EDTRODUCTION

Perhaps you've noticed we exist.

I am The Editor of this fine digital establishment and, as such, am entitled to a share of your children's wages. Forgive my lack of tact. I've only just been taught to paint.

Like any newspaper, magazine, or squash, The Truth About Puppies is a collaborative effort between a number of imaginary individuals. Finding those who can be trusted with not only the production of quality infotainment, but also demildewing the Graille smoothies, is daunting, and so, like a man whose genitals exist beyond time itself, I still must finalize my staff.

In the angrytime, I thank you for partaking of this most joyous Internet based production. Please let me know if there's anything you wish were shinier. These matters interest me greatly.

Proofread? No. Why don't you prove you read it? - The Editor

She's Me

There's this girl in my math class and she's me and I love her soooo much! She always wears the cutest outfits because I tell her to with my brain and she does what I tell her to with my brain because I am that adorable girl. Her clothes aren't the only cute thing about her though; there's also the adorable makeup that I put on her adorable face every morning so that she's as adorable as she can possibly be. I take care of my me; after all, she's the bestest girl ever!

Sometimes I get freaky with her. One time I tried to tape her to the radiator, but she wasn't into it cuz the radiator was on. But that's really the only time she thought I took it too far. She's me and I usually don't do things that she isn't okay with.

One time we were hanging out in my bedroom, just me and her, and we started making out, but it was weird cuz shwe only hadve two lips between us at least upstairs lol! But it was still pretty awesome, and by the time we finished, my room was a mess and I think she made me pee myself a little.

She also has the cutest hat! It's pink and blue and it's gorgeous and I know cuz her mom told me so but I knew that anyway cuz I see it on her and my heart grows butterfly wings. I have the best hat and the best mom but I'd like two more lips but I do just fine without them lol!

This one time, some boy in English class asked her out, and I was like you can't have her she's mine, and then we totally robbed him and ate the stereo out of his car and peed ourselves a little. That was a good Thursday.

One of these days when gay automarriage is legalized, I'm gonna marry that girl. She's the light of my life, and she holds me at night so I'm never cold!

There are Two Kinds of Correctness: Right and Wrong.

There are two kinds of trees: Christmas and other. Anyone who says otherwise is demoted to wrong.

There are consequently two kinds of wood. You'll find that two very different kinds of people object to this fact and the previous one, but, whether you chain yourself to huge "other" trees or you spend all your time making bookcases out of Christmas wood, in my mind you're in the same creepy bathhouse.

There are three kinds of plants: trees, bushes, and plants. I would have conflated trees and bushes, but then some people would get the slang confused and end up with a lung full of pubes.

There are two kinds of animals: seagulls and fish. You don't have a schnauzer, you have a hairy, dry fish. Have fun picking up soccer moms in training at the dry hairy fish park.

There is no such thing as bacteria. These are a variety of seagull.

Squid are lazy octopi, and octopi are just fish anyway.

Jellyfish are bushes.

We clear on this?

"May I Wring out your Towels?" Confessions of a Reformed Strangler

It started when I was just a boy and my father took me to see Star Wars. The movie started, robots blah, explosions blah blah, been there, viewed that. Then there he was: Darth Vader, a walking cornucopia of COPD and awesomeness. And when someone pissed him off, he didn't reach for his lightsaber--no. He didn't rip their brains out through their noses. He extended one hand, calmly, and strangled the man with his thoughts. My impressionable mind saw this veritable dumptruck of glamor magi-suffocating his own servant, and from that day on, I had a new answer to "What do you want to be when you grow up?"

The catcher's mitt never left my closet again; all my energy was directed to making my dream my enemies' waking nightmare. I found a teacher. Locals called him Creepy Homeless Patrick, but I called him Master. My master bragged that he had strangled his way through life, using his throat-crushing deathgrip to create fear in those who would edge him out of his prime panhandling location in front of the Salvation Army, and providing him an excellent source of protein during the lean months of winter. He often yelled at colors. He was my only friend.

My training was thorough. I started on stuffed animals, did my time choking fish, and worked my way up to women. I could snap a lesbian's neck with two fingers by the age of eleven. I was ready.

You never forget your first real kill. I can still feel his five-o'clock-shadow tickling my thumbs when I daydream on the job. He was a mechanic, a man's man. The faint coat of axle grease covering his flesh made him a tough customer, and, as he reached for his wallet to show me pictures of his children, I silently thanked Creepy Homeless Patrick for making me work my fingers to the bone on those halibut. The job was nearly done, and wouldn't you know that a quiet little "I find your lack of faith disturbing" had to slip past my lips as he tried one last time to kick me in the testicles! I flicked an extra quarter my master's way the next time he stopped by to preach to my cat.

The phrase "drunk with power" is terribly overused, but I think it's safe to say that, when you find yourself choking a midget, atop a mountain of dead midgets, screaming Duncan Sheik's "Barely Breathing," well, you're it. Seventy corpses later, my sloppiness got the best of me when, the day after wringing the life out of a biker with a most unsettling combover, I went to school having forgotten to let go. I was busted and, with no Force powers to speak of, helpless once the cuffs were on. I tried to think: "What would master do?" I'm hazy on the details of the aftermath, but suffice it to say that an insanity plea was entered on my behalf.

The next ten years I spent brimming with regret and morphine. In my dreams I was Tartarus, chained to a rock with a bare throat dangling just out of reach. I'm not too sure why they let me out - I suspect a fire alarm was involved, but regardless, I knew that I had to free myself from the prison of Lady Strangling's seductress caresses. It would be back to the loony bin with me the moment they found a blueface in my attic. It was time to give up the game.

After one last hit.

Patrick was waiting for me in the rain outside the Salvation Army. The drama would have been unbearable had he not been wearing gloves on his feet. His hands were fast, but mine were faster. Plus, he was reaching for his wiener. In my mind he was Vader, and as he whoo-perred his last whoo-perr, I knew that we were both going on to a better place. In retrospect, he's probably in hell for all of the murder, but at the time, the thought was a great comfort.

I found work wringing out towels. Everyone always says they'd never pay someone to wring out a towel, until they see me in action. Years of murder have given me strong wrists, and I've found that squeezing out water can be almost as fulfilling as squeezing out breath. Plus, people don't pay you to choke them--not to death, anyway.

Although under duress, I'll admit that every once in a while I still indulge in suffocating a sparrow or a waitress. It's so hard to let go.

Laughter: An Investigative Report

Everyone in the world laughs the same, unless you're French or Santa. It is one of the things that (oo, and sex offenders, I think they laugh funny) makes us human. Some people say that dogs laugh too, but I think those people are just a little too desperate to have a real friend. Throw on Chappelle's show with your dog in the room. Nothing.

Laughter is like sex. Mechanically it doesn't make too much sense or seem that appealing, but if some is coming your way, clear your schedule! It has no logic, no purpose, but nevertheless if someone (also Seinfeld; Seinfeld is like laughter as well) presents you an opportunity to laugh, chances are you're going to take it unless it comes at the expense of your mother, ethnic group, or anal chastity.

In my research, I experienced all kinds of laughter. First, let me warn you: laughter resulting from tickling is an imposter. Sure you laugh, but there's nothing funny. Test it if you must. Go up to your buddy, and say "Buddy: hey. Wanna feel a joke?" They'll probably say yes. Tickle them. They will feel cheated, and, if you went to lunch with them in order to do this, have fun paying for that lunch. Normal laughter, however, whether it comes from dead baby jokes, dead chest hair jokes, or good old fashioned jive talking cats, is a winner. In my humble opinion, it is superior to both potatoes and "When Harry Met Sally."

Laughter is not recommended for those with respiratory problems. Afflicted readers should consider alternatives such as gasping, backward whistling, and posing as a CPR dummy.

Top Ten Reasons to Shave Your Head

10) Plan on frequent headbutting,
don't want to give those bastards
any cushion.

9) Nemisis is just gonna shave
it anyway, why give him/her/chemo
the satisfaction.

8) Already shaved everything else,
why not?

7) Planning on being literally born
again, not yet adequately fluid
dynamic.

6) Hair is for pansies.

5) Unattractive stalker loves your
dreads.

4) Bizarre hair loss pattern forms
unsightly racial slur.

3) Styling your hair dries out your
scalp, time to cut out the middle
man and cover that bad boy in leeches.

2) Next best thing to cutting your
head off.

1) Clean slate with a god who only
gets an arial view.

I've become my Father

In hindsight I guess
that the lack of a dad
was the best motivator
that I ever had.

I traveled through time.
I built the machine.
Lord, my pockets were fat
But my record--too clean.

I wanted to go
to days fallen behind
to find the best tail
that one ever could find.

I started with cave-ass
and worked my way recent.
The things that I did
were completely indecent!

I boned through the ages,
gave Cleo the clap,
and Eva Braun's mouth
is where I took a crap.

I humped myself silly
but never did tire
And that's how it happened:
I am my own sire.

One day, after pleasing
an alien queen
made of lard, I desired
a booty more lean.

I went to the sixties,
crashed some hippy prom;
I danced with this babe
though I knew it was Mom.

Well, then things get hazy;
You see, we were plastered.
I vaguely recall
playing servant and master.

But when we came to,
we had trashed my machine!
...
I left in the night
so she'd not make a scene.

I hated to leave her
alone and with child,
but raising a kid?
That just isn't my style.

I'd rather leave Mom
and young-me a bit blue
Then clean my own spittle
And smell my own poo.

And though he'll end up
In an Oedipal mess
He'll first taste the best
Of all history's breasts!

Though many have said it
then sighed or then cried,
Becoming your father's
A pretty sweet ride.

Ask Claxro!

Dear Claxro,

Last Thursday I lost consciousness for a while, and when I came to, I couldn't move my body. Even more concerning is the fact that I seemed to be floating above it.  None of my attempts to force myself back in have proven successful, even after I lubed up the nostrils. And I can't be sure, but it looks like I'm starting to smell bad. There may as well be stink lines.

As if things weren't bad enough, these devil-looking things keep trying to drag me off in the middle of the night, screaming something about atonement for my shins.  I'm thinking, "What did my shins ever do wrong?" but I don't want to make them any angrier than they already are, so I just ask them nicely to come back when I'm a little less busy; they're usually pretty understanding about it, but still.  I don't need this.  

Please help!

Weightlessly,

Out of body ex-spearmint

---

Dear Spearmint,

There should be a guy whose job it is to tell people that Santa Clause is just their Dad covered in lots of fleshtone Silly Putty and a red suit. That same guy should be the one who stops by and says "I hate to be the one, lady, but, uh, you're dead."  In the absense of such a man (get on this, God), I will step up to the plate.

You are dead.

While you may have believed the smell (or smelly appearance, which, by the way, what the hell?) stemmed from the fact that you had gone too long without bathing, it has a lot more to do with the fact that your bloodstream has gone too long without bathing in oxygen.  You are floating above your body because you are a ghost (congratulations!  There's an afterlife).  Your attempts to return to your body are failing because your organs are now functionless blobs of corpse.  The devil-looking things are devils; you are going to Hell.

Santa's fake, too.

Here's what you're gonna wanna do.  First, find another body; try to bag you a rich one.  Then offer her soul to the demons in exchange for your freedom.  I know it sounds terrible, but trust me, this sort of thing happens all the time and God really just looks the other way on it; it's like drag racing.  Satan's minions will probably let you keep the lady's body, and, since it's been a long time since you've been flesh, you probably won't be able to help but blow half her fortune on gigolos and massage chairs within the hour.  I know I would.  Heheh; wood. Blah blah blah, deathbed conversion.

Who else do you know that can bring you back to life and save your soul from endless Hellfire?  

No one but Claxro.  Keep the letters comin'.

Chafing purply,

Claxro

Green is the new black and blue

I've showed you the numbers. Nothing. I've even written sad poems and printed out pictures of polar bears on small pieces of ice. Nothing. You've left me no choice.

I'm gonna kick your ass.

I will beat you into sustainability. I guess you don't care that your grandchildren will be drowned by a merciless mutant ocean, but let's see if you're so gung-ho about leaving the bathroom light on with my boot in your mouth. My carbon footprint is virtually nonexistant, but my regular footprint is very real, and your face is gonna find that out pretty soon if you don't back off the aerosols.

And I hope you weren't too attached to your tires. Totally slashed. I may have cut your break lines, too; I'm a little hazy on it, but just to be safe, you might want to run out and get a hybrid.

While you're at it, shut the damned furnace. It's not winter yet, pansy. If you think I'm gonna let all life on Earth perish because your weak ass can't handle 45 degree nights, I'll have to drop you like a sack of fertilizer. Fertilizer from nonindustrial cattle.

Leaving your computer on overnight is a great way to earn some bonus punts. I'll also slap you around extra for falling asleep with the TV on. Then I'll backhand you in the throat. I rather dislike you.

Plant some trees or I'll break your nose.
Write your congressman about wind power or I'll break it worse.
Recycle if you like not pissing blood.

You wouldn't listen to the scientists, so we can only hope you'll listen to my brass knuckles. Please be green, or I'll permanently eliminate the carbon emissions from your face - with an all-natural, cage-free ass whoopin'.