Billions and billions served...
April 6, 1999

Before we get to the column, I would like to announce that readership has increased almost 75% since the first sending.  Congratulations, my dark children of the dusky afternoon.  We will soon have enough members to overrun the planet, and capture all the Pok�mon yet.  (I got dibs on Gloom!)

Holy Pina-Colada Bubble Gum! (?)  You may now send even more complaints to my new sys-admin, the Mystifying Grunting Jay.  Soon, he tells me, he will fulfill my request for a computerized plate of nachos as satisfying as the real thing.
     
Although this is good for me, and all humanity in the long run, he is also trying to get a subscribe/unsubscribe service established.  As if you would want to unsubscribe, my little children of the clover.  I suggest you hit him daily with large bric-o-brac until he gets this done.  Don't worry, I have him insured, so whatever damage you do can be poorly fixed. 

For those of you who want the back issues of this little digi-letter, complain to Jay.

And, one more point of Business, a special thanks goes out to the Sweet Briar Moon Pie, for catching my Libby/Liddy slip up.  She wins a complete set of neat-o special edition Seinfeld Chia Pets!  A possible collector's item! Wow! Exclamation point! It comes complete with gravity defying extra curly Chia seeds for Kramer's hair and George's nose.  (I admit that was gross, but only if you admit that you started to laugh.) Also, straight from NASA, the kit includes gravity defying extra sticky seeds for the sides of George's head (Don't think about his nose!  EWWW!)  My lil' Moon pie can collect the award as soon as I procure it and play with it first.

        Now -- may the mighty chimps that are my gods forgive this long introduction -- the disclaimer.

As always, reading this e-mail means I will disavow any responsibility for its effect on you.  I don't want your freakin' mom coming to my house and crying about your broken mind, and how you only mutter in Morse code now.  The following content is simply horrific and it may cause blindness, insanity, and moral self-destruction. 

        (Hey, you were warned! NEAT!)
        (How does one mutter in Morse code?)
        Don't read the following message, ever.


        To Whom It May Concern --

Now, to try and increase readership, I will use one of those disgusting gimmicks that is so gosh darn endearing.  A behind the scenes episode! I feel just like George Lucas, adding extra hype to what is already essentially the Second Coming of Pee-Wee Herman.  (Alright, that was uncalled for.  But don't you just get sick of hearing about Christ coming back?  I got news for you, if Christ does come back it's only going to be good for a few people. The rest of us are going to be in some very serious, very deep, very hot salsa.)
       
Anyway, DAMN GEORGE LUCAS FOR MAKING ME WANT TO GO SEE ~~~the phantom menace~~~ (you like special effects, eh?  It took thirty seven digital artists to get the ~ just right) so badly!  It's like it's not enough I bought both f*cking versions of the last trilogy, and bought it for friends and family. 
       
There is such an abundance of movies and toys that STAR WARS merchandise could replace all forms of currency in the free world, everybody has some defective poorly designed STAR WARS sh*t.  George Lucas, I will dance on your grave after you produce all three movies! For surely, you will be older than Yoda by the time you finish. 

        Enough ranting about George. 
        We now go behind the scenes.

                        ...
        This section deleted.  It wasn't funny.  And you thought there was NO quality control.
                        ...


Well, to prepare for this week's strip I used the ways brought to me by the old gods.  Yes, it was brought to me by an angry little pineapple of a god with an army of wrathful cheese filled weenies that can make a vicious casserole.  (Yum!)
     
I coated myself in the sacred sacrament, a super secret recipe given to me by secret men that is mostly secret ingredients mixed in a secret way. It's so secret, that just telling you means you must never speak of this e-mail or me again.  Print out this e-mail, and eat it.  There is not time to marinate it. Destroy your computer with a hammer, fill it with toothpaste, and let us speak of this only in designated therapy sessions. And possibly at the trial. 
       
So, anyway, I have this recipe for the secret sauce necessary to transcend this bleak reality. (Not the same stuff on a Big Mac mind you.)  I coat myself with it.  No kidding.  I looked like a gingerbread man that someone put in the microwave covered with horse-radish.  It's really unpleasant, and I smell so bad that stray dogs avoid me.
  
Then, to make sure that I received the full power of the gods' insight, I lay face down on the front lawn in the noon sun.  While angry crows pecked at my back and genitals, I was delivered a special message.  It was: "Get up and wash that damn stuff off of you!  You look like a freak!"  Unfortunately, the crows did not let me take the advice of my mommy. (Ever notice how when you think God is talking to you, it's really your mommy?)
The crows managed to peck me unconscious before I could escape indoors.
       
So much for the old gods.  I need to try those new and improved gods sometime.  I hear they come with a digital clock built in.  Now that is useful stuff for a god to have.  I mean, what have the old gods done for me lately?  Nothing.  F*ck, at least the microwave brings me warm food in seconds.  AND it has a digital clock.  That is a true reward of faith.  None of this vague, "After you die," crap. 
       
Seriously, I think religion needs to make a better effort at PR on behalf of their gods.  The last thing anybody did in the theological world was create the universe, that was a long time ago. We want some new stuff, NOW.
       
I personally would feel motivated towards faith if I got some money given to me by God.  He could do it like the Easter bunny.  There's a guy/animal I believe in.  He brings me chocolate reliably every single year.
       
Anyway, God could leave bundles of money around the house for the faithful to find.  50s and 100s only, please.  Those little bills take a long time to count in the necessary amounts.
       
(To those of you that found that last section offensive, TOO BAD!  HA!  It's my column!  Besides, if you're too stupid to catch the satire inherent in the last statement then I don't care what you think anyway!  HA!  Stupid!
       
That's right, I've fallen back on the ancient art of rhetoric known as NAME-CALLING.  It's used by only the finest politicians and diplomats.  How else would you explain that whole KOSOVO thing?)
       
{ARGH!  MORE SATIRE!  thinking . . . too . . . much . . . must have more . . .  fluid jokes . . . }
       
Anyway, while I slept, the mighty grass used its telepathic powers to send me today's secret e-mail. (Ahhh . . . jokes about telepathic plants.  There is safety in ignorance, which I now impart to you.)
      
Aren't you lucky?

                        . . .

I was sick.  I was really sick.  I'm not a complainer when I am sick, but I was really sick.  Because of the intense pain in my head, I decided that the best way to use this time was to regress back to my childhood.  That way, I could at least partially block out the feeling that angry chipmunks were acting out bondage scenes with lots of leather in my head.  It hurt. 
       
I spent most of my time like I did when I was a sick child, reading "Where's Waldo" and drinking screwdrivers through a crazy straw.
       
Makes it hard to find Waldo.  Really.
       
(No satire, but thank GAWD for jokes about drunken school children.  I find staggering and belligerent eight year olds funny.  Don't you?  Sure, they drool more, but they use such cute profanity.
        "My f*cking Barney assed-troll power ranger sh*t f*ck damn!  ARgh . . . my freaking poo-poo tummy.")
       
WAIT!  I have a special bulletin!
       
I found the word "poo-poo" in the actual NEWSPAPER!  First, I checked to make sure it wasn't the name of a Teletubby, (Why are they all named after bodily functions?) and then I ran around the house screaming.
       
This is surely the downfall of literacy in America, when the word POO-POO appears in the pages of our most venerated news source, the WASHINGTON POST.  (HA!  more satire!  Or sarcasm.)

        Anyway.

I think sickness is really a scheme by multi-national corporations to make money.  Think about it.  If they can make us sick, then to make money all they need to do is create drugs that make us un-sick.  "Well."  The government is in on it too, but I can't say anymore here.  Rossewell!  (Yes, I know that is misspelled.  Fox copyrighted the actual spelling.  Sorry.)      
       
Ultra Secret documents show that the common cold was actually an attempt by engineers in the 1930's to develop a bio-chemical night-light that would freshen the air.  I'm not a science major or anything, but I don't think that should have involved any viruses or germs or anything.
       
What could be the truth?
       
(ROSSWEHL! ROOS'_E'_WEHHLLEE!)
       
Back to the scientists.  When their creation turned on them and stalked their wives, they knew they had gone too far.  But, it was too late.  It was quitting time at General Electric, and the engineers had to go home without solving the problem.  If only overtime pay had been available to them.  Darn.
       
Anyway.  (Was that satire or the sad truth?  Too bad!  You'll never know!)
       
Corporations used this to their advantage, hiring the common cold right off the street at minimum wage.  CC ("Common Cold" you pig's intestine!) figured that was the best he could do, since it was the Depression and all.  A similar story is behind the Hallmark-Cupid alliance.  The Saint Valentine's Day Massacre it's called.

        Yeah.
        I was sick.  (WAS?  Did you read that part about the history of the common cold?  WAS?)
        So the column is late. 
        Sorry.

I would have had last week's column to send out, but that was destroyed by my computer.  I think my computer, Larry, is upset about the amount of time I spend with the column, now. He says I don't bring flowers anymore, or rub on his hard drive in the right places.  Is it my fault that he's let himself go and is no longer sexually attractive!?!  I don't think so!
        A-hem. 
        *Cough*
I'm sorry, I didn't mean to drag you into that.  It's just so hard sometimes (Sicko) being alone, with no one to talk with.  I wake up in the middle of the night standing in the bathroom screaming at the Preparation-H to help me figure out what to do with my life.

        It's sad really.

                        . . .

        Ah hell.

I am winding down now, as the voices in my head get bored with my inability to juggle packages of Oreos.
Before I go, I wish to dispense some wisdom that didn't make it into the column, and which I will certainly forget otherwise.

Don't eat the microwave scrapings.  Although yummy, and high in growth inducing radiation, your tummy will never forgive you.  And you may begin to develop an odd smell.  Strange dogs will bite you.
      
        And, I leave you with the wisdom of a lifetime:

        AAAIIIIIIEEE!

        - 5

        (AH!  The mystery S!)

PS: You may send money, and your immortal soul, to me.  If you so choose.  It would help to cover production costs, and it would really improve my day.  Really.  If you can't do that then the least you can do is this: when you see the people that make this madness possible, kick them in the genitals once for me.  (Wink, wink!)

The Mystifying Grunting Jay as Sys-Admin.
The excellent and awe inspiring MK ULTRA.
The Major Editing force, and all around great
    one, my love filled little (Cute pet name
        Here).

This strip is dedicated to the Preparation-H-thanks for helping me through the hard times.

        ...

HEY!  I promise the next strip will be shorter, and sooner.  REALLY!  I PROMISE!

Okay, I lie.  But wouldn't it be nice if it were the truth?