The Truth About Puppies

They should have monocle sunglasses

2009-03-15T10:51:00.001-07:00

Combining the sophistication of a snooty Victorian villain with the pizazz of a hipster in a movie theater, monocle sunglasses would make even the flabbiest of computer guys look like a sexerrific murder master. If you see some fatass coding, you'll think he's hacking World of Warcraft. Give him a sunglasses monocle, and all of a sudden, he's hacking the CIA, and he probably has a twirly mustache.

This works with any profession, too. Let's try architect. Fatass with blueprints: building a McDonalds. Fatass with blueprints and one eye that's fine even in bright lights: building the Fortress of Solitude. More like the Fortress of Baller-tude, am I right?

You can also use monocle sunglasses to become mysterious. Pop one of those bad boys in, and then stare at the sun for a few days. Then when people show you what their fortune cookies say, you can reply, "I'm sorry, you'll have to hold it up to my good eye." They'll be all, "what?"

And what about people with one glass eye? Should they really have to waste their hard earned money on a lens they'll never use? I think not.

My buddy told me that they probably already have these, and I was like, awesome.

Acceptance

2009-02-08T22:02:00.001-08:00

Some people think that unicorns are real, and I'm at peace with that. I completely accept that there exists a small population of non-baby-girl humans who firmly believe that these things are out there, and we're just having a hard time finding what basically amounts to a serrated horse. I get it. It's fine.

Some people say that there are succubuses. Demon chicks who come from hell to sex you up in the middle of the night. I can't even get the girl from down the street to feel my moustache, I'm not about to believe that there are ladies willing to travel from other planes of existence for my clumsy, ill-practiced touch. But some folks think otherwise, and that's cool, too. I won't judge you.

Ever heard of psychics? Those still exist. Basically, you pay cash money to hang out with some chick with "second sight." I don't care how many sights a lady's got, prostitution is prostitution. So you go to this wrinkled magic prostitute, and she's like, your grandma says "What's shakin?" Then she plays solitaire and tells you how you're gonna die. Not even a handjob. Unbelievable. But they stay in business, and to those who make it so, I say, I accept your alternative lifestyle.

The Direct Ratio of its WINtolerability

2009-02-01T21:08:00.000-08:00

I put my foot on the gas and jerk off and call it fasterbation because I live for puns. One time I ran over a pedestrian in front of a sporting goods store; ran inside and bought a Lakers jersey to dress her in before the cops showed up just so I could say it was a shaqcident. They still locked me up, but it was alright, cuz I had a pocket full of nightcrawlers that I got to refer to as jailbait for five years without interruption until my cellmate hung himself.

People say they don't get me, and I tell them that they're gonna "get me" for Christmas, which isn't exactly a pun, but by this point they're usually too exasperated to call me on it. They usually just (pun)ch me in the face until blood sprays out my mouth, but that's fine as long as I'm near wet dirt, cuz then I get to call the ground Hermione cuz it's, uh, mudblood, kinda. Puns don't have to be good, they just have to be soul wrenching. Like James Brown building a spice rack, but using an odd choice of tools, because, I dunno, I guess his neighbor borrowed his hammer and never gave it back but he can't go get it now because his neighbor's on vacation or something.

Top Ten Reasons Why I'm So Healthy

2009-01-26T23:14:00.000-08:00

10) Unprotected sex with cheap whores is great cardio.

9) Never calling your loved ones on their birthdays is an antioxident.

8) Wine is still good for your circulation even if you fill it with meth, butter, and porn.

7) Flintstones vitamins and Q rings, 3 meals a day.

6) Laughter is the best medicine and a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down, so all ailments are promptly treated with Laffy Taffy injections.

5) Cigarettes are a vegetable.

4) Centuries of medical research extol the benefits of blood-letting and therefore My Chemical Romance, and I think Black Parade is the greatest album of our generation.

3) Yellow snow gots mad Vitamin A.

2) I once doinked this classy broad.

1) I am a genie.

(Uh-oh, I feel a sneeze coming on. Go get me my Bubble Tape tourniquet.)

FAQ: Religion

2009-01-20T04:05:00.000-08:00

(I wanna faq you like an animal.)

Q:
If one can pray to Jesus to confess one's sins, what is the role of confession in the Church?

A:
Jesus is just Vishnu for noobs. Vishnu created the universe, but Jesus couldn't do likewise and had to get his Dad to build one for him like some last minute science fair. The dude was a freaking carpenter, for Chrissakes! Get some plywood, some thumbtacks, and some goddamned elbow grease and make your own fucking Creation.

Also, double the hands means twice the jugglin.

Q:
Why would God allow His own Creations to rebel against Him?

A:
Some people say Jesus was black. Others insist he was white. Vishnu, on the other hand, is dark blue. Or shapeless, when he feels like it. Vishnu 1, Jesus 0. White and black suck.
Vishnu's appearance should dictate the new norm for newborns: little boys get their rooms painted dark blue, girls are thrown into the void. Welcome to sci-fi China. Vishnu rules.

Q:
Can you recommend something in a chrome "What Would Jesus Do?" drinking straw?

A:
No, but I'll tell you what Vishnu would do: he'd grab twice as much stuff. All his friends call him up when they need help moving, and he has lots of friends because he is dark freaking blue. Have you ever seen the Blue Man Group? Those guys bathe in admiration; they can't hitch up their pants without making a friend for life.

Diseasy Like Sunday Mornin'

2009-01-11T19:28:00.000-08:00

My cousin suffers from social anxiety disorder, a condition where you bust my lip open because you don't know any better. Ever since that day when I was five years old and she supposedly called dibs on the jungle gym on the ride over but I really don't think it counts if I didn't hear you say it, Tammy - since that day, I've known the true terror of disorders, diseases, syndromes, conditions, and their myriad, nigh-synonymous brethren.

And yet here we are, in the twenty-something^th century, and we still turn the other cheek while all these carcinojerks keep sicking it up like it's plague night at the Renaissance Faire! Don't get me wrong; I'm not saying that the sick are bad people per se, I'm just saying that cancer's probably contagious if you fall asleep with your hand on it.

Everything's a disease. You don't have stankmouth, you have halitosis; yep, your halito is inflamed, or something. Halito being the hole out of which your tongue farts, I guess. I'm not sure how it happens, I just know I was a lot happier before I knew that my toothpaste was medicine.

You got sick, huh? Whaddaya gonna do about it? Go to the hospital? Oh, sorry; didn't you hear? There's hospital disease now. Staph infection, they call it. Staph infection is basically like if the ceilings in dentists' offices periodically rained mouth-sized bowling balls. And sorry, buddy, but the "ph" at the end doesn't make it sound any less like vd.

For your consideration: flesh eating virus. Holy shit. The only illness that will kill you the same way as a bear. I guess on the seventh day of creation, God's mom wouldn't let him rest and was all like "You've gotta spruce up your diorama!" so he's like "I know; I'll make bears that are too small to shoot." Holy shit.

And let's stop it with the illness euphemisms, huh? "I have a cold." No you don't. Cold is an adjective, and you are not a lolcat. If a slight ailment is a cold, Stephen Hawking should go around telling people he's got a fuckin' freezing.

One time an ill-advised ladyfriend tried to turn me on by singing "You Give me Fever"; everything went hazy, and I woke up about an hour later on the sidewalk with half of her brain in my pocket.

Commercial Break: This Thing, This Sandwich

2009-01-09T04:40:00.001-08:00

I just mention the food, and you feel the juices in your mouth. It's that good. One bite of this thing, this sandwich, and your life will never be the same. You'll finish it up and immediately run out for a brand new haircut. You'll be driving a Harley by the end of the month. That's how good this sandwich is. You will wake up with piercings.

It starts with the lettuce, and right off the bat, I know what you're thinking. There's nothing hardcore about lettuce, and maybe that was true before the invention of the fryalator, but nowadays, hold on to your socks, Brock. This lettuce is going to blow your mind. Your surgeon will find salad in your arteries. That's the kind of lettuce we're dealing with, and hell no, it doesn't stop there. Then there's the bacon, and now I know what you're thinking, but you know me, so shut up with your doubts. It's good bacon.

Then, the cold cuts. Oh, the cold cuts. Have you ever had ham? Of course you have. Have you ever had ham deep fried in boiling whipped cream? Didn't think so. No one has, no one but me, but you will has too once you eat this. It's fantastic. I really can't recommend it enough. And do you seriously think I'd leave you hanging with only one cold cut? No. No, you do not. There are types of cheese that I've never even heard of outside the context of this sandwich, in this sandwich. And don't be stupid; you know they're fried too. I'm not even sure what they're fried in; there's this vat of unidentifiable shit that I found under the sink one time, it's pinkish green, and it smells like nothing you've ever smelled in your life, but goddamn if it don't do something to this cheese that makes it a wet dream for your salivary gland. Or glands, I'm no doctor. Anyway, lots of cheese. And then more meats. Obviously; I take care of you. The first meat that appears below this mountain of congealed bovine secretions is salami, and I know what you're thinking, but you know what I'm thinking too so you know that's the best damned salami that anyone's ever tasted. I cover it in ham, and I know that there's already ham, but never before have you eaten a salami-pouch made of ham. It's fantastic. Then I killed my landlord, and he's under the salami. He too is deep fried, though that one was really out of necessity. I bet you've never had crunchy landlord before. I have. I have been to the top of crunchy landlord mountain, and I proclaim unto ye all that it is tasty. Tasty like pastry. Except fattier.

Where was I?

Oh yeah, prison.

Psych.

Under the landlord is corn. This isn't any ordinary corn, though. It's beefed corn. You've had corned beef, who hasn't, but you've never even seen beefed corn. It will pass through your stomach into your bloodstream, and you will have all these tiny pieces of corn stuck in your occipital lobe. You will see corn when you dream, it's that freaking good. You think I'm shitting you here? Fuck yourself. My sandwich could kick your sandwich's ass with half it's salami tied behind its landlord.

Then there's bologna, but you don't care, you already want this sandwich. I say it, you taste it. You pay me money, I take that money, make more sandwiches. It's a symbiotic relationship. Me, you, and sandwiches. The way God intended.

The Sad

2009-01-02T00:55:00.000-08:00

I went to a restaurant
And ordered the sad.
It was the best sad
That I've ever had.

The salad had toppings
Of wife-left-me croutons,
And tranny-I-accident-
ly put the moves on.

The lettuce was weepy,
The dressing sucked ass,
Like really deep sadness
That may never pass.

The main course was splendid
Juicy but well-done,
A big slab of baseball
Coach groping my son,

The seasoning perfect,
A sprinkling of dill,
A sweet side of sobbing
And therapy bill.

It sits in the stomach,
But can't reach the ass,
Some real heavy sadness
You know just won't pass.

Though already bloated,
Dessert I did get:
A big fart that sounded,
Uh-oh! too wet.

Delicious, of course,
But I don't feel quite right.
This kind of whipped cream
Keeps you shitting all night.

Quality Cinema: "Brie Are The Champions"

2008-12-27T07:50:00.000-08:00

For years, I’ve been waiting for a movie about cheese overcoming its tribulations. So I was very excited when I went to the theater to see "Brie Are The Champions"; I even bought the “extra-excited” popcorn, you know, the one that comes with a windshield. That’s how excited I was.

So I sit down, right? In the front row. Because I’m thinking, I have two choices: be near cheese, or be far from cheese. Some choice, right? So I’m in the front row, and I hear someone say to their girlfriend, or dad, or something: “I don’t even like cheese. I’m here for the Champions.”

That got me thinking, as I munched on my windshield. What if this movie has more to do with Champions than cheese? That’s not the film I paid to see. And then, what am I going to do about being in the front row? Sure I want to be near cheese, but not Champions; Champions are sweaty, and they can probably beat me up; otherwise, I’d be a champion, and I’m not. This one time, I tried to be a Champion. Didn’t happen.

The lights go out, and the previews start. They were okay, but no cheese. I sort of thought that they would think, wow, we’ve got the cheese-loving populace in front of the screen, let’s advertise some cheese-related cinema. But no. And now I’m panicking. Some of the previews alluded to winning, training, sweating, and other activities that are evocative of Champions. But none of them dealt with curdling, growing mold, or being in sandwiches! There will be no cheese in this movie, I think to myself. I should have watched the trailer first, I’m so stupid and I should have watched the trailer and there will be no cheese in this movie. And all of a sudden, I can’t feel my face.

As the cheeseless previews rolled by, one by one by one, I think I started to lose my cool. I kept thinking that if I could make a quick sacrifice to the pharaoh, he would rewrite the movie so that it’s about cheese. Then I said to myself, “Hey! You listen to me. You just sit here, and you—” but I didn’t get to finish, because the person behind me shushed me and kicked me in the back of the head.

I came to about a minute later, and the movie had already started. It turns out that it was, in fact, about cheese after all. Duh, really. I mean, come on: "Brie Are The Champions?" Duh.

The movie was decent, but the topless scenes were great.

Paranoia

2008-12-16T18:37:00.000-08:00

I am terrified of ending up paranoid. One time I woke up and I was almost sure I was paranoid; things got heavy for a bit.

Everyday when I get up, I stare at myself in the mirror for an hour or two. I look at me and I say, "You're paranoid, aren't you?" I usually don't answer, and I stop just short of beating the retched truth out of me. Nights are the same. Not sleeping so much these days.

Also, there are cameras sewn into my underpants and let me tell you, that's not making things easier.

And then there...wait. Wait. Shit.

I have to go.

Good Greetings (of Doom)

2008-12-11T04:26:00.000-08:00

I have a report that I wish to deliver personally unto all of our loyal pods this fine splinter's evening.

I am about to reveal the biggest conspiracy since the people at Kleenex invented masturbation to destroy the handkerchief industry. I'm writing about, as I'm sure you all know, fifty words per minute, as I lack basic digital dexterity. However, in doing so, I am communicating to you all a message about aliens.

Half of the US Senate is extra terrestrials.

There, I said it.

Unlike most claims of conspiracies, this is not theory. I know, because I am in on it. They promised me all the ginger ale I could snort; I'm not a robot.

If you have ever voted, driven a car, or even smelled jumper cables, you have an implant in your brain telling you what to do, and, when everything falls into place, there will be no ginger ale left for any of us. I will kill it with my mouth.

That is all.

No it's not. I also have to tell you why I sold out our species for ginger ale. I *love* ginger ale. - THE EDITOR

Ask Claxro!

2008-12-06T22:53:00.000-08:00

Hey man,

I don't wanna get into details here, but I'm pretty sure I'm mustard. I'm not usually mustard, just for the record. That's not my style. I just...oh God. Oh God, man. Please. Just...just tell me I'm not mustard, man.

Tangily,
kthxbye

---

Dear kthxbye,

You're not mustard. You know how I know? No mustard on the letter you sent me! Mustard would never have been tidy enough to not get mustard everywhere.

Dodged a bullet this time, didn't you, buddy? If there's a "next time," try looking in the mirror. Are you yellow and runny? If not, you're safe. If so, don't panic yet; you may just be yolk.

If it does turn out that you are in fact mustard, it's not the end of the world! You can have hours of fun by bullying ketchup (who I hear is very sensitive about his dad's overbite!), and you know that one kid down at the junior high who hates mustard? Hide in his burger. His hormones are going crazy right now, so who knows, you may even make him cry! ~~I know I do.~~

In conclusion, trip fewer balls.

Preening gradually,
Claxro

EDTRODUCTION

2008-11-29T04:23:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-24T04:15:00.000-08:00

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.

2008-11-19T05:08:00.001-08:00

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

2008-11-15T02:18:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-14T01:59:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-13T04:00:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-11T04:08:00.000-08:00

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!

2008-11-08T20:13:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-07T03:32:00.000-08:00

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'.