They should have monocle sunglasses

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.

Paranoia

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.

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!

"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.

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'.