least I don’t need cheaters yet, like that stupid, old man across the creek.

That chubby little bastard lives to putter around his yard.  I’m never going to be like that guy.  I’ll put money on it right now.

Where’s my hat?

There is a new guy playing professional baseball.  His name is Tim Tebow.  Perhaps you have heard of him.  He says “excited” and “my dream” and “virgin” a lot.  And he never blushes when he says those things, nocturnal emissions be damned.  Once, he was a football player.  He still looks like one.  Alas, his arm is wobbly and inaccurate and god won’t let him play H-back.  Yahweh is capricious and often cruel in matters of sport.

But do not weep for Tebow.  He is writing books like crazy.  They are inspiring and being bought up by Christians throughout the South.  These books make him rich.  Plus, he gets to be on ESPN whenever he likes.  The people at the sports and entertainment network love when he does things like try to play baseball.  It makes good copy.  Speaking of copying, Tebow didn’t really write these books.  Somebody else did.  This real author’s name is in really tiny print at the bottom of the book cover.  Tebow is the athletic equivalent of Sarah Palin when it comes to literary venture.  You betcha’.  I’m so excited.  Writing this book was my dream.

Anyway, I’m not here to pick on Tebow or Sarah Palin.  I’m here to report on breaking news.  Hold on to your hats, because this is a doozy.  Tim Tebow is really the lost son of Kris Kardashian!  I know.  Who would have imagined?  The MO, that’s who.  Simpleton.  Have you not learned of the MO’s omnipotence by now?   But, I digress.

Once upon a time, Kris Kardashian was banging men who were not her husband.  One of these men was O.J. Simpson.  Kris became pregnant.  To her credit, she did not know who the father was and she held out hope that the child would be a small Armenian.  Unfortunately, the child came out black as coal and full of muscles.  Panicked, the Kardashians concocted a tale of a stillborn Armenian baby and quickly put up O.J.’s muscular spawn for adoption.  The child was adopted by some deeply religious people in Florida.  These people were the Tebows.

When they laid eyes on the infant, the Tebows were extremely disappointed.  This child was black as coal.  And, as everyone knows, people become black because they have been charred by hell fire.  Now the Tebows were panicked.  They prayed and prayed, on one knee, one two knees, lying flat on the floor.  But nothing worked.  Finally, Mr. Tebow took the radical action of driving the child to New Orleans.  For, it was only in New Orleans where one could find the cure for a Cajun-style child.  In exchange for a chicken and some cash, Tebow secured the talents of a voodoo woman named Eureka Manning (I know, you just can’t make these things up!).  Eureka slaughtered the chicken, drank half a bottle of rum and told Daddy ‘Bow (for that is what Eureka called Tim’s adoptive father) to rub alligator blood over the child for thirteen straight days.  Daddy ‘Bow did as he was told and a fortnight later he had a son even whiter than you and me.  He did, however, forget the backs of the child’s knees.  If you look closely, you can still see the blackness there.

In the end, the Kardashians got their own show and an empire based on a sex tape and the Tebow’s ended up with a son who was the star quarterback of the the Florida Gators.  Once again, the lord works in mysterious ways.

And the black guy in the story ended up in jail.

Pow.

I watched my neighbor ride by my house this morning.  He had the whole family in the car.  Doubtless, he and his clan were headed toward church.  He is an ardent practitioner of the Nazarene religion.  As an adherent of the True Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster, I find him to be a misguided soul bound for Hades,  where he and his family will be slowly roasted in a pan upon a giant Amana range until the end of time.  Their screams will be the lamentations of the unrepentant.  It is sad, but it is his choice.  Free will, you know.  I would try to tell him, but I am sure my speech would fall unheard.  The Evil One has stoppered his ears and the eternal sizzling is his destiny.  I would feel worse about it if not for his mowing.

You see, my neighbor insists on mowing the ditch line in front of my house.  In fairness, this habit began before I was living here.  At that time, this house was inhabited by a single mother (my now wife) and my neighbor took this situation as an indication that she was unable to fully take care of herself (her being a little woman and all).  As noted, he is a very Christian man.  In an act of Christian charity, the neighbor took it upon himself to start mowing  the ditch.  I am sure he also petitioned the Republican government for tax relief of some sort.  The Arabs, after all, are not giving gas away these days.  Regardless, this act of kindness has become a habit.

Enter the MO.  Unlike my Christian brethren, who are hell bent on the taming of the wilderness, I have a rather laissez faire attitude toward lawn mowing.  In fact, it is my philosophy to mow as little as possible.  Grass- as well as ditch weeds- grows back.  Thus, the taming of one’s lawn is nothing more than a Sisyphean chore guaranteed to end in futility.  In the mind of the MO, better to bend to the inevitable than continue to push the stupid rock up the mountain.  Then again, few men have the logical nature of the MO.  It is my curse.

The upshot is that this fat bastard is intent on keeping the ditch under his Christian control.  The war on thistle and milkweed ain’t got no end.  “Onward Christian soldiers, mowing as to war.  With the logo of John Deere, going on before.”

My neighbor’s presumption has inspired thoughts of sabotage on the part of the MO.  I have considered shuttling some baseball sized rocks into his path or perhaps the strategic placement of some sort of incendiary device.  Having to replace his mower blades would surely temper his ditch mowing ardor.  Alas, my wife is cool to the idea of sabotage.  She seems to think that this neighbor, while misguided, is doing no real harm.

To this sentiment I say “balderdash!”  What of the mighty monarch butterfly?  If you are unaware, the numbers of monarch butterflies have fallen precipitously in the past few years.  There are many reasons why, but foremost (at least in my learned opinion) is the dwindling of available milkweed.  Monarchs cannot survive without milkweed.  It it what their caterpillars eat.  Ergo, my fatassed neighbor is starving the children (of monarch butterflies).  What kind of jackass would starve children?  A Boy Scout troop leader, that’s who.  On a riding lawnmower.

Worry not, faithful reader.  The MO is biding his time.  Even as I write this, I am praying to the FSM for guidance.  The way it looks now, this guidance could be one of two things.  The first thought is to put a curse on my neighbor, much like the one the gypsy put on the man in the book Thinner.  Except I want my neighbor to contract syphilis.  Dick Rot Away I will say as I touch his forearm.

The second idea is to just throw a bunch of sixteen penny nails in the ditch.  I know the nails thing lacks the subtlety of a syphilis curse, but I find it more expedient.  It takes a while for syphilis to kick in and there is still a fair amount of penicillin in the world.  Fucking Fleming.

If those measures fail, I will just out him relative to his closeted homosexuality.

Pow Pow Abomination Pow.

“And Woe Be it to Man, when the false prophets speak of deviltry amongst us.  And Woer Be it still Whence the juice box turneth against Us.  For no goeth forth and Multiply, but only dancing and the Weareth of Spangly garb and the wooing of those Who Should Not be wooed.  Remembereth, Wooed will equal the Woe.  And no juice boxes.”-    As told to the prophet MO by the Flying Spaghetti Monster (in a dream on a Friday after an extra Bloody Mary that the MO did not really want but drank anyway)

There is this guy named Alex Jones.  Have you heard of him?  If not, I will give you a bit of background.  Alex is a conservative pundit.  He says ridiculous, outrageous things.  This strategy is quite popular, not to mention lucrative.  Alex’s radio show has a larger audience than Rush Limbaugh and Glen Beck combined.  Combined.  Pow Pow Pow.  If this does not frighten you, I have some tasty little morsels that may change your mind a tad.

Recently, Alex stated that Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama smell like sulfur.  You know, the Devil’s stench.  I’m not sure how Alex knows this, but I can only assume that he has it on good authority.  Certainly, his many millions of viewers believe it to be true.  And, if Alex is wrong, what is the harm?  I mean Hillary and Obama might be the devil incarnate.  Though I’m not sure how one could explain their being in the same place at the same time.  I suppose it could be a camera trick.  The Dark One is a wicked smart trickster.  Look in the dictionary under the word “deception” and you are sure to see a picture of Mephistopheles.  (Also known as Lucifer or Old Scratch).  Regardless, those emails alone give some credence to Alex’s claims.  As for Obama, well, he is black you know.  Slowly turned to charcoal by the fires of hell, no doubt.  It frizzes their hair as well.  Not to mention the smell.  Phoeeeee!  Sulfur stinks.

Speaking of stinking, how about those homos?  Of course, some people want to give gay people an excuse.  Limp wristed liberals, mostly.  These people say that gay people are born that way.  They can’t help it.  Pffffff!  And another pffffff!  Obviously, these Libtards haven’t been listening to Alex Jones.  Alex says that our children are being turned gay by juice boxes.  Yes, you heard right.  Juice Boxes.  These square receptacles are made by a legion of demons whose sole responsibility is to turn all of humanity gay.  Why, you ask?  So that the human population dies out leaving the Earth to be inhabited by mutant, half man, half animals who are being created by evil scientists – scientists who have turned away from god and study things like DNA and Dr. Moreau.

And you thought the Bilderbergs were problematic.  That’s OK.  The MO is here to inform as well as entertain.  Alright.  I made that last part up.  The demons merely want the Earth for themselves, of course.

Anyway, you can help combat these threats to humanity.  First, never drink anything that comes in a box (and sure as hell don’t give any juice boxes to your kids).  Second, vote Trump.  He only smells like money.

And sometimes women’s privates.

Allegedly.

 

 

I had a teammate when I played college basketball.  He was very fond of regaling the rest of us with tales of his sexual exploits.  That none of us cared apparently never crossed his mind.  Often, this is the way of the storyteller.  But willing audience or not, the story must be told.

I remember one particular story very clearly, even more so in light of recent events.

We were in a hotel room in Bemidji.  It was January and very, very cold.  I thought maybe we would die there.  Anyway, as he had a captive audience my amorous – and garrulous- teammate began his crude tale.  About halfway through his story, he rose from his chair and began mimicking a recent act of sexual congress.

Enthusiastically, he slapped the ass of an imaginary partner, exclaiming exuberantly, “Whose pussy is this ?  Whose pussy is this?”  Apparently, these were the sweet nothings he whispered into the ear of his willing paramour.  He asked the question again of his phantom gal pal.

“Whose pussy is this?  Whose pussy is this?”

It was a question none of us had an answer for.

Even though I was but a lad of 19, I thought his display a bit reprehensible.  Moreover, I found his enthusiasm a bit off-putting as there were no real women in the vicinity.  (Though, even if there were, he would have had no way to get to them being that it was about fifty below with the wind chill.)  Regardless, it was a lewd and disturbing display.

I do not know what happened to that teammate.  I also do not know what happened to his college girlfriend.  Certainly, they are no longer together.  It is also certain that this once young woman is now a wife and mother who has no recollection of any of the aforementioned events.  Motherhood, even more than marriage, often brings forth the amnesia.

However, wherever my former teammate has gone, I am sure he is smiling today.  Smiling because he has a kindred spirit in the political arena.  No longer is it reprehensible to talk about women’s pussies in public.  You can snatch at them as you please (no pun intended) and tell the tale with pride.  Grab them right in the pussy, just like a true American would.

You know, I wondered how things were going to be made great again.  Maybe you were wondering as well.  Wonder no more, my cynical friend.  Grab yourself a pussy and join the pussy grabbing revolution.  They are everywhere and they are all ready to be groped.  And, as Trump is a Republican and thus on the side of Jesus, you cannot possibly go to hell for your pussy grabbing.  It is Jesus approved.  Why I am sure Lot took a little salty grab before leaving his wife behind.  Who wouldn’t?

As for the question posed so long ago by my vulgar teammate, I finally have the answer.

“Whose pussy is this?”

It is Donald Trump’s pussy.  And he just wants to make it great again.

 

Apparently, a lot of people are dressing up as creepy clowns.  And they are acting creepy.  If you are someone who dislikes clowns, I am sure this knowledge just affirms your general impression of them.  However, if you are a lover of clowns, you are probably a bit dismayed.  You are probably also a foot fetishist.  But that is off topic.  If there is anything I hate, it is when people get off topic.  I also hate clowns.

And those Himalayan prayer wheels.  They belong on a game show.  Joe Sherpa spins the prayer wheel.  What will he get?  A trip to Rangoon?  A new yak?  An all expenses paid day trip to the Everest Base Camp?

Tick. Tick. Tick. Buzzer.  The crowd groans.  Bad news.  You have to run up the mountain and grab a red flag before the Yeti drags you to your death.

The camera pans from the stricken face of Mr. Sherpa over to the stretching Yeti.  The Yeti is wearing running shoes and an orange sweat band over his eyes.  Mr. Sherpa’s prospects do not look good.

Historically speaking, clowns have been associated with tomfoolery such as when many of them squeeze into a tiny car.  Granted, they occasionally play a malicious prank (the eye squirt from the fake flower springs readily to mind), but even that is relatively benign in the annals of dirty deeds.  Yes, I realize John Wayne Gacy was a clown.  Even so, it is safe to say that Mr. Gacy was an aberration.  Not to mention a likely Cubs fan.

I guess the clowns people are seeing haven’t been doing much.  They are just hanging around, sometimes following people, sometimes just staring creepily.  Think mimes with looser fitting clothes.  To be honest, that is the only way I can think about mimes.  Those body suits leave little to the imagination.  A mime with an erection need say nothing.  We know what you are thinking, white faced pervert.  If there wasn’t a pane of glass there, I would knock your ass out.

While I don’t think anyone should panic, it is also important to note that dressing up as a clown in order to frighten other people is not normal behavior.  Unless it is a Sunday and you are in Cleveland.  I know that is a cheap shot.  On the other hand, I will never go to Cleveland and thus there are no ramifications.  All hail the Internet!  The giver of the courage brought on by anonymity.  Maybe I am DonaldTrumpSucksBalls568.  And maybe I am not.

I am KanyeWestSucksBalls414.  I completely cop to that.  Bring it on, Mr. Kardashian.  Pow. Pow. Pow.

Perhaps I can get myself a celebrity boxing match with Kanye.  I will even wear an orange wig when I kick his ass (to split the MO thing with the clown motif).  We are all only slaves to our art.  I’m not calling Kanye a slave.  Because that is not art.  Even the Joker wouldn’t like it.

I accidentally created a segue there.

Disclaimer:  Muffet’s Orange is not responsible for anyone dressing up as the Joker and going on a shooting spree, knifing anyone, or exposing him/herself to minors.  If someone dresses up as the Joker, gets drunk and sticks a hose up their ass while yelling “this clown needs an enema,” Muffet’s Orange will take partial responsibility.  But this has to be an independent act and not done as a celebration of one of the aforementioned crimes.

The other day my stepson had a flag football game.  He is a third grader.  It was raining to beat hell.  It was also thundering.  “Hmmmmm,” opined MO, “methinks this not to be a good idea.”  Several other parents who were standing around also voiced their misgivings.  Of course, everyone’s child was still on the field.

It could have been worse.  Most of the onlookers were sitting in metal bleachers.  Luckily, this monument to the stupidity of human beings was halted when the head of Parks and Rec decided to cancel the games.  The upshot is that everyone made it home safe and sound and able to remain in denial about the fact that they had put their nine year olds in mortal jeopardy in an attempt to beat the Hu Hot Buckeyes.

Then again, life is all about denying reality.  I guarantee there will be climate change deniers standing on top of their flooded beachfront property screaming their protests to anyone in a hovering helicopter.  “This is just a natural change in the weather,” they will yell.  “It happens all the time.”

Or they will just say that god did it and figure there was nothing anyone could have done anyway.  Well, I suppose someone could have sacrificed a virgin.  Good luck finding one of those in these decadent days.

A person can deny whatever she wishes.  This is America.  In Norway that is apparently not the case.  Those Scandinavians are notoriously cynical.  Not long ago three hundred reindeer in Norway were killed by single lightning strike.  Pow.  Pow. Pow.  Zzzzzzppppthhhhhh!  Smolder.  Expire.  Ho ho ho ho noooooooooooooo!!!!

There are pictures on the internet.  The carnage is significant.  And the poor elves.  They look so very distraught.  I hope they can get themselves together.  The world needs its X boxes.

It makes me wonder if the reindeer were cooked from the inside out.  And what reindeer taste like.  I don’t see the sense in letting them go to waste.  Rudolph steak, coming right up, Santa.

“Good,” says Santa, pouring a bit of whiskey into his morning coffee, “I never liked that little smartass.  And how in the hell did he get that stupid nose, anyway.  You talk about a genetic anomaly.  Science never could explain it to me.”

Misses Clause pats Santa gently on the forearm.  “Eat, Santa.  Eat.  Who ever heard of a skinny Santa?”

Santa looks up and sneers.  “Shut up, bitch.  I’m still grieving over the reindeer.  You have any idea how much work it is to train reindeer?  No.  You don’t.  You’ve never had a damn job in your life.”  Santa takes a sip of his Irish coffee.  “And why don’t you get rid of those stupid glasses.  You look like a damned old woman.”  Santa starts munching on his Rudolph steak.  “I think this is underdone.  This look pink to you?  Should have had him struck by lightning twice.”

Apparently, while this sort of lightning disaster is rare, it is not without precedent.  In 1939 in the state of Utah 835 sheep were killed by one strike of lightning.  Apparently, the wet ground served as a conduit for the deadly electricity, leading to their mass demise.

To this the climate change deniers say, “Baaaaa.”

Interestingly, the sheepherder was in his tent and managed to escape death.  The only explanation was that his tent had provided enough insulation to mitigate electrocution.

There was no explanation, however, for the sheep that was in his tent.  Actually, there were probably several sheep.  This was in Utah, after all.

Phew!  It’s been a while.  I’m sure you missed me.  It is okay to admit it.  The MO is all about building community.

Maybe you wonder where I had gone.  It is quite the story, I assure you.  You see, the MO was minding his own business when Pow!  Pow!  Powpowpow!!!  The MO was suddenly being whisked down a wormhole towards a strange, and decidedly melon-hued, universe.

“What in the hell is this,” I said when I finally came to a stop.  Certainly this certainly was rude.  I have other things to do rather than gallivanting around parallel universes.  (Yay for you, M-theory dorks.  It must be nice to be right for once.  Now, if you can only knock off a piece once in a while you can rule the world.  But I’m not holding my breath on that one.  Jesus, you guys are annoying.  On the other hand, we can now piss on all the string theory books.  Pissssssssss.  Back to teaching Freshman Physics, Mortimer.  Play that one on your imaginary, giant celestial fiddle.)

Anyway, this universe was like ours in most ways.  Well, except the fact that everything was orangeish.  And they had a word that rhymed with orange.  And Donald Trump is still doing reality television in their universe.  They laughed like hell when I told them.
“You must be a bunch of morons,” they chortled.

“At least we can tell carrots and dildos apart,” I replied.  We agreed that both of us have a good point.  Though, they did point out that mistakenly using vegetables for sex play is not quite as serious as allowing a moron access to the nuclear codes.  To this logic, I humbly submit.

After a while, I got used to everything being orange.  It really was no different than wearing tinted sunglasses.  The people there were really nice.  Of course, it is a lot easier to be nice in their world.  Somehow, they have managed to avoid a fair amount of shitty history.  For example, in the Orangeverse Hitler gets syphilis from a whore while he was trying to be an artist in Vienna.  By 1939 he is incapacitated.  The whole Third Reich collapsed on the eve of the Polish invasion.  Venereal Pow.  Many a Pollack in the Orangeverse owes their life to the orange vagina of some unnamed trollop.

The people of the Orangeverse also manage to avoid the great smallpox outbreak that kills two thirds of the world’s population.  In the Orangeverse, vaccination has always been mandatory.  Jenner is a damned hero.  They have statues of him everywhere, shooting a syringe into the ass of a crying child while his long, flowing locks flutter in the wind.  It is quite heroic.

Not that Jenner, dumbass.  For Christ’s sake.  And, no, I will not make that joke.  I mean it.  I have returned from the Orangeverse a better, more urbane individual.  (Ok.  I’ll meet you halfway.  Bruce Jenner, javelins, asses.  Happy?  I should be ashamed of myself.  Certainly, you should.)

Curiously, there is no Muffet’s Orange in the Orangeverse.  Yes, I found it ironic as well.  No matter.  One universe is enough.  I’m happy here.

What’s that?  No, there hasn’t been a great smallpox outbreak lately.  I suppose I should mention the Orangeverse is running a few years ahead of us.  Apparently, the universes aren’t strictly parallel.  Some universes run a little fast, some a little slow.  I guess it is just the way it is.

If you are looking for a moral to the story, there isn’t one.  Maybe vaccinate your children?  Vote Democrat?  It could be don’t run a police sweep of Viennese whorehouses when there is a potential mass murderer on the loose.

Yes, they did throw me out.  Something about being snarky and unsympathetic to others.  At least I flipped them off on my way to the wormhole.  If there is anything that epitomizes the Earthling of this universe, it is the futile and childish gesture.

Pow. Pow. Pow.

 

 

There are many things lamentable about the digital age.  The loss of personal freedom, agitating relatives on Facebook, cars weaving on the highway while their drivers text angrily about the stupidity of the bachelor.  But lost in all this is the toll that is being taken on vampires.

Think about it.  In a world dominated by the Selfie, vampires are invisible.  Their destiny does not include making duck lips and doe eyes to the camera.  No vampire will ever be captured on YouTube smashing his testicles on a rail.  Can a vampire do a Ted Talk?  No.  A thousand times “No.”  It saddens me.  The vampire has been left behind, a reluctant Luddite lost in time.

Of course, vampires have the recourse of attacking the mavens of technology and draining the of their lifeblood.  But this is feeble succor (Pun Intended!  Hahahaha. When reading, imagine the Count.).  After all, even a legion of vampires could not stem the tide of technology.  They are like the Indian, the Aborigine, the West Virginian hillbilly.  Society cares nothing for their problems.  They are the marginalized, non-existent on the pages of Facebook and the images of Snapchat.

It gets worse.  Once, vampires were at the top of the monster Ziggurat, looking down with disdain at the other supernatural beings.  But, like the Romans of yore, the dynasty of vampires began to crumble.  And to whom did the vampires pass the mantle?  Zombies.  You talk about indignity.  Zombies have no style.  They cannot even talk (or barely).  In fact, one can make the argument that zombies are merely a crude derivative, fare for an increasingly unsophisticated public.

“Brains, brains,” utter the most verbal of these dirty creatures.  And then they take a chunk out of some girl.  Vulgar.  Certainly completely lacking in style and panache.  A vampire can turn into a bat or a wolf or ethereal mist.  A zombie drops body parts like a mute leper.

Even so, the zombie is the darling of television and cinema.  I’m sure the whole turn of events makes any self-respecting vampire question what is it all for.  Second fiddle to a moaning, cannibalistic ingrate?  What an indignity.  Yet these crude creatures can be seen on Instagram, grinning luridly as they munch on slow-footed crossing guard.  Vampires?  Merely a suspicious space, not even a shadow.

This is progress?  I think not.  But such are the vicissitudes of a technological age.  Nobody cares.

Well, Buffy does.  But she is a middle-aged woman with problems of her own.  I heard she has herpes.

But I can’t say for sure.

 

It is said that “a rose by any other name doth smell as sweet.”  I don’t know what clown said this, but the upshot is that names don’t matter.  This bit of conventional wisdom is complete and demonstrable bullshit.  For example, Hitler’s last name was almost Schicklgruber.  So, instead of “Heil, Hitler!!!”  it would have been “Heil, Schicklgruber?”  Thus ends demonstration.

The reason I bring this up is because we were watching the Olympics- the 100 meter dash to be exact.  If you are not familiar, the greatest sprinter in the world is a Jamaican named Usain Bolt.  This, of course, is a great name for the world’s fastest man.  It’s like the universe just knew he was going to be fast.  Otherwise, his name would have been Todd Schmidt.  I can’t say for sure that a man named Todd Schmidt couldn’t be the world’s fastest man.  But I can’t say for sure otherwise.  Anyway, one can assume that Usain’s parents were aware of his potential speediness.  And they already had the “Bolt” part taken care of.  So it was kind of like shooting fish in a barrel.

When people get into trouble is when they give a child a name that may not be so appropriate once that child grows to adulthood.  For example, I was at a gas station once where the attendant was named Thor.  Unfortunately, this Thor was about 5’7 and 140 pounds with a thinning mullet and a neck tattoo and one of those shitty mustaches that really isn’t a mustache but wants to be.  He also had a pronounced lisp.

“Heresch your change,” Thor said.  And the heavens did not shake.

“Thanks,” I said.  “Thor.”

Thor nodded and gave me a half smile.  His mouth was full of stunted, caramel colored teeth.  He had no hammer.

“You’re welcome,” he said and then scratched at his scrawny neck.  I wondered if he had stolen the name tag from some former employee- an employee with rippling muscles and long, flowing locks.  Carrying Mjolnor.

But no other Thor did I find.  I will bet money this Thor’s last name was Schicklgruber.

I will also bet money that Thor Schicklgruber has taken his fair share of abuse from other people.  Poor Thor.  I wonder if he has ever thought of changing his name.  And if he is married.  If so, I’ll bet his wife’s name is Shania.  Shania Shicklgruber.  Hey, that is alliterative!  Much like “Heil, Hitler”.

It’s a hell of a lot better name than North West.  What kind of idiot names a kid after a compass direction?  Yipes.

Anyway, if you’re reading this Thor, I don’t want you to think your name is a curse.  It isn’t.  More like a burden that you can do nothing about.  My only advice is to not name your child after yourself.  Thor 2.  Well, maybe.  Thor, Too.  Just trying it on for size.  After all, you have survived I suppose.  I suppose you could go with Mjolnir.  That way his name would always be mysterious because no one could pronounce it.

I’m just trying to help.  At least you know what to wear for Halloween, Thor.  Todd Schmidt has no idea at all.

And that is just sad.

Poor Thor, however, is a rhyme.  From the famous poem that begins , “Poor, Thor, shut the door, he had no money for a high class whore…”

And it just goes on from there.

The reason he had no money is because he works at a gas station in Stoddard, Wisconsin.