Cheap and Easy Home Repairs Guaranteed to Increase Value

Host: Hello, and welcome to another episode of Improve or Move!, I’m your host, Bob Villa. Today we’re here at 84 Glyde St., in Toledo, Ohio. This three-bedroom, two-bathroom ranch-style house is 1,500 square feet and is situated on 2 acres of land in the prime, on-the-rise neighborhood of Prizraki Quarter, on the west side of Toledo.

This home was built in 1956 and seems to be situated above not just one, but 14 Indian Burial Sites, six Pet Semataries, nine burned down insane asylums, four orphanages where the children all died from radon poisoning*, two interdimensional Celtic portals (one straight to Hell, one to where the Cenobites live), 12 alien anal-probing encounters and is also the location of where Kanye proposed to Kim.

And yet, even with all that territorial bad juju, the family that moved in two years ago, the Maitlands, had not truly experienced anything paranormal until, well, just a few months ago, isn’t that right Adam?

Adam: That’s right Bob. About four months ago. We started to experience some spooky occurrences: doors opening, windows closing, chairs stacking themselves in impossible ways. You know, the base level stuff. We asked our neighbors if they had heard our screams of terror at night or experienced strange happenings themselves. They told us to just relax, it’s normal around here and it’ll run its course soon.

Bob: Did it?

Adam: Hell no Bob! Things just escalated. First our reflections in the mirror tried chocking us every time we brushed our teeth or hair. Next, the refrigerator tried to eat us. Then the elevator started opening its doors and gallons upon gallons of blood would come pouring out. This is a one-story house Bob, where’d the elevator come from?!

Bob: Was there anything else?

Adam: Oh sure. There was the knock knock…

Bob: Ah yes. Knocking on walls and whatnot is very typical of these types of situations.

Adam: Not knocking Bob. Knock knock jokes! Do you know how many times you can hear about interrupting cows or how “orange you glad I didn’t say banana” before you go insane? The jokes were so bad, they made the maggots the spirits put in our food seem subdued in comparison.

Bob: Maggots are a great source of protein. Anyway Adam, let me give you a quick rundown on what we’re going to be doing to your house this episode. First, we’re going to take out your cement driveway. We’re instead going to replace it with gravel made out of pulverized stone from the dungeons under the Tower of London. Those medieval cells were consecrated by Pope Pullum Stercore the Cowering. Let’s go over there now and check it out.

Hi Faustus, what can you tell us about this new driveway?

Faustus: Well Bob, we imported this gravel all the way from England. This stone has absorbed the suffering and pain of hundreds of guilty and innocent souls throughout the generations and as such makes a great “roach motel” for ghosts. Spooks check in, but they don’t check out.

Bob: Great! And over here Adam you’ll see that we adding Inca-era gargoyles to the eaves of your house. See how they’re spread out every 6.66 feet and basically circle the whole house? You’ll get excellent 360-degree protection with these babies. The glyphs inscribed on the base of each one is a powerful incantation. These grotesqueries will ward off anything from a low-ranking wandering specter, to a poltergeist, to little drowned white girls, all the way to demons from the sixth circle of Hades.

Adam: Why do they all look like horribly-visaged succubae, ready to strip the flesh from our bones?

Bob: They actually look like Kesha, and that’s to scare away solicitors and Jehovah’s Witnesses.  

Adam: Cleaning the gutters is going to suck now.

Bob: Come around to the backyard so we can show you what else we’re working on…

Worker: Bob! Bob! We’ve got a slight emergency over here by the air conditioning unit.

Bob: What is it, Gus?

Gus: As you know, instead of functioning as it should, the AC unit has been blowing the feted, putrid air of a thousand bloated, rotting corpses throughout the house. Well, the Voodoo High Priest who was supposed to come today and bless the unit with spells, chicken heads and incense, missed his flight and according to Santeria law, he’s not allowed to board another plane until after a goat has been sacrificed during the third full moon in one month. And we’re just not budgeted for that.

Bob: Okay, we’ll go with the backup. Bring out the Tibetan Shaman and we’ll set up the Mandalas. Easy fix!

Well, that’s about it today on Improve or Move!. Tune in next time when we install, for the Maitlands, a breakfast séance nook, remodel Adam’s study into a library to house grimoires to fight the forces of malevolence and we crank up the Holy Water Hot Tub out back. Remember: the Power of Christ compels you to have a good week. Bye everybody!

*The silent killer!

First Days Shouldn’t Turn Out Like This…

My alarm went off at 5:30 am. It was still dark, but I wanted to make sure I was clearheaded and prepared for my first day of work at Biff Co. Of course, I needn't had worried, sleep wasn't really an option. Too nervous. So instead, I just ended up just reading Jerry Van Dyke's autobiography: Don't Forget I Exist Too.

Fearing my lack of sleep would come to bite me in the ass later, I injected 300 CCs of caffeine straight into my jugular. A quick bowl of muktuk for energy and protein, (yeah, I know it’s a dessert, but I wanted to treat myself) and I was out the door.

I didn't have to be there until 9, and it was only a 15-minute trip, but I left my tree house apartment at 7:45 am just to make sure I didn't get lost and because I wanted to get a good spot. Plus, the bosses always like to see employees’ cars in the parking lot early, Never hurts to get in those brownie points.

Imagine my surprise when I got to the lot and the guard told me I couldn't park there because it was full. I looked through my front windshield and through the wire fence in front of my car. The place was so barren it looked ripe for two gunfighters to have a duel at any moment.

"Ummm, it looks completely empty to me, ma'am," I said.

"No, it isn't. Move along," she replied.

Maybe it was the lack of sleep, or the early hour, but my brain couldn't fathom her words. I looked again. It was somehow even more empty the second time, like some kind of Bermuda Triangle of parking. In the end, I just turned around and drove aimlessly until I could find a spot. I must have been in the "Little Cybertron" area of the city, because both sides of the street were occupied by vehicles. Busses, cars, hovercrafts, segways, penny-farthings, there were no open spots. So I just put my car in neutral, opened the door and bailed, tucking and rolling.

As my car crashed into the orphanage behind me and exploded, I walked into the building and up to the main desk.

"Good morning. My name is Josh and I'm here for my first day as a Snicklefritz-Enabler. I was told to meet Dr. Brooks here for orientation?"

"Yes Mr. Hsoj. She's in her office on the seventh and a half floor. When you get off the elevator, make a right and her office should be the third door on the left. If you see Mr. Malkovich's office, you've gone too far." the receptionist said.

I got on the elevator and stood there scratching my head, trying to figure out which button to press until somebody else walked in and hit the button for the eighth floor. As the elevator ascended, I decided to be gregarious and make as many friends as possible, to start things off on the good foot, as James Brown once said.

“Hi, my name is Jo…” I froze as I saw my lift companion, my arm locked halfway to hand-shake position.

Firstly, I was looking too far up for eye-contact. And by too far up, I mean eye-level. This person was short. I’d say approximately the height of three apples stacked on top of each other. Secondly, he was blue.

“You’re a Smurf,” I stuttered.*  

“No shit, Sherlock,” he said, extending his hand to shake mine. “The name’s Ulcer Smurf. And don’t ask why,” he added, effectively shutting me down just as my lips were about to form the interrogative. “What department you in Fish?”

“Ummm, I’m in, in Snicklefritz Murders and Executions. I’m the new enabler.” I managed to say to, until a minute ago, what I thought was a fictitious piece of Belgian lore.

“Ha! Good luck Noob,” Ulcer said and then stepped off the elevator because we had reached his floor. I then pressed the button for seven and went down a level.

I eventually found the 7^th and a half floor hallway by flushing the third urinal in the women’s bathroom and opening a hidden panel. I made my way to Dr. Brooks’ office and knocked. The was no answered. So I knocked again. Again, silence was my only reply. As I turned to walk away, there was a knocking on the door from the inside. So, with a shrug, I said “come on in?”

Out walked a woman who had clearly stopped shopping for office attire after seeing the 1988 movie Working Girl. Her shoulder pads were big enough to make her a first-string blocker.

“Thanks for the compliment,” she said. “I have a special guy from Cambodia. He only sells me the finest shoulder pads.”

What the hell? I thought. Can she read minds?

“No doofus, you’re speaking out loud. You must be Josh, our rookie. Morning Rook!”

“Good morning Dr. Brooks. I’m just happy to be here working for Biff Co. It’s been a lifelong…”

“Spare me Rook. Get off the nipple, I already pay a guy to yank on my tits and he’s better at it than you. So let’s cut to the chase and I’ll show you what you’ll be doing here at Biff Co. Both today, and (baring any unfortunate circumstances) for the rest of your natural life!” she chortled.

And with that, she took me by the hand and we walked into an ever increasingly misty corridor. What was I in for?

*Wait a minute. How the fuck did a Smurf manage to hit the button for the eighth floor?!?!

Josh’s Notes: Ethan Frome, a.k.a. Sonny Bono ain’t shit

You know what pissed me off about high school? No, not the fact that we had to get up at “O Dark Thirty” To get there in time for the first class at 7 am or some shit. And no, not the fact that my lunch was at 10:30 for some ridiculous reason. And no, not my lack of fashion sense. That one’s on me, I don’t know how fashion or clothes work. I shopped from dumpsters.

No, what I hated were those stupid books they made us read in English class. Shit that no teenager in their right mind would ever read on their own, (except for The Cather in the Rye, that’s my second favorite book and I shan’t hear otherwise!)   

Typically, for these situations we would all do some ‘90s life hacks and just go buy Cliff’s Notes. Cliff was a smart dude. He made an assload of money off of lazy, stupid kids. God bless the American dream. And now, I decided to get in on the action. So I’m doing Josh’s Notes, for books that kids are forced to read much like Alex with his eyes forced open in A Clockwork Orange. And I will begin with a book that I recall to be especially lame (cause it’s got romance and girly stuff in it) and boring (because it takes place in New England) stuff all up in it: Ethan Frome.

Once upon a time, back in ye olden days, when there were more horses than cars on the roads, lived a man named Ethan Frome in the small town of Monotonous, Massahamprhodemont, the 15^th and a half state, (State Motto: Does anybody remember what color grass is?). Ethan walks around the town with a gangsta lean that intrigues some new dude who came to town to, I dunno, start a snow bingo parlor? It’s not important.

Anyway, New Dude is intrigued by Ethan and his limp, (bonus points to you if you can explain to me how that makes sense) so much so that he starts to ask the townsfolk what Frome’s deal is. Everybody, from the cobbler, to the blacksmith, the barkeep and the haberdasher, (those seem like jobs in the late 19^th century, right?). And people all basically tell him the same thing: there was a “smash-up”. And refuse to explain any further. Curiosity abounds for this cat.

What does a “smash-up” mean to you? To me it means two dudes charging at each other while wearing helmets and ramming each other like deer or any animals with antlers. Of course the guys would have to be drunk first, that’s just a given. But no. The real answer is even stupider.

But I’ll get to that later.

So one day, during a brutal snowstorm, (or as they call it: Tuesday) newbie is stuck in Ethan’s house overnight. Which gives him a chance to bug Ethan about his past, 25 years ago. Now keep in mind, this guy isn’t a journalist, he’s not a biographer, he’s just some nosey weirdo who wants to know why Ethan has a limp. That’s like going up to a “little person” and asking how they ended up being so short. Gauche!

Here’s where the icky romance comes in. Ethan has a wife, but she’s sick and a total load. To help take care of her and the house, you know, wife stuff, they bring in his wife’s cousin. By the way, the wife’s name is Zenobia, so you already know she’s gonna be a bitch.

Ethan and the cousin, Mattie, spend a lot of time together, working the farm, doing the dishes, playing Settlers of Cattan, whatever. And in their time together they both fall in love (gag!). But because this is stoic-as-hell New England, they’re too proper and uptight to admit it to each other. The best they can do is lingering gazes and the occasional brushing of hands when passing the milk jug or lice brush.

Eventually, even though she’s bedridden, (Except for when she’s not. Seems psychosomatic to me.) Zendaya soon figures out that those two got a thing going on and decides to send Mattie away and get another servant girl. Preferably one from Brazil who is immune to the cold and walks around the house in the skimpiest frock woven out of burlap available in 1895. That’d be my choice. 

As Ethan takes Mattie to the train station, they pass a hill that they had once hoped to sled down, because that is something adults love to do. Go sledding. As they prepare for a run down the hill, Mattie suggests a suicide pact.

Let’s break this down.

So far in the book, they have only kissed once. That’s it. They’ve never seen each other’s anything. They’ve haven’t done anything. The book’s author, Edith “I was never held as a child” Wharton, fancies herself some sort of American Shakespeare. Romeo and Juliet never consummated their love either. Those “star-crossed lovers” and Ethan and Mattie all have the same mental defect. They’re all about some pure “love beats all” kind of thing where they only think about the moment and not the future. I’d love to see a Romeo & Juliet 2, where they have to get a studio apartment and Romeo tries to make it as a fortune cookie writer and Juliet drives for Uber and their landlords are Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, because, why not?

Eventually, instead of running away from an obviously insane, demented person, Ethan agrees. So, they hop on their sled, “Cool Runnings” and go down the hill, aiming for a big ass tree to crash into. As far as suicide attempts go, I give them points for originality. But I also have to take those points away for stupidity.  If you’re gonna go out, suicide by cop is always the best. Driving a sled into a tree is as effective as trying to slit your wrists with a series of papercuts.

Clearly, Ethan didn’t die. Also, Mattie didn’t die, awkward… But she’s an invalid and stuck in bed and now Zuul, or whatever I said her name is, has to take care of her and Ethan and everybody is miserable. The end.

So there you have it. Ethan Frome. Aren’t you glad you didn’t have to actually read it? Not a fucking ninja is sight! Join me next time, when I give notes on To Kill a Mockingbird. Or maybe The Davinci Code. Who knows?

Group Therapy Gets Results!

Dr. Gooch: Good evening everybody. I want to welcome you all to tonight’s SA meeting. I see we have some new faces here. That’s always good. Spreading the word of what we are doing is always a plus. We’re here for support. To help each other and ourselves and I think that we’re doing a good job. Remember, progress happens at your own speed; it isn’t a contest. Most importantly, we just want to share our stories and to show that we’re not all alone out there in the world. We’re a community. We have much in common and together, we can grow. And if we choose to, change.

In that vein, Fred, would you like to go first and share what’s going on with you and how you feel?

Fred: Okay, sure. Hello, my name is Freddy and I’m a Slasher.

Group: Hi Freddy.

Freddy: Hi. Ummm. So I feel like I’m kind of in a rut at work. Back in the 70s, I was known as the Springwood Slasher, and I was very proud of that. It was very early in my career as a Slasher. I was abusing kids and killing them left and right. I know what some people might say, killing kids is easy, but in some ways, isn’t that what makes it fun?

*murmurs of assent around the circle of chairs*

Then, after I hit the big time, I switched from kids to teens. It was great at first, I got a lot more cardio in, I got to explore their imaginations and express myself more creatively. But then, after stalking teens for the last 40 or so years, it’s gotten to be very routine, you know? How many ditzy blondes can a guy kill in their dreams? They don’t have imaginations! Their idea of a horrible nightmare is being a size too big when they go shopping. It’s so boring.

Jason: So true.

Dr. Gooch: Did you have something you’d like to say Jason?

Jason: In fact, I do. Hello, my name’s Jason and I’m a Slasher.

Group: Hello Jason.

I’m in total agreement with Fred. While I don’t employ the same techniques as he does, I do work in the teen field, more specifically, the vapid, horny verity. What’s even worse is that I’m hamstrung by pretty much only operating one season a year. It’s so monotonous murdering idiotic, sun-tanned teens in regrettable-looking short shorts every summer. Of the few times I was allowed to leave my usual spots, I pretty much just went to NYC and was killed before I got any good sightseeing in, or I went to outer space where I got killed before I even figured out how space toilets work.

Dr. Gooch: Well, it does sound like you’re both are just kind of going through the motions. Have you considered branching out? Maybe targeting smart teens perhaps? How about, say, killing kids who win science fairs? Or valedictorians only?

Jason: Gees, thanks doc. What am I, a bully? Come on, it’s 2020. That’s intelligence shamming!

Freddy: He has a point Dr. Gooch. While they may be stupider, at least jocks and camp counselors give you a little more bang for your buck. I once killed a nerd using comic book characters. It was so embarrassing, I almost quit right there.

Dr. Gooch: Okay, if that’s not to your liking, perhaps others is the group can offer suggestions?

Michael: Howdy everybody, you all know me, you know how I make my living. I’m Michael and I’m a Slasher.

Group: Hi Mike.

Michael: So, I think with you guys, you’ve both taken your specialization too far. You start with some kind of vengeance motive, which is both classic and an appropriate approach in our line of work, but you then limit yourselves by who you deem qualifies to be in a very small category…

Freddy: Says the guy who has been trying to kill the same sister for the last fifty years.

Michael: Hey! She might not be my sister, jury’s still out on that. Also, I’m pretty sure I killed her almost 20 years ago. I guess it didn’t stick. Anyway, I don’t just try to kill one person, I also kill everybody who gets in my way. While you guys like to hide and make your potential victims look like crazy, hallucinating morons, I just get straight to the point. I want to drive that car? Kill the guy with the car keys. I want that kitchen knife? Kill that housewife with a different kitchen knife and then trade up. You randomly have a William Shatner mask? I’mma stab you in the crotchular region and take it. See? It’s very fulfilling.   

Jason: You have a point, but also, you’re not supernatural like the rest of us. So you can’t afford the luxury of stalking on our level. The best you can do is hide under sheets or in closets for, like, five minutes.

Michael: Wow. Not supernatural. You had to go there? Way to rub it in Vorhees.

Pinhead: Gentlemen, may I suggest that you are going about this all wrong? The killing is only one aspect of what we do. We must always remember to bathe in the sweet mixture of agony and ecstasy that we create. Ours is an existence of both dark and light. The desires of the flesh and the exquisite suffering of the soul. To that end, you should make sure you have plenty of chains and sharp hooks and be sure that your prey is completely nak…

Group: Pass!

Freddy: Man, I’m a child molester and you go too far even for me. Stop mixing the pain and pleasure stuff!

Candyman: I don’t know, I thought he made some valid points.

Dr. Gooch: Okay, let’s put a pin in it there for now, and we’ll all come back for the next Slashers Anonymous meeting on Tuesday. Leatherface, I believe you’ll be in charge of refreshments for that?

Leatherface: You know it! I hope everybody is down with the paleo diet, cause there’s gonna be plenty of meat.

Group: Hard Pass!

Noshin' While Joshin'

Josh: They were huge stars in their heyday. Stars of music, television and movies. But exactly where are they now? That’s tonight’s topic on “Nosh with Josh”, the show where I interview a group of fascinating people, while offering them some yummy snack food, because my fridge just died and this shit will spoil soon anyway. 

(applause)

Our panelists tonight are some very interesting “blasts from the past.” And we’ll get to them in a moment, but first, let’s take a look at today’s noshibles! Here, behind me, you’ll notice what appear to be normal corn dogs, but instead of typical beef franks inside, it’s actually scrumptious penguin meat! Next to that we have onion rings. The interesting thing about these onions is that they comprise the entire harvest this year of the Fahrvergnügen Tribe of the Southern Amazon. They most likely won’t survive the year. C’est la vie! Lastly, we have a nice, light salad with spinach leaves drizzled with gold and tomatoes dipped in silver. It is entirely inedible! But damn it looks good.

(applause)

Now with the food being presented, let’s move on to our guests tonight. Up first is the original sexy, muscular man himself: Gerardo!

Gerardo: Hola. Good to be here, somewhere…anywhere actually.

Josh: How very depressing. Next, on Gerardo’s left, we have our favorite Big Fat Miposian Cousin: Bronson Pinchot!

Bronson: Hi Josh. By the way, quick question: what does penguin taste like?

Josh: Buttery, juicy heaven. But don’t take my word for it, mosey on over there and try a corn dog. As a special treat, the mustard is infused with Salma Hayek’s breast milk! Alright, next up is the adorable munchkin who knows the weight of a human head: Jonathan Lipnicki!

Jonathan: Thanks and hello Josh! Wanna know how much my DICK weighs?!

Josh: I can have security drag your adorable ass out of here with a snap of my fingers. Lastly and very much least, we have “That dude you know who peaked in high school!”

That dude: Hey man, good to…

Josh: It sure is. Why don’t you stuff your face with some food while the rest of grown-ups talk?

Jonathan: Well actually, I think he’s older than I am. I mean, I know I didn’t go to high school with that guy.

Josh: I can feel the migraine forming already. Mr. Suave! Let’s start with you. What are you up to these days? Still getting those residuals 21 years later?

Gerardo: Listen man! I’m sick of this! Ever since that goddamn song came out (in 1991!) People think my name is Rico Suave. Everywhere I go, it’s Rico this, Suave that. It’s never-ending. It’s inescapable. My life is a nightmare that only the sweet release of death can fix. I am GERARDO!!!!

Josh: Ha ha ha! I know what your name is, I just don’t care.

Gerardo: That’s the response I usually get. I’m not really up to much these days. Just getting by. On the bright side, it looks like acid-washed jeans with holes in the knees are coming back, so maybe I’ll be back in style one day?

Josh: Keep hope alive man. 

(applause)

Moving on to Mr. Pinchot, tell me sir, you were a huge star in the 80s, everywhere people went, they’d see your giant schnozzle on their tv and movie screens. How’s life treating you these days in Mipos?

Bronson: That’s both funny and original. For the last few decades I’ve been doing a lot of voiceover work, kids’ shows, video games, cartoons, I dip my fingers into a lot of different pies. Very lucrative.

That dude: Hey, I remember you man! You’re that Urkel kid! You used to say “Not the Mamma! Not th…”

Bronson & Josh: Shut up.

Josh: Well, I’m glad you’re doing well. Are you going to reprise your famous role of Serge for the upcoming Beverly Hills Cop 4?

Bronson: What? There’s going to be another…

Josh: Oops, guess I let the cat out of the bag there. My bad. Maybe some of these delightful onion rings will make you feel better. Chow down with glee as you think about how some kid with a distended belly is starving to death far away in the jungle. Trust me, that’s a better seasoning than salt!

Next is the little charmer himself: Generic 90s cute kid!

Jonathan: You can call me John for short.

Josh: Like it matters.

Gerardo: See? He’s an ass! He did the same thing to me!

Josh: Silence you! There’s a bar in the back if you want a cold cerveca.
John! My pint-sized man! What are you up to? Haven’t seen you in…decades, it seems.

Jomathan: Well actually, much like Balki…

Bronson: Hey! Some professional courtesy?!

Jonathan: Sorry, habit. Anyway, like Bronson, I’ve been doing a lot of stuff. I’m very much still in the game in Hollywood. My IMDB page is quite extensive.

Josh: Oh yeah? Name one thing besides Jerry McGuire that I’ve seen you in.

Jonathan: …Dawson’s Creek?

Josh: Thought so. Well, that’s about it for tonight’s episode of "Nosh with Josh". Join me next time when…

That dude: Hey, what about me guy?

Audience: SHUT UP!

Please Give Until It Hurts

Good evening and thank you for tuning into The Altruistic Nation Show here on channel 1998, WGYP, Your Donation Station, with the phrase that pays (us)! “We put the ‘ow!’ in endow!”

I am your host Sir S.G. Thuggish Killington III, Esq. here with you tonight for a very special episode. Of course, every episode is special as long as we are able to reach just one person’s heart, which we then bleed dry of all the money we can get.

Wait a minute, who wrote that on the teleprompter? Ha ha ha, folks, just a little in-studio joke. Moving on.

We know that for the past three decades Sally Struthers has berated you to symbolically adopt a child in a third-world country with a bloated stomach and not enough sense to brush flies away from walking on their eyeballs. All for the price of coffee. Very noble, very commendable. Very much a load of horseshit.

It’s all well and good to throw 35 cents a day into a mailbox and think no further of it, knowing that so shines a good deed in a weary world or whatever. But we here at WGYP feel that’s a copout. Don’t you really want to help those less fortunate than yourself? Don’t you truly want to make a difference in the world around you?

It is often said that charity begins at home and I, for one, agree. To that end, we at Altruistic Nation are offering a unique and immersive experience. Why just tell your bougie friends you’re supporting somebody’s life when you can show them! With our new Adopt-a-Sloth program, we won’t just send you a picture of little Abebyie in the Ivory Coast, we’ll send you Greg, the Philosophy major with hundreds of thousands of dollars in student loan debt to come stay in your house or apartment! You’ll feel the joy and pride that comes from hosting an unfortunate soul who picked a stupid major and can therefore not support himself in any meaningful way!

Who wouldn’t want the opportunity to clean up behind a slob who doesn’t understand what it means to wash their dishes, or that rocky road ice cream is not a suitable substitute for vegetables at dinner? Just imagine all the hours you’ll spend washing shit-streaked underwear and ironic tee shirts for some Hasbro toy line from the 80s! And you reward for all this hard work? The satisfaction of a job well-done. And, every two weeks, after Greg get his paycheck from Popeyes, it’s bong time!

If Greg doesn’t fit into what you’re looking for right now in an Adopt-a-Sloth, not a problem, we have many varieties of slackers for you to choose from. Our supplies are boundless!

For example, take Black Cherry. She tends to typically work nights and pretty much only needs a place to sleep during the day. Why not your bed? You’re not using it! Just make sure to have the sheets disinfected by a HAZMAT team.

Seriously, whoever is playing around with the prompter needs to stop before they get my Thuggish boot up they ass.

Anyway, Black Cherry is very gregarious. She loves to talk and has the skill (amongst many) to make it seem like she’s interested in whatever moronic garbage spews out of your mouth. And no, that wasn’t a teleprompter mistake.

Black Cherry has lots for female friends who may often come by to visit. She also has a few male friends who may also stop by for a quick drop in from time to time. Oddly enough, they’re all named John.

Another added benefit is that Black Cherry has quite the exercise regimen. She does a lot of cardio and core work and would be happy to show you her routines. She also includes pole dancing exercises, which will get you in shape and teach you the latest dance moves. As a bonus, you get one free drink per visit at Black Cherry’s job down the street at "Club Wax On/Wax Off". Anything more than that, be sure to bring cash, credit cards are not accepted. What fun!

And finally, if neither Greg nor Black Cherry are up your alley, for a limited time, we do have a third hopeless soul that you can reach out to and save: Crunchy Joe, the Hamburger Pimp.

Crunchy Joe is a special case and needs your help most of all. You see, he’s getting treatment at the local methadone clinic for his addiction to meth and he needs somewhere to stay during treatment and for those rare* lapses when he uses and comes down and needs a corner in which to vomit and shit and probably piss as well. Your house is full of corners, can’t you find it in your heart to spare one?

While Joe needs more attention than a three-year-old with two left hands, his actual needs are simple. Just throw a mattress on the floor and keep the fridge stocked with plenty of 40s of St. Ives. He should be able to keep himself occupied. As so not to rile him or make him angry and violent, keep all televisions showing nothing but cartoons, preferably My Little Pony, he loves that shit.

On a last note, hide all knives, scissors and other sharp implements and buy a safe to store all of your valuables. There are weird people out there these days. Just an FYI.

Thank you for joining me on tonight’s episode of Altruistic Nation and we really appreciate all of the help that you are putting forth. The giving. The sharing. The more giving, to me. You make this old Thuggish Killington shed a gangsta-ass tear. Please contact our operators at the number at the bottom of the screen to get the process started. That’s 1-800-Give-Now. That’s 1-800-448-3669.

Call. Call now. Call now or I swear to god you’re gonna be waking up with a severed horse head in your bed.

OK! THAT’S IT! WHO IS MESSING WITH THE DAMN TELEPROMPTER???!

*Not rare

Studies Say THIS is Why Reading is Fundamental

Ms. Gemmae: Alright kids, hope you had a good lunch in the cafeteria. I hear that the lunch ladies were serving mashed chicken and broccoli jam sandwiches on pickled rye toast today. With a side of deep-fried lettuce and glasses of baked water? Sounds both nutritious and delicious!

And I hope you were successful with burning off excess energy at recess with games of Five Square, Calvinball, Sinless Stone-Casting and the like? Excellent! Well, as you know, since this is Wednesday afternoon, it’s time for our weekly book presentations! Who will go first? Esuriit?

Esuriit: My book today is Elements, by the ancient Greek mathematician Euclid, the father of Euclidean Geometry, and the guy Euclid Street is named after, the street that no matter where you live, you can buy a dimebag at 2 am (after midnight) from a sketchy black car with smoke pouring out the windows. 

I found this book to be both interesting and insightful and the fact that I can read Greek at the tender age of 10, made comprehension quite easy. Euclidian Geometry is the study of the circumference of the hole inside a donut vis-à-vis the circumference of a donut in its entirety. It was mastery of this field of math that allowed our hungry forefathers to create steam- and water-powered donuts, thereby staving off the Great Flour Famine of 187 A.D. (Absent Donut).

If you’re into math, or baked goods, I suggest checking this book out. The section on frostings alone will boggle your mind.

Ms. Gemmae: Thank you Esuriit, that was very insightful. Now Meditati, you’re up!

Meditati: Hey everybody. My book this week is a collection of poems from the venerable Asian poet Su Xiaoxiao. Su Xiaoxiao was a famous poet and courtesan in the Southern Qi Dynasty. She lived 479-501 A.D. (Always Denim). She originally hailed from Qiantang City, later renamed Hangzhou once it became the capital of the Zhejiang Province. Other famous poets from this city include Bai Juyi and Su Shi*, though they came centuries later.

So, “Little Su” (her street name) was known for the images of beauty and love that her poetry evoked. She felt that it was her duty to spread the idea of seeing beauty in the world around us, if only we can imagine it. In fact, before she died at 19 from a terminal disease, she saw her illness as a gift, since it allowed her to leave her mark on Chinese history and culture.

She was also a ninja. The end.

Ms. Gemmae: Alright Meditati, thank you for that. I enjoyed the twist at the end there. Didn’t see that coming.

Well, it looks like we’re almost out of time. Damn these 15-minute long class periods! But what can I say? You kids gotta get back to work down into the goulash mines, you know the paprika reserves a quite diminished.

So, last up for today is Timor. Timor, show us what you got.

Timor: Greetings fellow pupils of Miss Gemmae’s fifth grade class. I am pleased to present my book for your naïve indulgence. For I hold no ordinary volume in my hands, but one of the rarest, most potent texts ever transcribed by man: The Magnum Necronomicon.

The Necronomicon was written in 725 A.D. (Anti Deity) by the “Mad Arab” Abdul Alhazred, a Yemenite who worshiped the Outer and Elder Gods Yog-Sothoth and Cthulu. Originally titled Al Azif, (roughly translated as “The Sounds of the Insects at Night, Bringing Evil”, or “Terror by Night”) Alhazred wrote the horrifying grimoire after a sojourn to the ruins of Babylon, in the Nameless Quarter of Arabia. Therein, he discovered the “Nameless City Below” where he was given the words, invocations, enchantments, spells, incantations, portends, symbols and more of the eldritch languages used within the mythos of Mlandoth, Mril Torion and Azathoth, otherwise known as The Domain of the Dreamlands. A place beyond of madness and human comprehension.

The book was renamed The Necronomicon in 950, which is Greek and has several meanings, including “The Book of the Law of the Dead” “The Book of the Words of the Dead” and “A Book to Categorize the Dead.” Of course, due to its occult nature, the book and its worshipers have been banned, cast-out, tortured, burned and destroyed by countless pseudo-religions, would-be-gods, egotistical “holy men” and so-called kings and lords. And yet the mythos endures. Those who practice these unholy rites and rituals in the dark, under the nocturnal blessings of the Yellow King can never truly be vanquished.

Today, you undeserving younglings are blessed, for I have the original inscription of The Necronomicon. Written in Alhazred’s own blood, mixed with ichor from the various demons who whispered these malicious words into his demented head, and bound in the putrid, stinking flesh of a hundred unwilling sacrificial martyrs. This very tome has caused more wars, plagues and violence in the name of evil than any Brett Ratner movie.

And now I will recite a passage, to summon a vile entity.

Ms. Gemmae: Timor, that’s quite an imagination you have, but I think it’s about time to wrap things…

Timor: Silence, you pathetic excuse for a scholar. I begin:

Optha, on’knvyn swuthir d’jhzix flef
slmooith tlaxin dwiq!
ibc’blin lttzim, zaren vrin’soq hrota
ich bin ein Berliner!

Congratulations, you are all now jelly donuts. You’re welcome.

Esuriit: Yes!

*Not a joke, dude’s name was Su Shi and he was a renowned poet and governor of the province around 1089 A.D. (Apple Dumpling). Irony: He was allergic to fish.

Dante Is A Fish

Dante is a fish. I hope the title didn’t ruin it for you. He’s a Betta, to be exact. To be more colloquial, he’s an ass-kicking Siamese Fighting Fish. I can only assume he can kick ass; I haven’t trained him. I figure there was some kind of aquatic Mr. Miyagi at the pet store to handle the kung-fu aspect of his crazy lifestyle.

I didn’t name him Dante. My sister did when she gave him to me. Somewhat as a gag gift I imagine. Perhaps a social experiment to see if I was worthy to take care of another living thing, (besides that patch of mold I’ve been growing in my dirty clothes bin for the last 18 months. His name is Gary.) You see, I don’t have the greatest track record when it comes to stuff like that. With both animals and plants. Maybe it’s my natural ability to be extremely self-absorbed and my astounding lack of empathy for others. Who can say?

Every plant I’ve owned, up until the last five years or so, has been a cactus. My logic being that cacti live in the desert; they barely get water. So I only make the least amount of effort to keep the plant alive and it’ll do fine. It does its cactus thing, I do my human thing, we both exist in the same room, it’s all gravy. His name is Arthur. Arthur the Cactus.

That logic is what led me to have at least four Arthurs in my life, (Why bother coming up with a new name? My time is too valuable to be naming all the green things in my life. Cartoons aren’t gonna watch themselves.) I’m not entirely sure of the various ways in which my Arthurs died, but I did learn one valuable lesson in my capacity as a plant owner: don’t water them with bong water; there’s no such thing as a cactus/weed hybrid.

I currently have a hanging ivy plant named Porthos, after the fat, bon-vivant Musketeer. He has a name because I actually put effort into keeping him alive. He was given as a consolation present (is that a thing, by the way?) when my father died. Which means Porthos is over three years old. Not bad. I guess I’m growing more responsible in my old age.*

Dante is my first pet. As in, my own personal pet. My family had a cat when my sister and I were growing up. Don’t ask me what kind of cat, I don’t know from cats. All I know is she was black with orange splotches and she disliked everybody but me. Her name was Prickles, just like Gumby’s yellow dragon friend. We almost named her Pickles, but I’m glad we didn’t. Isn’t that what Doug named his dog?

My sister is to pets what I am to plants. She’s like a real-life Elmyra from Tiny Toons. Stephen King could have written three sequels to Pet Sematary based off our backyard alone. It was a regular Noah’s Ark of Death back there. She has no pets now and each summer, the plants in her garden commit seppuku rather than suffer under her care.

Dante is about one-year old. He spends his days and his nights alone, in a fish tank, about 8”x6”x8”. Not very big, but then again, he’s not a big fish. Every morning, I feed him flakes of food that include fish as one of the ingredients. That means Dante is a cannibal. This pleases me. He wakes up when I wake up. Our schedules are as synced as two ladies sharing the same cycle for their menses. I assume he wakes when I do because it’s the only time he interacts with anybody or anything.

Once a week, (give or take) I clean out Dante’s tank. Not a complicated process. Probably like giving a dog or cat a bath but, oddly enough, with less water going all over the place. In the end, I give Dante some blood worms and let him go back to doing whatever the hell he does all day. I’m sure, like me, much of it involves napping.

Sometimes, I just look at Dante in his little tank. All he has is some pebbles at the bottom, along with a tiny pineapple house in the corner. Seems more like a gauche Christmas ornament than a tank decoration, but what do I know? Maybe Dante really loves SpongeBob. But anyway, that’s all he has in his tank. No other fish are allowed in there, because he’d try to beat them down or something. Maybe eat their corpses in victory? That’s what the pamphlet said, at least. And who am I to question the words of a pamphlet? Same thing applies when I read The Watchtower.

So I wonder what he does all day. All by himself. In a tiny tank. Does he miss his parents? His bros? The lady fish? The Incredible Mr. Limpet? As he swims around the same miniscule area he’s gotten to know over the last several months, I ponder: what does he think about? Does he discover anything new? Does he stare at me and my room the way I stare at him? Does he wonder what I think?

I coulda invented a story to tell through his eyes, I’m good at that. But I decided not to. I’m not sure I could imagine what goes on through his ridiculously small fishy head. Maybe nothing. Maybe he’s content. No goals to achieve. No mortgage or rent to pay. No career to suck his life away. Nobody to break his heart. No concern about what the fuck is going on with Kanye these days. All he does is chill out and eat…and poop.

I like that. The simplicity, (Not the pooping part. Although, I could be persuaded. Who hasn’t fantasized of sitting in front of a tv, watching The Six Million Dollar Man while defecating in their soiled sweatpants from a sports team that hasn’t existed since the 70s?** It’s the goddamn American dream!) Anyway, maybe there’s a lesson to be learned from Dante the fish.

Nahhh…

*I.E. feeding a plant beer is just alcohol abuse. Beer doesn’t grow on trees people! 

** Wow that’s an extremely specific scenario.

Guess We Do Die Alone After All

(Sorry for there being more spelling errors than usual. This was a rush job this morning. Please to be grain-of-salting this thing I wrote in 30 mins.)

As many of you, some of you, none of you know, I (Josh) like to keep abreast of the daily goings-on in the world. From political debacles in Latveria, to the latest lotto winner in Thalidomide, AK., I stay in the know by watching and reading the news on an almost daily basis. So imagine my surprise, sadness and befuddlement when I read this news story last night.  

It seems that the body of a Navy vet was discovered in his apartment in the quaint, and oft-overlooked town of DeSoto Tx. (Motto: Where am I on a map again?) He was dead, and had been for a while. How long you ask? Oh, I dunno, how about

THREE YEARS!

Wrap your head around that. I want you to go sit in a corner, facing the wall, put on some noise-cancelling headphones, ignore your surroundings including your boss Mr. Wormface telling you to get back to your cubicle, and try to comprehend the situation I have just laid out before you. Do you know how many factors had to be in play for this to happen?

It seems that he had his rent paid automatically through his income. Although, unless he specialized as being a corpse in episodes of Law & Order, I have no clue what his income would be. But whatever, he had enough in his bank account to take care of rent. But that still doesn’t make sense.

I’m a man of the world, I’ve lived in houses, apartments, yurts, dorms, tents, barracks, crawlspaces and mystical caverns. I have yet to live in an apartment complex that didn’t raise the rent yearly. But that’s fine, let’s say that either his brand-new (more on that later) apartment was rent controlled, or he had enough in the bank to cover any rate hikes, there’s still the fact that he needs to sign contracts to stay or leave the apartment after a certain amount of time. That’s just how the faceless, heartless companies that run apartment complexes work. It’s all about the paper, both money and legally-binding contracts.

But ok, ignore that. Also, let’s ignore utilities. I’m not aware of an apartment complex that covers all utilities, but maybe I’ve just drawn the short end of the straw with that and there are places that do cover every utility. That’s good, more power to the people who live in those complexes, I’m jelly. However, what about his cable or satellite bills? Surely those weren’t covered by his rent. Then again, maybe his service provider just cut off service and sent angry letters about his account. But if that’s true, that brings me to my next point: what was the deal with his mailbox?

I once lived in an apartment where I literally stopped opening my mailbox and checking my mail, because I mostly had junk mail and flyers and shit. One day I opened the box to discover a note from the mailman saying that they quit delivering my mail (something about no more space in my mailbox) and I could go pick it up at the post office. To which I replied with my own note that as soon as he stopped delivering junk mail, I’d start picking up my mail.* It got to the point where they started returning letters to people who sent them to me. I find it surprising that the post office in DeSoto didn’t do something similar.

And what about packages that UPS or FedEx shipped? Wouldn’t they have put sticky notes on the door? And every building has that one nosy tenant (I’m talking about you Mrs. Snodgrass!) who would say something to management about all the stickers, or the pile of newspapers in front of the door. None of it makes sense!

Hey, you’re wondering, what about the smell? And you’re right. Once a guy died in my father’s apartment building and nobody noticed for two weeks until the smell became too much. Same thing happened a few months ago to a college student in Europe. He’d been dead in his dorm room for a month before the smell finally made people notice something was wrong (by the way, how much do crime scene cleaners get paid? It’s not enough). The cop who arrived on the scene said he “noticed that the decomposition was advanced.” I know that eventually once all the liquids dry and the gases dissipate, that the smell lessens, but still. Did he live in a building full of noseless people? The news article said that the windows in his brand-new apartment were still sealed shut and airtight with plastic. I didn’t know apartments came that way, but it’s still confusing as to why he didn’t remove the plastic and get some air in there. It was Texas after all.

He was discovered by maintenance guys checking apartments where occupants weren’t using water. That also seems bewildering to me. Usually maintenance workers always have to install some kind of new filters for your AC or whatever, or do yearly pest sweeps or something. I just don’t understand how everybody could have ignored him for YEARS.

What about his family? Well, that’s the kicker. He was 51. His mother had no idea where he even lived. She called him once for his birthday in 2017. He didn’t answer. And that’s pretty much it. She couldn’t afford private investigators, and cops said that since he was naval and tended to travel, that he was just out gallivanting or something. She just gave up and sat there crying every holiday, wondering why her son was never there to be with her.

He lived alone. He died alone. But at least he died as he lived: Face down, Ass up.

*It didn’t work. Never fight the post office kids. They are a powerful lot.

Sometimes These Things Happen II

Mark made it into the kitchen before Travis, still screaming bloody murder. Their father was sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee in one hand, a pen in the other and the latest issue of Ranger Rick in front of him on the table. He liked doing the puzzles.

This mother was at the sink, trying to clean the family’s legally purchased and licensed AR-15, with soapy water. It wasn’t going very well. And she constantly cursed the weapon under her breath. Meanwhile, the radio next to her kept talking about that Dow Jones guy and his obsession with bulls and bears.

“Mom! Travis is a freak!” Mark managed to say between gasps of air. “There’s something wrong with his but!! Look!” he said, pointing a quivering finger toward his be-toweled brother.

“What is your brother talking about Travis?” asked his father. “Is there something wrong with your butt, or has Mark gotten into the airplane glue again?”

With that, Travis realized that the cat(tail) was out of the bag, to be honest, he was surprised that he managed to keep it a secret as long as he had. His head dropped and he turned around to reveal his tail (and unfortunately, his ass cheeks as well) to his family.

The gasps from his family were so in unison, you’d think they’d practiced ahead of time.

“What the hell is that?!” His father bellowed, spilling his coffee all over his magazine, jumpimg up in surprise.

His mom just screamed, doing her best Laurie Strode impression.

“It’s my tail, obviously,” Travis replied.

“Why do you have a tail? How long have you had a tail?” His dad queried. “And why the hell do you have a tail?!?! Jesus Jewels, I told you that your cravings for Monsanto corn during pregnancy was going to come back to haunt us!”

“I don’t know why I have a tail. It just showed up one morning, like a Christmas present from David Cronenberg. I’ve had it for a little over a month. But look, it’s not useless!” Travis said excitedly.

He then walked over to the kitchen table, turned 90 degrees and, with his tail, he picked up his father’s dropped pen and circled “coccyx” in the word search in the magazine. He then drew a mustache on Ranger Rick’s face, which seemed kind of pointless since Rick was already a furry raccoon.

“See? I can do stuff with the tail! It’s like a third arm.” Travis said.

“Yeah, well, get that shit out of my sight. Honey?” Travis’ dad said turning to his wife. “Is the saw still in the work shed?”

“Of course, Rufus. Where else would it be? It’s not like it’s under our mattress because I agonize all the time about which night will be the night I actually go through with it and separate your loathsome head from your miserable excuse for a human shell,” came the reply.

“Great! I’ll go get it. Jewels, Mark, hold him down on the table, I’ll be right back.” And with that, Rufus went out the kitchen back door and walked over to the work shed.

You will be spared the gory details (mostly). Travis was held down on his stomach, a dish towel shoved down his throat to keep him from screaming and something for his teeth to clench onto. After all, there was no anesthesia for this DIY surgery.

Travis, bucked and struggled. His mother and brother were surprisingly strong. He couldn’t break free from their grips. He could only cry, his voice muffled by the towel, his tears falling silently down his face, unnoticed by anybody. His tail, as if it had a mind of its own, swung this way and that. Trying to avoid Rufus’ attempts to hold it down. But it was a game the tail was going to lose, and it did.

Eventually Rufus got a firm grasp on the tail and slammed it down on the oak surface of the kitchen table. With the hack saw in his other hand, he brought it down and began a steady back and forth motion. The fur and the flesh beneath were easy enough, though a bit slippery because of all the blood. The bones were a little harder. Since a cat tail can have anywhere from 19-23 caudal bones in its tail, it was hard for Rufus to find a gap between bones to take advantage of.

After the longest ten minutes of Travis’ life, Rufus dropped the bloody saw to the floor, picked up the tail and walked around to where Travis could see him. He knelt down until he was at eye-level with his son. Travis’ eyes were squeezed shut and there were rivers of snot coming out of his nose, to be absorbed by the dish towel. He was immobilized with pain.

Rufus slapped him hard in the face. When Travis opened his eyes, his father shoved the bloody tail, still spasmodically swaying, in his face.

“You see this bullshit?! DO YOU SEE IT!” Rufus bellowed. “I will not have shit like this in my house. What the hell is wrong with you? Who goes around town with a goddamn tail? It’s disgusting! If some crap like this happens again, it won’t be the offending appendage that gets removed, capice?”

Travis nodded weakly. Even if he had something to say, it was impossible with the towel still down his throat.

“Now get that stump bandaged up and go to your room until I say you can leave. And that’s going to be a long time. Meals will be delivered to you. You may only leave to go to the bathroom. Now get the fuck outta here.”

With much straining and exertion, Travis slowly, agonizingly, got up, stood on two wobbly feet and gradually limped his way up the stairs to the bathroom where this whole horrible event had originated. He grabbed another towel and wetted it. He also took some gauze and Neosporin, staggered to his room and shut the door behind him.

                                                                   

       

***

Four months had passed. Travis was taken out of school. His friends stopped coming by to check on him. He was sure Hana had concocted some kind of elaborate fiction about what happened to him, for the other kids to gobble up. Maybe he had been kidnapped and eventually eaten by a serial killer. Or he had run away to the circus, or to join up with a band of gypsies. Or, and Travis really hoped that this rumor was actually going around, Travis had become a kind of Typhoid Mary. He had contracted an extremely contagious and fatal disease that gave people fins and gills or whatever, but he could only give it to others, it didn’t affect him at all. And the government made him live in an underground bunker in Area 51 for the rest of his life.

Of course, none of that was the case. He was simply a prisoner in his own house until his father deemed otherwise. So Travis just lay there, (on his stomach, it still hurt if he laid on his back) every day. Resigned to his miserable life. A captive, a hostage in his own room. No happy memories to be had. No escape possible. When he wasn’t lying in bed, Travis looked out his window at the world around him that he used to be a part of, but not anymore. He was no longer a participant, just a spectator. He missed the wind, the smells, kicking around the frisbee with his boys, or going to the soccer court. He missed the greater world around him, all that was NOT his prison cell. He longed to be free.

When Travis was 16, he grew wings.

During one of his mother’s daily checks of Travis in his room, to see just how broken his spirit was and if he deserved to be let out, she came upon a surprise.  He wasn’t in his room. There was no trace of Travis. Just an open window. His family never saw him again.