There is a man who has been watching your children.  All year long he has been secretly observing and making detailed notes on his list.  He knows what your children are doing almost all of the time.  He knows when they are sleeping, he knows when they are awake.

This elusive monster surrounds himself with brightly dressed man-children.  He lives with these eccentric, stunted half men, in an isolated cabin.   They worship him like a deity and spend every waking hour making toys in his arctic sweatshop.  The dim witted half-lings work themselves to exhaustion and eventually death.  They sacrifice their lives at the perverse whim of this red and white clad beast.  They churn out toys invisibly painted with sorrow.  Their master is going to find a way to give these blood toys to your children, whether you want him to or not.  He is coming.

He won't announce himself when he comes.  He won't knock on the door or ask permission.  He will gain entrance any way possible.  He will climb onto your roof and force his way through your chimney.  If you don't have a chimney, he'll smash a window.  He is as silent as a cat.  He needs to watch you all sleeping.  He'll stand over you and taste your breath.  He'll run his calloused fingers across your lips.  Maybe your fingers were suckled in his mouth, maybe they weren't.

As quickly as he entered, he exits, leaving toys and ample sweat stains.  Don't complain.  Act like this is totally normal.   He is still watching you and your children and he will return next year.  Your don't want to know what he does if you are on his naughty list.

It was today, right?  I mean, I didn't miss it did I?  I meant to stay up all night to witness the dawning of the apocalypse, but I smoked too much weed and passed out on the couch watching Ugly Betty.  When I woke up this morning, everything was just like yesterday.  Where the fuck is all the Mayan snake gods and blasting volcanoes?  Where are the sacrificed mounds of innocent flesh?  Where are the fucking orgies? 

Calm down.... just need to think.  The day is still early!  Anything can happen.  Any second the earth will shudder and erupt, enveloping all of humanity into a fiery embrace.  Any ... second... now..........   .........  Hmmmm.  Goddammit!  It's just got to end!  It's just got to.....

I am so fucking screwed.  Yesterday, I told my boss to suck my dick and blasted beer shits onto his desk.  I groped the fuck out of that girl from Human Resources and I wrecked my car for the fun of wrecking it.  I thought that it wouldn't matter after today.  Oh damn... I really shouldn't have had all that unprotected prostitute sex last night. 

Once again, the Mayans have fucking failed.  I mean I knew that Y2K was bullshit, but this one really seemed like the real deal.  It just made sense, you know?  Well shit.  I've got a few phone calls to make and .... wha?...... What's up with all this blood?  Oh, that's right!  I killed and ate parts of that hooker!  HA!  Boy, do I have egg on my face.

By the time Vanessa woke up I was a half hour through a harrowing battle with my hemorrhoids, leaving the toilet bowl looking like the aftermath of a homemade abortion. I was sick of the drink, sick of the travel, sick of the violence, and sick of Vanessa. She knocked twice on the door and I barked back that I needed more time, reading the labels on all the tiny hotel bottles before flushing the toilet three or four times. Vanessa was shamelessly squatting over the ice bucket when I opened the door, unable to wait for me. The indignity was a sobering contrast to her beauty, unbecoming to her like a baby covered in obscene tattoos. Sometimes you wished you didn't know someone so well that they could piss in a bucket in front of you without concern. She was so much easier to lust for when I wasn't intimately familiar with every ingrown hair, pimple, and nasty habit she had. The hypocrisy of these critical thoughts weren't lost on me as I stood in the bathroom doorway with a handful of toilet paper up my ass to stem the blood flow.

"We have to leave today" I told her. "I don't feel safe any more. I'll drive the first leg." I almost never drove, but I figured it would keep her protests to a minimum and allow me to put some distance between us and the bar from last night. I knew that since we were strangers in this town and paid all cash the cops probably wouldn't have much to go on, but these things are hard to predict in the decent parts of america. The locals are used to a fistfight or two, but clubbing a business owner in clear view of dozens of witnesses might get noticed around here.


"Ok, but after a shower I need some laundry done. This place will do it for you! I read in the booklet on the table that they will pick up your clothes and bring them back clean for free!" in one quick motion she had her nightgown off and tossed to the floor, her big ass covered in fresh bruises from the twenty minutes of sloppy fucking I managed before passing out last night. She wore the bruises well and it made me hard, so I jerked off into the nightgown while she showered with the door open then hid the evidence in a laundry bag like an embarrassed teenager. If she saw me she would be insulted and I would have to spend the next half hour explaining that I still enjoyed fucking her.


After her shower I convinced Vanessa to wait until the next stop to do laundry, and loaded the car will all our bags and bottles. I wanted to get far on this drive, far enough that we would find ourselves deep in the desert in a town small enough to not have a jailhouse. Vanessa would be the prettiest girl in town, and I could parade her around like an owner with a first prize poodle on a leash. She finished paying our tab and climbed into the passenger seat.


"Jesus christ. Seven bottles of whiskey in three days. And we even went out one night!" she said, annoyed at the cost of all my shitty habits. "Fuck you. If my drinking isn't to your liking then I might just take all the money and leave you in the street to support yourself the only way you know how. Only here the men won't pay as well as dear old dad!" I regretted it before the words even left my mouth. Vanessa stared down into the seat and started sobbing loudly as I started the car and pulled away.


She cried for a good thirty minutes and made me feel like shit, but I couldn't apologize. I just turned the radio up and we drove for six hours straight without even talking until I saw a tourist trap motel on the outskirts of an indian reservation. There was nothing to see for miles except red dirt and trees that looked like they might have never had leaves on them. The rooms were all shaped like teepees and painted with horizontal red stripes and blue diamonds, with poles sticking out of the stucco tip for an "authentic" touch.


Vanessa looked weary as she dragged herself out of the car and followed me silently into the motel lobby house with the perpetually lit VACANCY sign hanging out front. Before Vanessa could get her purse open and ask for a room I stepped forward and said "My beautiful wife and I would like to stay in your finest teepee, sir." I put my arm around her waist and pulled her to my side, and I could feel her tremble. "Certainly. Please follow me." He stated loudly as he plucked a set of keys from a nail in the wall. "The honeymoon hut! Our finest accommodations!" As we followed him out the door Vanessa leaned into me and I felt her tears through my shirt.

The Popular Irony responses are in GREEN.

 The Popular Irony responses are in GREEN.

We now sit at the edge of times, on the precipice of the great cosmic undoing which is apparently scheduled for December 21. The news has been a long time coming and was supposedly predicted by the ancient mayan civilization when they decided to discontinue the measurement of time itself on this upcoming date, omitting any reflection of the 13th year of this new millennium from their calendar. Now one must be prepared for this momentous event if one insists on maintaining one's status as esteemed gentleman, and despite any dissent voiced by the scientific community it is important to recognize the demonstrable accuracy of mayan predictions, save the unfortunate oversight regarding a rather unpleasant visit by the spanish. So how must a gentleman approach the impending end of days? Well read on and stash this bit of knowledge under your stovepipe hat.

1.) In order to position one's self best to endure the calamity as the world is torn to pieces, the gentleman must first determine the likely location of the disastrous spark that begins the chaos. Clearly, the logical ground zero is located somewhere in the middle east, where progressive thought is tortured away and historic inspirations were gleefully cast into the sands to likewise erode into dust. Clearly the safest place would be nested within the mountain ranges of the americas, where the fires that burn the seas themselves would be unseen the longest. Make a sanctuary here, with as much brandy and scotch as can be hauled by a team of mules and oxen, save the necessary space for the requisite caviar and expertly aged beef.

2.) A recognition that exposure to the desperate dregs of humanity would be both depressing and unnecessary will serve the gentleman well, and should be considered when formulating plans your alpine estate and defenses. The use of protective canines is the way of men of means, and would leave said men unburdened by the sight and presence of humanity that otherwise provides protection. And considering the limited time one has for preparations, could be implemented with minimal effort or distress.

3.) When the outbreak of violence and insanity begin spreading through the network of peasant society, be prepared to become a likely target for their focus. Luckily the fruits of wealth and education has always served the aristocracy well, and the simple deployment of personal arms paired with the distraction one can gain from the visible abandonment of small sums of currency will suffice for the majority of your escaping needs. Even in the face of such cruel mortality the poor will abandon all thought of retribution against their perceived oppressors in the pursuit of paper that is clearly rendered useless considering the progress of events.

4.) Regarding the entertainment of any man of high birth in such circumstances, little will be required to stimulate the mind and senses. As the waves of death and suffering crash at the gates of your makeshift compound you will be pleasantly lulled to euphoria by the symphony of despair and pain that rain down on your ears from all sides, like a champagne tsunami that brings a most welcome end. And until the chaos comes calling, you have the unique distinction of being in the company of the only true terrestrial equal, your own gentlemanly presence.

Hey!  I'm gonna make me one of them little, tiny bow and arrows.

It's easy and it's good for huntin' rats and such.  Get yourself some bamboo skewers, twiney string, scissors, and tape.

Tape them tops, bottoms and middles of some bamboos.  This is good grippy tight tape.  It hold you long time.

Then you tie string on to make that bamboo stretch and bend.  Tie that shit up so it don't get unbent once you stop a' bendin' it.  But don't bend it so much that the bamboo can't bend no more!

I aim another bamboo at that there piece of paper.  Shit me!  That's like 8 feets away!  I didn't put no fletching on them arrows neither.  Fuck that shit!

One shot done gone right through almost the middle.  See that bamboo tip protrudin' like at the bottom?  I'm like that Robert Hood guy who killed them other arrow guys to free them prostitutes and such!

Next time I'ma make one of them pressure cookers!

Once we were both dressed, Vanessa in one of her favorite new dresses and me in a ratty standby shirt and jeans, we called a cab to drive us over to a local bar. Now that we had the money to take taxis we made sure to do so whenever taking a short trip. A simple traffic stop might land us in jail with just enough time for a murder arrest. We tipped generously, took a short ride to the bar, and made sure to get the driver's personal number for the return trip. If you pay well, they will always be on time.

Vanessa immediately wanted to leave for precisely the reasons that I wanted to stay. The place was filled with professional drinkers and lowlifes, with a restroom door that was hanging on by one hinge, a couple that appeared to be fucking in the back booth, a man with swollen eyes and a broken nose backwashing blood into his beer, and a bartender that swayed like a man that measured his tips in one ounce increments. My kind of place. I sat at the bar and put my jacket down on the stool next to me for Vanessa since she wore a short dress that would make her big ass peek out when she sat, and I didn't want her getting pregnant off of whatever cocktail of filth might be growing on the faux leather beneath her. She always kept the money, but it didn't bother me as she ordered herself a gin and tonic, and me a bottle of irish whiskey and a dry glass.


I poured slightly faster than I drank it, and shared some with the bartender who confided in me that I "had the prettiest girl that had ever walked into this bar, I shit you not!" Once Vanessa started catching up on drinks she began to get a little more comfortable and started absorbing the compliments from the barkeep, as women always do. I got sick of listening to them so I went and stared into the jukebox list, finally deciding on a James Brown song that I don't think I ever heard before. The music was good and loud, enough to drown out the voices in the bar. So I listened and decided on a few more tunes, queued them up and pushed my way through the broken bathroom door to awkwardly piss one-handed while balancing a glass of booze.


When I walked back out Vanessa was waiting outside the door. "I wanna leave. Let's go" she said abruptly. I explained that I wasn't even halfway through the bottle she bought me, and still had two songs left on the box to play, but I could tell there was something wrong.


"The bartender" I said. The pleading look in her eyes told me everything. She had the same look when I shot her father, the one that begged me not to do anything but secretly wished I would. "Alright, alright..." I said "There's a payphone out front, call the cabbie to take us back to the hotel. But I'm NOT leaving without the whiskey." She took a few quick steps to the door, averting her eyes from the bar. I grabbed the bottle off the bar and leaned over to the barkeep and asked "What do I owe you, guy?" He must have not heard me well over the music and said "Hey listen, buddy... she's a fucking liar. If I wanted a piece I wouldn't just grab for it, I would talk to her pimp first" and poked his finger at me. I didn't have time to think. I just swung the bottle through the air and contacted his temple with an audible "ping" like a homerun off an aluminum bat. It wasn't like in the movies, a bottle has a lot more strength than that. It bounced off his head and nearly out of my hand, but didn't break, and he went crashing to the floor behind the bar in a motionless heap.


I thought about jumping the bar and giving him some more, but I quickly became aware that everyone had stopped what they were doing and were now staring at me. So I marched out the front door to Vanessa hanging up the phone. "You didn't say anything, did you?" she asked. "About what?" I was playing stupid. "Let's go for a walk and find another bar. It's a nice night and you look too good to keep to myself." I said. "But the cab is coming!" Vanessa protested. "Fuck the cab. Come on." And down the street we went.

Hey folks, Terlet here.  Once a month, I receive a shipment of comic books and comic book related merchandise from the Discount Comic Book Service,

http://www.dcbservice.com/

.  Oh, what a lovely day it is!  Do you know why?  Because TODAY is fucking comic book day!  Oh joy!

In the last couple of years, I have been trying to wait for the trade paperbacks (collected editions) rather than purchase the monthly 22 page floppy comics.  I've got box upon box of floppys clogging up the basement.  Oh, but the trades, the trades go on the bookshelf.  So much nicer to display and access than cardboard long boxes.  I have become acclimated to waiting for 6 months to a year after the floppy is released to purchase the trade and finally read the story.

During my 25 years of comic book "collecting" I have not taken very good care of my books.  Don't get me wrong, for the first 10 years, I bagged and boarded everything.  Then I discovered that all of my 70's 80's and 90's comics weren't worth shit!  They print so many of the fucking things that there is rarely anything of any lasting value.  Once I read them, they go into a box and get shoved into the crawl space.

I know, I know, these days there is an occasional Image #1 that goes for a shit ton on Ebay.  There are some low print run comics that are unexpected successes.  There are still valuable, collectible comics being produced.  That being said, I buy what I want to read rather than what I think will be "collectible".  Sometimes to my disadvantage, I read a first print of Chew #1 in the fucking bath tub.  I thought it was going to be worth toilet paper like all of the DC and Marvel comics I buy.  Whoops!

Well, let's see what we got.

First up, the floppies.  Yes, I still buy the occasional floppy.  How would I know if I wanted to wait for the trade or not.

We got Marvel Comics - A+X.  One of the pseudo-reboot/jumping-on-point thingys for Marvel NOW.  I used to be a huge DC nerd.  I knew that universe inside and out.  Then DC eradicated all of continuity last year with The New 52!  I was excited for it, but it's not for me.  All of my copious DC knowledge is now moot.  Tim Drake was never Robin?  Fuck me.  I'm glad Marvel is not erasing their in-comic history.  Makin' me a Marvel Zombie and shit.

Then we got a He-Man spinoff comic.  The Origin of Skeletor.  Why the fuck not?

I got the DCBS exclusive cover of Judge Dredd #1.  Judge Dredd is pretty damn entertaining.  This is the first time I have seen Judge Dredd published by IDW.  It could be interesting or it could be an embarrassment. 

Next up we have the DC and Marvel half of the trade paperbacks. 

One of the only DC titles I have been looking forward to recently.  All Star Western.  This trade contains the first 6 issues of the monthly floppys.  It's motherfucking Jonah Hex in an old west Gotham City.  What more could you want?

Next is Deadpool Kills The Marvel Universe.  It is an out of continuity story that is not safe for kids.  In it, Deadpool murders the entire Marvel Universe.  Yup, that's right.  Captain America, Thor, Iron Man, Wolverine, all fucking DEAD!  I am looking forward to it.

I read the first issue of Saucer Country several months ago.  While I was not impressed by the first issue, I will buy almost anything by Paul Cornell.  He's just good.  This is about a lady running for president and being abducted by aliens, I know, absurd right!?  A woman president.

Next is all the other publishers that are not Marvel or DC.  DC and Marvel make up about 70% of the comic book marketplace.  The remaining 30% is split between Image, IDW, Dark Horse, dozens of smaller companies and Garth Ennis torture porn comics. (I love Crossed)

The Strain by Dark Horse comics.  It looks like the script is by Guillermo Del Toro but the comic is by Davip Lapham.  It's a new take on survival horror that is supposed to be a trilogy of books.  It's kinda a vampire/Zombie/disease monster comics.  Infection spreads, yadda yadda, infectious tongue stingers, etc, worldwide epidemic blah blah blah.  Looks awesome.

Then it's Godzilla.  IDW recently acquired a partnership with Toho co..  So now they are publishing Godzilla comics like a motherfucker.  Some are good, some aren't.  I don't know which camp this one falls in.  Either way it should hold me over until that gorgeous Godzilla Half Century War is released.  That shit is drawn by James Stokoe.  That shit is going to be amazing.  This one looks.... OK.

Ragemoor by Dark Horse comics looks awesome.  The interior is in black and white but it only adds to atmosphere of the book.  I read the first issue and really enjoyed it.  Creepy ancient living castle and the goings on inside.  Good fun!

And finally, The Walking Dead volume 17.  You fucking know what this is.  Yeah, it's still going on.  Truthfully, *********Spoilers**********  I'm fucking bored. 

Well that's enough of that!  I gotta get to reading.  See you next month!

It's time again for me to help our readers to vicariously experience the pale, white underbelly of shock horror cinema through my desensitized eyes. Tonight I bring you the third film in the Guinea Pig series, "He Never Dies". I am starting to develop a soft spot for shitty, gory japanese flicks, and judging by the title this one promises not to disappoint.

The opening breaks from the series' norm of establishing some kind of documentary-style realism in the story, although it is presented as fact by some english speaking presenter because, you know, white people never lie. Just ask the indians. But any illusion of reality is shattered by the format which tries to make you forget that a guy filming himself in his apartment wouldn't have fades, panning shots, or angle changes.

We greet our nameless protagonist in the act of slashing his wrists with a box cutter. But what drives a man to this kind of desperation? Glad you asked. He works in some stereotypical cubicle farm circa the early 1990's, complete with overbearing and demanding boss. His coworkers shit all over him and don't socialize, setting the scene for either a suicide case or a workplace spree-killer. But first he takes the natural approach of skipping work and becoming a shut-in. Been there. Then after deciding that his colleagues have forgotten about him, he decides to kill himself. The flick then showcases its amazing special effects by showing the blade cutting deep into his wrist, lifelike blood and sinew visible through the wound, but after some tense moments... nothing happens. The bleeding stops, and our anti-hero proclaims that he must be immune to pain, jamming his fingers into the slit and digging deeper.

Now, after discovering that you are impervious to pain and death, what would you do? Become a high-priced political assassin? A movie stuntman? A cage fighter, perhaps? Not this guy. He decides to push the limits on his body's invulnerability by severing his hand at the wrist and slicing his throat. Luckily he is able to retain some basic use of his hand after duct taping it back on, and decides to reach out to one of his work contacts to get more implements to test his physical limits with, namely some gardening shears and a hatchet, which he has delivered to him in the middle of the night.

When his former work buddy shows up he wastes no time in giving a bloody exhibition show, gutting himself hara kiri style and throwing his intestines at the screaming man until his body cavity contained only a rib cage and spinal column. Strangely, the movie ends when a woman enters the apartment to find the protagonist reduced to only a wise-cracking severed head on a table, and immediately begins cleaning the gore from the room for an unexplained reason.

Ultimately this movie was a big disappointment. I have come to expect brutal and relentless violence from this series, but this sequel was far more lighthearted and tame by comparison. Gone are the dark themes of murder and torture, replaced with self-mutilation by a character that is unable to even feel the pain. And can someone please explain to the producers that I cannot maintain an erection when you keep putting wacky hijinks in the middle of the gory scenes? Damn. I had high hopes for this one.