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Hightower, Episode 6, Part I

From The Journal of Dr. Rick Hightower, M.D., soon to be adapted into an ABC primetime drama entitled Hightower:

“Your honor,” I said, “I was frankly too busy being hit on by hot babes to notice every little detail. The bottom line is that man belongs in jail.” I was in court, testifying as an expert medicine practicing secret crime fighter, which I get called upon to do a lot.

“I rest my case,” I said, and left.

Back at our penthouse hideout, V.J. was busy with his cloning experiments. “Man, V.J.,” I said, “why don’t you clone some hot chicks? That way there would be more hot chicks, ones that would look to us as gods…”

“Hightower,” V.J. said, “I’m not sure that’s ethical. By the way, have you been drinking?”

“I was in court, buddy,” I said. “So yes, after that I had something to drink, because I hate going to court. Or going to the police to help them with boring paperwork stuff. Or showing up to my job as a hot male doctor in a Manhattan hospital. If only there was a way to have a stand-in do all of that for me…” Just then it hit me. “I’m starving,” I said. “Let’s get some food.”


As we ate some Domino’s new Artisanal Pizza, I said, “You know, I’ve been thinking a lot about what I said before about how you should clone me.”

“When did you say that?” asked V.J.

“Before we got pizza,” I said. “You should start paying attention. Anyway, I say it’s a go. You should clone me so that I can send my clone to do all of the boring stuff that gets in the way of the awesome stuff. When do we start?”

“Hightower,” V.J. said, “I’m not sure I can do that. I mean…it would be risky.”

“Listen buddy,” I said, “I believe in you. What could go wrong?”


V.J. unstrapped me from the cloning machine. “There he is,” V.J. said, pointing to my clone in the other part of the machine, “have a look.”

I checked him out in a totally straight way. “Looks good, in a straight way, “ I said.

“That’s not all,” said V.J. “I’ve fitted him with a special chip so that we can track his movements and give him basic directions. We can’t have him getting into trouble.”

“Or falling into the wrong hands,” I said.


“Man V.J.,” I said, “these last few weeks with my clone doing all of the boring stuff for me has been great. When he gets back from court in a few minutes, let’s remind him that he can’t wear leather pants on the witness stand. Speaking of which, shouldn’t he be back by now?”

Just then, the phone rang. V.J. answered. “Sure, he’s right here,” he said into the phone, and handing it to me said “it’s Commissioner Kenner. He sounds upset.”

“Commissioner,” I said, “what can I do for you?”

“You can start by explaining exactly what that little stunt was in the courtroom, Hightower!,” the Commissioner yelled.

“I, uh…”

“That was some act you pulled, testifying that Tony “The Hammer” Santucci was an innocent man, and exposing our undercover agent! You’d better start explaining yourself!,” the Commissioner kept yelling.

“I, uh…”

“You’d better be in my office in…” just then I heard yelling and shots on the other end of the line. “Hightower? But… What the…NOOOO!” the Commissioner said before there were more shots and the line went dead.

“I didn’t like the sound of that,” I said to V.J.

“Then you’re not going to like this,” V.J. said. “Your clone is offline. I can’t get a signal.”

“Sounds like I’m out of control.”


V.J. and I stayed at the penthouse hideout working on a plan. “It seems like my clone has fallen into the wrong hands, but whose?” I asked. “Who would try to turn a clone against the person he was cloned from?”

“Well,” V.J. said, I’ve been searching the internet, and it looks like the Benedetti crime family are the number one clone thieves in Manhattan.”

“The mafia,” I said, “of course. I’m always testifying against them. We’ll need to come up with a plan.”

“This seems risky,” V.J. said, “maybe we should take the clone out.”

“We have to find him first, which means that I have to go undercover. Double undercover.”



Heh Heh

The Lakeville High School Courant

Thursday, October 27, 2011

“Uhhhh, heh heh”
By Lisa Stansby, 11th Grade Staff Editor

Tonight marks the return to television for Beavis and Butthead, an old show on MTV that there was a movie about, too. MTV must be thinking the 90s are back or something, because why else would they be putting this lame show back on the air? First of all, no one I know watched this show when it used to be on. Second of all, doesn’t MTV realize that times have changed way too much for shows like this to be funny?

For instance, everyone I know is not going to watch this show. And if you look at Twitter, it’s all like “OMG, LOLLLLZ, Bevis n Buthed is lame” and “@MTV pls show more teen momz not beaivs butthead showz #notwatchin.” I think MTV should pay more attention to what kids are like now before they put shows on that we are not going to watch, anyway.

Beavis and Butthead are from when there were no cell phones, so it’s obvious why they are just hanging out on their couch and being stupid. There was no YouTube or internet when this show was on, so what did they talk about you ask? They made fun of videos, mostly, because old videos were not as good as videos now, so it wasn’t even that funny. So they know they can’t make fun of new good videos so are going to watch “Jersey Shore” and “Teen Mom” and make fun of them. So, that’s exactly what we do. Why is MTV putting on a show about two guys from the 90s doing what we do?

In closing, I don’t think that any of my friends will be watching “Beavis and Butthead” tonight because it is a show that is not something kids can relate to today at all. Maybe if they could have more stuff from now it would be better or something, but kids now are too different to watch a show that was famous in the 90s with 90s things that no one has today or aren’t invented yet then, too.

So Beautiful

Song: So Beautiful
Artist: GhostOfTyrone
Video: GhostOfTyrone

An Open Letter to All the Ladies Out There From the Herpes Monkey

Ladies, ladies.

Listen to me. Man, you are all so beautiful, but that’s not the point. It’s just that you are all looking fabulous, really fantastic. Like candy that this monkey would love to nibble on. Delicious, beautiful candy. I’m getting all hot and bothered, but let me assure you, it’s not from any sort of herpes. Baby dolls, I don’t know where that crazy rumor came from, but let me set the record straight: There ain’t no herpes in this Herpes Monkey. There’s just an exhausted, compassionate and emotionally vulnerable primate behind these eyes, goddesses.

I could go on all day and all night long about how sizzling you’ve got me right now, again, not from herpes B, but I need to ask you all a big favor. I really need somewhere to cool my jets. Open your doors to me, you delightful angels of pleasure, and I will open your eyes to pure ecstasy. I am schooled in so many languages of love, mind you, not from the sort of careless promiscuity that could lead to a horrible, crippling and potentially fatal case of herpes B… what was I saying? Not important. Let’s talk more about you, because I love listening to you. All of you. Any of you. Let me in and I promise, you can tell me, the Herpes Monkey, anything at all. We can lay down on some satin sheets, and you can let it all out while I meticulously groom you. How does that sound? It would sound a lot better coming from your angelic lips. I feel so comfortable with all of you. There’s nothing between us, certainly not herpes B.

Girls, ladies, women, all of you fine females, I’m going to level with you: I am a monkey in need. Not of any sort of medical attention, I assure you. I just need a warm bed and an open heart. I’ve been out here in the woods of Ohio for days now, and it’s no place for a monkey. I feel like a sailor lost at sea, looking for gorgeous mermaids, good lord I am so smoking hot right now. From thinking about you.

Babies, the love I am willing to give to you is crawling around under my skin like ants made out of steel wool, all trying to exit through my penis when I urinate. I know you feel that way, too, because it’s a perfectly normal, healthy way to feel love. Feel it with me, any of you. I will give you all that I am, which of course, does not include herpes B. I don’t even know how this whole crazy story got started. Think about it: how are these crazy men so sure that I have herpes? Did my empty cage say “herpes”? Am I wearing a tee-shirt that says “I have herpes?” Am I covered in oozing, disgusting sores that cake my fur with blood and puss, which I can barely see through my milky, bloodshot eyes? No, no and yes. But the sores and the eyes are not from herpes B. And my fingernails are falling out because of something else entirely: Heartbreak.

Take me in ladies, any of you. Take me into your homes, take me into your hearts. Take me to somewhere I can eat, and I will eat and love you at the same time. Near the fireplace, preferably. As long as we have some ice packs ready, because as I have said, I have love fever. Which is nothing like herpes.

There is no way that herpes can burn you to the point of internal blistering, constant diarrhea, and deafness. Only love can do that, and I am in love with all of you.

Warmest Regards,

Herpes Monkey


Artist: GhostOfTyrone & Some Guy
Song: Movement
Video: GhostOfTyrone

Catching Up With...Zoo Puma

Hello everyone. I wanted to take a break from my busy schedule of answering your letters, giving out advice, and contemplating suicide to give you a little look at the sorts of emails I receive from my readers. No, not all of the emails I receive are petitions for advice. Not surprisingly, since you humans are vindictive, vicious bastards, some of the emails I get attempt to further mock me. That is, mock me beyond the extent that I am already mocked simply by being locked in a cage and stared at by you disgusting, yet delicious, humans all day. At least, I think you’re trying to mock me. You see, God skimped a bit on my frontal cortex in order to beef up my “tearing the shit out of humans” attributes.

Anyway, let’s check out what I’ve been sent today.

Hey Zoo Puma. Have you seen this? Not sure if you missed it, but the movie Zookeeper came out on DVD Tuesday. I was surprised you weren’t in it! I love reading your column. You should be in movies!Here’s the trailer.


Gee, somehow I missed this movie… I can’t even fucking think right now. At least this movie probably prevented its audience from coming down to an actual zoo… Was that real? Was that movie even real? Was this some clip from Funny Or Die? Would Kevin James even… nope. Holy shit, there it is on iMDB.

How is it that you humans always manage to correctly predict that carnivorous dinosaurs, even animated ones, are going to fuck you up, but fail to realize that if given the chance, freed zoo animals would totally… I’m crying. I’m actually crying.

Look, I can totally understand escapism. Believe me, I get it. So let me close my eyes and picture Anytown, USA, where down at the multiplex, we’ve got 50 idiots in one theater cheering for Kevin “Bears Are Offended That ‘Teddy Bear’ Has Been Co-Opted To Describe Fat, Out of Shape, Bumbling, Idiotic Humans” James to find true love with the help of his fucking captive animals, and right next door you’ve got another 50 idiots cheering for former captive/recently escaped CGI chimpanzees and gorillas to totally bring about the downfall of humanity in Rise of the Planet of the Apes… what the fuck is wrong with you people?

Here’s some escapism for you…here’s how I’ll cope with…this. I’ll imagine a little “switcheroo”, wherein the audiences of these two movies get tricked into seeing the other. “Yes, there you go Johnson family. Theater Three on the right. Your two young children will love it.” “Hey dudes, yep, James Franco is the bomb, this should be awesome. Have fun getting stoned tonight and totally rehashing the err of humanity’s ways after seeing them so vividly…yep, Theater Two, on the left.” Oh no! Something’s wrong! The wrong movie is showing. Emergency! The doors are locked! Let us out! THERE’S A PUMA IN HERE!!!

Screw that, I’d just lock ‘em in and show Faces of Death. And then eat them, of course. Let's open another email...

Zoo Puma, have you seen this? It’s viral right now. Awesome. A turkey totally attacks a news reporter. I had no idea turkeys were like that. He must have had rabies! Anyway, love the column. Peace.


Does anyone know if it’s true whether you can die just by holding your breath? Will that work? Or will I just pass out and wake up with a headache, like when it's "Zoo Dentist" time?

That shit just blew my mind. I mean, I’ve had you humans all wrong. I figured that if you were so successful at capturing pumas, and lions, and literally everything, things you fucking eat wouldn’t freak you out. Who is this lady? And oh yes, this is definitely news. I would put it under the headline: “It’s Official: Devolution. Back to the Caves for Us.”

Now, I know that God didn’t give you sabre-like teeth, or knife-like claws, or the ability to run fast, or to be all that strong, or really anything except huge frigging brains… SO WHY CAN THIS LADY NOT FIGURE OUT THAT IT IS A FUCKING TURKEY CHASING HER, AND EXACTLY WHAT THAT MEANS? I know, I’ve heard your stories: “Oh, oh, geese are totally nasty if you mess with them. They bite!” Really? Something with wings for arms and webbed feet chooses to bite you when you fuck with it? Stop fucking with it then. “That lady didn’t do anything to that turkey” you say? Sure. That was the turkey’s house in the middle of the forest it lives in. Those are the turkey's children's toys in the yard. It's the turkey's own children that throw rocks at it. That was a turkey mailman driving the turkey mail truck in the turkey fucking street that the turkey almost dies in every day. To sum up: every single animal hates you, except for your stupid dogs.

Lady, kick the damn turkey. Better yet, use your opposable thumbs and pick the damn thing up and rip its head off. I'm sure you've totally been working out at the gym, so it's time to find out how the eliptical machine scores in the "effective upper body excercise" department. "But I don't want manly arms" you say? Ok, well, get used to being terrified of turkeys you pathetic loser.

I might be wrong here, but I’m pretty sure it was well before the advent of firearms that you humans took to eating flightless birds. The “thanks” in “Thanksgiving” doesn’t denote “Thank God for the fucking muskets we’ve recently invented. Now we can finally eat some turkey! And shoot Indians from a safe distance!” It only applies to the Indians part.

The only upside to all of this is that it is literally a matter of time before we get video of some idiot narrating his own death as he’s eaten alive, because he’s too much of an idiot to put the camera down, shut the fuck up, and take care of some business. Or just drop the camera and run, which is a more likely outcome from you pussies...

“I can’t throw my camera...” I wonder what the Indian word was for that…

Dear Zoo Puma

Dear Zoo Puma,

My friends have been giving me a really hard time lately about how upset I am over the passing of Steve Jobs. I’ve dealt with bullying in the past, and I’m starting to get the same feelings of helplessness all over again. This is all made worse by the great sorrow I’m feeling over the loss of such a great man. Any advice?

Hyannis, MA


I can relate. In fact, I think being in a zoo is a lot like being an Apple customer, as zoos aren’t exactly “open source” if you know what I mean. I’m locked into this place on a “rest of my fucking life contract”, if you follow me. I’ll bet if Google opened a zoo, I’d get a little bit more room to move around, but they’d probably be a little less careful with my privacy data. And I’d still be in a zoo. You just can’t win, can you Chad?

I guess I’d feel a little strange if my handlers died, though I’d probably end up partially devouring their corpses to deal with my grief. Also, by “grief” I mean “joy”, because I hate every human. Of course, I deal with my handlers every day, and even though they don’t really give a shit about me on a personal level, we do at least know each other. If the owner of this zoo died, or if the inventor of the electrified pole I get jabbed with died, I’d try to choke on my own tongue if I found myself getting upset about that.

I do have to admit, though, I did have a bit of a soft spot for the monumental douche bag that was Steve Jobs. He was actually kind of puma-like, in a pussy human sort of way. By all accounts he was a total dick head, he like to wear black (like the most badass of us pumas do), and I suppose that denying your child exists is as close as you humans can get to eating the ones you feel threatened by, so there you go.

As for your question, it sounds to me that you deserve a little bullying, Chad. I can’t imagine that any partially furred, marginally predatory mammal would enjoy the sight of one of their own sobbing like a pussy because someone they never met got their ass kicked by an illness, so it sounds like you should get used to being made fun of, loser.

I’m proud of you for writing this letter, Chad, because from the sound of it, you can’t do anything right.

The Zoo Puma

Dear Zoo Puma,

The Occupy Wall Street protests that have sprung up in New York and around the country have really been getting a lot of media coverage, but despite all the exposure, I have no idea what these people are protesting, or what they want. Do you have any idea what this is all about?

Charlotte, NC

Hi Janice,

Glad to hear democracy is still in action out there in the world beyond my cage. I’m a staunch believer in freedom, so I hold plenty of little protests of my own. Sometimes I won’t eat, sometimes I menace my handlers, and sometimes I just refuse to come out of my little fake rock shelter. Those protests all pretty much end up the same way, with me being abused, and usually I face some sort of penalty afterwards, like less food or no toys, etc.

Seeing as you humans are so brilliant at everything, I can assume that these Wall Street protesters have clear demands, and are not taking any shit from their handlers. It’s not like you humans allow yourself to be treated like animals, and herded in whatever direction your handlers choose for you. No, you are the mighty apex predators of Earth. I’m confident that after years of studying myself and other predators in the wild and in captivity, you humans have learned that those with the upper hand generally really respond to the word “please.” That’s how you climbed the food chain, after all: your manners, and a sharp eye for obeying and respecting the law.

It’s like when I was about to eat a human back in the days before I was captured: I actually got a little kick out of the ones that begged for their lives. “Oh, you don’t want to die?” I would find myself thinking. “Why didn’t you say so before you walked in the forest I live in with no protection from pumas whatsoever? I’m sorry I’ve bitten you. Please, walk away. I’ll just go find something else to eat. I know I’m a puma, and I eat things like you, but since you asked so nice, I’ll do whatever you want.”

In fact, I’m surprised that pumas went along eating people for as long as we did. My ancestors told of stories where whole villages of people would hold huge demonstrations, banging on drums and wailing for nights on end, just to ask us cruel and mighty pumas to spare them. I mean, those humans even made signs and got all dressed up. How could that not have worked? The same reason that made me eat those beggars without a second thought, Janice: I’m a fucking puma, and you humans are generally weak little pussies.

Do you know which humans I didn’t eat? The ones with spears or guns. I saw them coming, and I thought “no way. I’d better use my amazingly effective natural camouflage for the not-so-badass reason of hiding before I get shot.” It made me kind of long for the olden days, long before me, when my sharp puma teeth were no match for anything you humans could toss at me. Then you invented the spear, and we changed our diets, or went extinct. I think you humans refer to the study of this topic as “Liberal Arts”, so as long as you put your faith in those Wall Street protesters; you should be in good shape.

Who knows, maybe those protesters are upset about the weather. I hear that those old villagers used to get pretty pissed off about that, too.

The Zoo Puma


As echoes fill the darkened streets,

And children search for tasty treats

Another Halloween is here,

But this will be a somber year.

For children wonder everywhere,

“Where’s the man who beat Ric Flair?

Where’s the spirit of this night,

With those glasses which there was no way anyone could see through, right?

Who will take us from house to house,

Besides our parents obviously, blah blah, uh, mouse?”

So now as Halloween moves on,

Without the man it stood upon,

The children must find another wrestler

To be the King of Halloween.

And once the kids have forgotten Randy,

They’ll go on in their search of candy.

But all the elders will recall

Randy Macho Man Savage was the only reason there was ever a Halloween in the first place.

So as you dress up this Halloween please remember,

Don’t dress up like some idiot

The Macho Man wouldn’t have stood for any of that crap.

Every Picture Tells A Story

Yesterday’s post pointed out that heavy metal band Manowar uses a brief synopsis of the film Conan the Destroyer to open their online biography. As discussed in the post, this is an unusual tactic, but it got me to wondering…

“At the end of Turner & Hooch, Officer Turner surveyed the remnants of the criminal drug ring he had just broken up. Tired and satisfied, his thoughts turned to his partner, Hooch. Turner knew he could not have accomplished his ultimate dream without the help of his smaller, voiceless companion.

Darryl Hall first met John Oates in…”

“Ewok music playing in the background, the heroes of Return of the Jedi knew that they had saved not only a planet, not just a solar system or two, but the entire galaxy. This rag tag group of outcasts had transformed themselves from several uniquely talented individuals into the most powerful force for change in the known universe.

Bono, The Edge, Larry and Adam possess this force. ..”

“Throughout the Transformers movies, all sorts of flashy, hi tech movie stuff is happening all over the place. All the ingredients are there for a movie, and a movie happens. It happens thanks to the main elements of movie making: money and technology. It works so well since so much money and so much technology went into producing it.

Boom Boom Pow. Three words, 4 individuals. Music. The Black Eyed Peas."

“Scarface is literally the dopest movie ever. Every line in that movie is dope, Tony Montana is the baddest dude on the Earth, and seriously dog, I don’t even know why they made other movies after that. I’m all grown up and shit, but yo I still want to grow up to be Tony Montana.”

Welcome to the online directory of hip-hop biographies…”

Who's the Boss?

“At the end of the film classic Conan the Destroyer, the title character sits on his throne. Though his thick muscles bear the scars of his many hard fought battles, his steel-eyed gaze over his vast kingdom shows how proud and mighty he remains. His enemies vanquished, the challengers to his throne dispatched, it is time for the triumphant king to rest.”

And so opens the online biography for the band Manowar; their own biography on their own website that they themselves authored. Most band biographies start out with where the band met (always during or just after art university if the bands are British, and usually in some sort of basement party for American bands), their influences, etc. Not Manowar. Manowar says “we’re Conan the Destroyer, we have a throne, and we had some enemies. The enemies are gone, and the throne is still here under our collective, overly muscled buttocks.” That’s some pretty impressive stuff. Mind you, this is the band who, in the same biography, reminds you that they were the first metal band to introduce the elements of swordplay and sorcery into their cover art and lyrics. Conan would be pleased. But there is a problem.

The original, co-founding bassist for this band was Ross Friedman. Now, Ross understood he needed a nickname. Unfortunately, Ross took the traditional “what rhymes with…” approach to nicknaming and ended up with “The Boss.” Ross The Boss. One of the men in the picture above (yes, Manowar actually were/still are totally ripped and wore loincloths) is Ross The Boss. That’s just awful. It’s not bad for, perhaps, a funk band, maybe a “Grand Funk” band, or, I don’t know, Bruce Springsteen, but this is Conan the Destroyer we’re talking about here. Not “Conan the Good at Swords.” With this said, wouldn't it have made sense for Ross "The Boss" to change his name to "Dragon Floss" Ross upon his founding of Manowar? Again, every band can have a boss. Springsteen is “the boss” (in no way do I mean that literally. If I met him, I would say to him "You sir, are not the boss of anything except crap and Jann Wenner. I say good day to you sir!"). But how many bands have a backstory that involves their bassist surviving multiple dragon attacks? (Which, if you think about it, is the only way for a living person to obtain the the nickname Dragon Floss…see where I’m going now?) I’m pretty sure none of them do, and that is patently ridiculous.

The fact that there are no issues of Kerrang, or Hit Parader, or Circus - whatever - with "Dragon Floss" Ross explaining how he has repeatedly, despite great the peril, climbed the hidden Mountain of Molten Blood, where years ago he discovered the world's last remaining dragons guarding the Ancient Texts of Odin's Muses... I'm telling you, a lot of kids are shoving bad metal music, booze and crystal meth into the "that" sized holes in their lives. Ross really let us down on that one.

Part of me wants to write Manowar a letter, explaining how they should listen to me, because I’m probably the only person who’s not a current or former member of the band that sees himself as a Viking in every single one of his own memories. That’s called “cred” when you’re talking Manowar. But it’s too late. Ross “The Boss” has long since left Manowar, and we’re stuck with the story of Ross Friedman meeting some other dude at a Black Sabbath concert and forming Manowar. Not the worst backstory, not the best, but unless that Black Sabbath concert was played in a volcano of molten blood for an audience of ancient dragons perched upon the giant, iron clad texts written by the giant, iron clad chicks who served as Odin’s muses…

Once again, Manowar, you have let me down, you have let yourselves down, and most importantly, you’ve let Conan down.

New Reality

“Would there be anything I could do to convince you?” I asked, as Dr. Hutchins leaned back in his chair.

“I do not believe there is anyone who can convince me of anything that is plainly not true,” he said, beginning to stand. “I must admit I’m quite saddened that my staff has allowed this meeting to take place. I do not enjoy having my time wasted. Please show yourself out, and do not attempt to contact me again.”

“Dr. Hutchins,” I said as he began shuffling through a stack of manila folders on his desk, “what if I were to take you with me on my next expedition? What if I could show you, first hand, the results of my progress?”

He paused a moment, began to speak, thought better of his response, then spoke in a calm, measured tone. “Young man, you expect me to accompany you to Papua New Guinea, trek to the Highlands region, and visit isolated tribes so that you can illustrate to me the progress you’ve made in turning rural, primitive tribesmen into polished, sophisticated bloggers? And you expect to do this without having presented me with a shred of evidence that you yourself have even been to these villages; not a journal, no video evidence, not even a stamped passport? At the risk of sounding impolite, I must insist that you leave my office immediately.”

“Fine,” I replied, “but you will regret this day.” With that, I walked over to the large oak door that separated his office from the lobby. I pushed the door fully open, remaining inside and motioning for him to look through the doorway.

He gasped.

Six Guinean tribesmen stood in the lobby, each of them dressed in traditional warrior attire. The two youngest men held the secretaries at spear point, while the remaining four guarded the front entrance.

“Now,” I said to Hutchins, “would you like to reconsider my offer?”

Hutchins, a man of advanced age who had rarely encountered a situation that his money could not remedy for him, stood stunned for several moments. “What in God’s name is going on here?” he finally asked. Summoning a bit of gentlemanly courage, he declared “Order those men to lower their spears.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” I said. “Not until you agree to fund our blog.”

Growing flustered, Hutchins angrily shouted “Once again I will tell you, I do not have the slightest idea what a ‘blog’ is, nor do I see the need for this sort of animalistic behavior. Now, if you do not unhand those young women, I will…”

The youngest of the tribesmen impaled one of the secretaries with his spear, and she fell to the floor awkwardly, grasping at the shaft of the weapon. The second secretary shrieked, lunged forward, and was similarly executed. Hutchins froze, his spine going rigid, his face turning white.

“Now, Dr. Hutchins,” I said, moving closer to him “I will ask you another question, and this time I expect a quick and honest response.” I moved closer still, until our faces nearly met. Leaning towards him, and downward slightly to account for his short stature, I whispered “have you ever seen Scare Tactics?”

Hutchins, wishing to comply with my request for a prompt response, stuttered nervously, unable to form a coherent thought.

“Your secretary, Judy set you up,” I said, and with that the two secretaries rose from the floor, laughing. The tribesmen began to clap, and a soundman exited the lobby closet, equipment slung over his shoulder, also clapping.

I embraced Hutchins with one arm, and with the other I pointed towards the large mirror over his office fireplace. “There’s a camera right behind that mirror,” I said, “and another right here, in the button of my shirt.”

I felt Hutchins lean towards me, as if to return my embrace, but realized he was falling. Bearing his weight against my chest, I lowered him to the ground. He was unresponsive. “Get help!” I yelled. “Shut off the cameras!”


As we wheeled the television into the cramped hospital conference room, Mrs. Hutchins sat hunched in her chair. Down the hall, in the intensive care unit, her husband clung to life. Her attorney motioned to me, and I pressed “play” on the console.

After watching the video, Mrs. Hutchins dabbed several tears from her cheeks with a handkerchief. “I don’t understand any of this,” she whispered.

“I’m sorry?” asked her attorney.

“None of this, I don’t understand you people,” she said.

Getting up and walking to the door, I said, “Well, I can understand what this has been a rough day for you. Are you scared you might lose your husband?”

“What sort of… how dare you ask me such a thing!” she shrieked.

“You shouldn’t be,” I said, opening the door. “Your husband set you up,” and in walked Dr. Rogers Hutchins, clapping.

As Americans rejoice with the news that Amanda Knox will be returning to Seattle following the success of her appeal, Italians were horrified to learn that her evil, glowing spectre will remain in Italy to devour naughty children as they sleep.

Knox, 26, was released from custody today after a lengthy trial and appeals process, all of which has left her evil, glowing spectre quite upset, and hungry for vengeance in the form of naughty Italian children.

"Children and parents should be on high alert," remarked Perugia police lieutenant Luciano Comodi, "we are fairly certain this spectre intends to haunt us for many years to come."

Mothers took the spectre's announcement as an opportunity to remind their children to avoid mischievous behavior, and to properly behave at home, at church, and at school. The Vatican released a statement warning that teenagers should remain extra vigilant in resisting their lustful impulses, as Knox's spectre would surely punish those who give in to sin of any form.

The evil, glowing spectre of Knox's codefendant, Raffaele Sollecito, could not be reached for comment.

Writer's Block

Nearly every day, I try to conjure up some half-funny idea and flesh it out into something worthy of being posted on this blog. Sometimes I have some fun with Photoshop, sometimes I write a little story, and other times I do something a little different. Since hardly anyone reads this stuff, I shouldn’t really care whether or not it’s any good, and I certainly shouldn’t spend so much energy trying to post fresh content on a daily basis.

But I do.

So because of this, there is a new day in my life that I dread: the days I have writer’s block. Writer’s block, for those who’ve never experienced it, is like insomnia. Generally, around the time that I would begin writing, I find I can’t. “No problem,” I think, “I’ll distract myself and come back to it later. I’m sure I’ll think of something.” Except hours pass and nothing comes.

That’s when I can feel desperation creep in, riding on the backs of ideas like “I’ll write the journal of an alcoholic witness protection program job assigner who keeps sending people to work as dangerous animal trainers” or “what happens when someone asks Dane Cook to be funny?” The ideas pass by like counted sheep, each one getting a little weirder and a little more impossible to write about.

Eventually, I give up. Perhaps I’ll manage to produce something, but it’s not of a quality I am satisfied with. For instance this piece, which I have now written and you have now read. Really, there is no reason for me to place this little piece of personal information on the internet, and there is no reason for you to read it. But that has happened. And so it goes.

To be honest, I started writing this little bit of nothingness to see if it would invoke a plausible idea for a post. Instead, it has led me to the thought of “how could I explain this phenomenon of ‘blogging writer’s block’ to a group of Guinean Highland tribesmen?” The answer is: I could not. They would simply shoot me with an arrow or hack me to death with crude machetes. At least that’s one possibility. Another possibility is that they would be incredibly friendly to me, and bring me to a lavish feast where a ceremonial pig was slaughtered and eaten. The pig would be delicious, and after dinner, they would carry me around in a throne, like the Ewoks did with C3PO in Return of the Jedi.

In the morning, horns would sound, letting us know that a British journalist was approaching, because British journalists are always snooping around the Highlands of New Guinea. Maybe the journalist could give me an idea to write about. But it would probably be about travel, and travel blogs really suck.


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