If you're interested, and I hope you are, I also write columns for a humor site by the name of twelvepackistan.com . Truth be known, I'm not even sure if this showstopper will be posted there. Sometimes my offerings surpass the word-count they're looking for, and other times the uppity fuckers pass on essays like "Vampire Fight" and "Hair of the Pubic Variety" for reasons my ego will not permit me to understand. This next one is a reworked version of a column I wrote for the Advance-Titan. On a final italic note: I joke about a wide array of strange bull-honkey, but in all honesty, I would love to play a cock-fight-themed video game.
In the nation of Twelvepackistan, we, the contributors, put a high premium on fulfilling the needs of our various demographics. We try to be sensitive to the sensibilities of certain sects of our readership. In a recent column that asserted Led Zeppelin's supremacy in a battle royale of the greatest bands in rock history, Greg took a dismissive swipe at the prog-rock group Styx. Regardless of how you feel about lame and pompously contrived bullshit like “Mr. Roboto,” it cannot be disputed that Greg's terse remarks served to anger and alienate the nerd demographic of this once proud humor web-site. Greg's exclusion of both REO Speedwagon and Starship in the discussion of superlative rock bands further inspired the ire of Twelvepackistan's nerd demographic.
Styx supporters, please, stop waving those plastic light-sabers around, pretending the thin air you're swiping through is Greg's jugular vein. There's no need to gnash your teeth and utter the words “Vile Fiend!” while beating your bony fists against the bean-bag you've been sleeping on ever since that pet iguana of yours squirted diarrhea all over the love-seat. Nick is here to mollify all the indignant nerds who were offended by Greg's anti-Styx stance.
In an act of comic contrition, my aim is to propose some guidelines for a cockfight-themed video game. Nerds everywhere are in agreement: It would be sweet if such a game really existed. Unfortunately, I lack the rampant acne, hunchback posture, and wet-cardboard-smelling body odor known to all video game designers, so I don't have the wherewithal to actually create this game. But I've got faith that one of our readers does, and we're glad to have you on board for this one, poindexter. Feel free to run with the basic blueprints to “Pulverizing Pollos.”
Here is a list of clever character names: Pepi, the Peruvian Peck Technician; Miguel, the Mucho Gusto Rooster; Sir Winston Cluckworth the Fourth, Cock-Master Nine-Thousand; Chachi, the Chicano Chicken; the Wingspan Caravan; Jose Ray, the Half-Pint Pinto Powerhouse; the El Guapo Bopper; and Kenny “The Kentucky-Fried Southern Pride” McBride.
Let's move on to the attack commands. There are four basic attacks: the Jugular Jab, the Beak Bludgeon, the Drunken Tracheotomy, and of course the...
Whoa, what's this? Sorry for the holdup in hilarity, reader, but I just received a telegram. Hmmm. The word “Urgent” is scrawled on the envelope. Damn, I'd better read this. Feel free to get a snack or scratch your genitals, okay? This will only take a minute.
All right, I made short work of that saliva seal. Now I'm reaching inside the envelope and unfolding the letter. (Editor's note: This is Bush League.) Interesting. It's a letter from my fictitious aunt Olla. I haven't heard from her in quite a while.
Oh, God. (Gulp.) No, no, no. Why? My fictitious Uncle Orpheus, he's...DEAD. No! Why do bad things happen to alcoholic uncles? I'm going to shout at the heavens. God, you unfathomable cosmic prankster, why didn't you take my goldfish instead?! It's not like I feed him on a regular basis, anyway. Oh—the plight of it all!
Okay, pull yourself together, man. You're neck-deep in a dynamite column that simply wandered off-track due to an unforeseeable tragedy. Don't let the reader see you cry. Never let the reader see you cry.
(Exasperated sigh.) Sorry, Styx fans, the “Pulverizing Pollos” ditty will have to be postponed. Right now I've got to grieve the only way I know how: by writing an uproarious obituary.
Styx supporters, please, stop waving those plastic light-sabers around, pretending the thin air you're swiping through is Greg's jugular vein. There's no need to gnash your teeth and utter the words “Vile Fiend!” while beating your bony fists against the bean-bag you've been sleeping on ever since that pet iguana of yours squirted diarrhea all over the love-seat. Nick is here to mollify all the indignant nerds who were offended by Greg's anti-Styx stance.
In an act of comic contrition, my aim is to propose some guidelines for a cockfight-themed video game. Nerds everywhere are in agreement: It would be sweet if such a game really existed. Unfortunately, I lack the rampant acne, hunchback posture, and wet-cardboard-smelling body odor known to all video game designers, so I don't have the wherewithal to actually create this game. But I've got faith that one of our readers does, and we're glad to have you on board for this one, poindexter. Feel free to run with the basic blueprints to “Pulverizing Pollos.”
Here is a list of clever character names: Pepi, the Peruvian Peck Technician; Miguel, the Mucho Gusto Rooster; Sir Winston Cluckworth the Fourth, Cock-Master Nine-Thousand; Chachi, the Chicano Chicken; the Wingspan Caravan; Jose Ray, the Half-Pint Pinto Powerhouse; the El Guapo Bopper; and Kenny “The Kentucky-Fried Southern Pride” McBride.
Let's move on to the attack commands. There are four basic attacks: the Jugular Jab, the Beak Bludgeon, the Drunken Tracheotomy, and of course the...
Whoa, what's this? Sorry for the holdup in hilarity, reader, but I just received a telegram. Hmmm. The word “Urgent” is scrawled on the envelope. Damn, I'd better read this. Feel free to get a snack or scratch your genitals, okay? This will only take a minute.
All right, I made short work of that saliva seal. Now I'm reaching inside the envelope and unfolding the letter. (Editor's note: This is Bush League.) Interesting. It's a letter from my fictitious aunt Olla. I haven't heard from her in quite a while.
Oh, God. (Gulp.) No, no, no. Why? My fictitious Uncle Orpheus, he's...DEAD. No! Why do bad things happen to alcoholic uncles? I'm going to shout at the heavens. God, you unfathomable cosmic prankster, why didn't you take my goldfish instead?! It's not like I feed him on a regular basis, anyway. Oh—the plight of it all!
Okay, pull yourself together, man. You're neck-deep in a dynamite column that simply wandered off-track due to an unforeseeable tragedy. Don't let the reader see you cry. Never let the reader see you cry.
(Exasperated sigh.) Sorry, Styx fans, the “Pulverizing Pollos” ditty will have to be postponed. Right now I've got to grieve the only way I know how: by writing an uproarious obituary.
This one is dedicated to my Uncle Orpheus. He could sometimes act like a decent man, but that was usually done as a ruse to dupe the elderly into signing up for one of his pyramid schemes.
His proud shock of frizzy blond hair never faded to gray because he dunked his head in bleach water to sober up each and every morning. He was a gaseous man, bloated with life, who lost two fingers in Vietnam while proving to his fellow soldiers that he could indeed slam dunk the height of the whirring blades on the chopper that transported his unit. He had a palate for Cheese Wiz and schnapps, and he died before he even got the chance to exist.
Uncle Orpheus was an unpredictable vagabond whose travels were driven by an insatiable wanderlust as well as warrants for his arrest in various counties, states, and countries. Back in 2002, he crusaded across Europe in a minivan. He coined his campaign “Y'all Sound Gay When You Speak Your Native Language!” To this day it is recognized as the least effective and most offensive crusade for a global vernacular.
Up until five paragraphs ago, I had planned to spend the next few months with him in Australia. He always said it took money to buy booze, especially in excess. Excess for Uncle Orpheus required a six-figure income to support his habit. For that reason he was not content with an ordinary job. No, he was a dreamer who flirted with Lady Greatness only to have his libido subdued and crushed by three shots of schnapps at bar-close time.
His ambition Down Under was to found the Koala Bear Wrestling Federation. Ausies are fairly sophisticated and far too uppity to indulge in idiotic “sports” such as pro-wrestling. Grown men feigning violence in colorful tights? It's bloody ridiculous, they say. In Australia, they leave the sports entertainment to the koalas...only the violence is very real.
My job was to be costume designer for the koalas. Just like our country's humanoid grapplers, wrestling koalas are required to wear gaudy ensembles. Now, to some of my skeptical readers, I'm sure the notion of a koala clad in a purple Speedo with skull-and-crossbones stitched onto the crotch seems absurd. To those gripers my response is, “Would you prefer a NAKED koala? Gross!”
Had Uncle Orpheus not choked on a doobie made from parasite-ridden Eucalyptus leaves, he would have been in charge of marketing and training in the KBWF. As Head Trainer of the koala bears, he intended to convert a gentle species of herbivores into malicious brawlers capable of wielding steel chairs for entertainment purposes.
His untimely death has devastated my job prospects. As any economist will tell you, the job market for Koala Bear Speedo Designer is dire in America. My only recourse may be to set up a pyramid scheme that tricks the elderly into blowing their retirement money on Hummel figurines for autistic blind children.
But let's not dwell on that. In times of mourning, it is essential to recall the good things a departed loved-one has imparted on your life.
Case in point: The family reunion a few years ago. Uncle Orpheus showed up with his jaw wired shut. The previous week he had fractured his jaw after trying to “unscrew a pesky bottle of champagne” with his clenched teeth. What's even worse, he wasn't even holding a bottle of bubbly at the time; it was a damn bowling pin and he was too wasted off his ass to realize the difference. With his jaw wired shut, he couldn't partake in festivities such as Grandma's Beer Bong Challenge and Uncle Orville's Racial Slur Bonanza. He became envious of everyone in attendance and ordered me to dump out his bag of mushy “astronaut food” and replace it with some schnapps. He intended to consume it little by little through a straw, but I refused to accommodate.
At this point an indignant rage consumed Uncle Orpheus. He grabbed a nearby Scattegories die and hurled it at my head. I ducked just in time. The die flew over my head and cracked against my grandma's right temple. The feisty old woman's response was to chug a large quantity of German Potato Salad, which has a Popeye/ spinach effect on her. She charged Uncle Orpheus with a Jenga box packed with blocks and pummeled the hell out of him.
“I sunk your battleship, son!” grandma slurred. Her timely line didn't make much sense, but we all shared a hearty laugh, anyway.
And that is what I try to remember most about my semi-beloved fictitious uncle: the laughter. Upon your cremation, I vow to spread your ashes across the vast cyberspace of Twelvepackistan...unless Greg deems this column unfunny or too long, in which case, you're shit out of luck.
Oh, and by the way, for the sake of closure, the final attack command for “Pulverizing Pollos” is the Feather Duster.
His proud shock of frizzy blond hair never faded to gray because he dunked his head in bleach water to sober up each and every morning. He was a gaseous man, bloated with life, who lost two fingers in Vietnam while proving to his fellow soldiers that he could indeed slam dunk the height of the whirring blades on the chopper that transported his unit. He had a palate for Cheese Wiz and schnapps, and he died before he even got the chance to exist.
Uncle Orpheus was an unpredictable vagabond whose travels were driven by an insatiable wanderlust as well as warrants for his arrest in various counties, states, and countries. Back in 2002, he crusaded across Europe in a minivan. He coined his campaign “Y'all Sound Gay When You Speak Your Native Language!” To this day it is recognized as the least effective and most offensive crusade for a global vernacular.
Up until five paragraphs ago, I had planned to spend the next few months with him in Australia. He always said it took money to buy booze, especially in excess. Excess for Uncle Orpheus required a six-figure income to support his habit. For that reason he was not content with an ordinary job. No, he was a dreamer who flirted with Lady Greatness only to have his libido subdued and crushed by three shots of schnapps at bar-close time.
His ambition Down Under was to found the Koala Bear Wrestling Federation. Ausies are fairly sophisticated and far too uppity to indulge in idiotic “sports” such as pro-wrestling. Grown men feigning violence in colorful tights? It's bloody ridiculous, they say. In Australia, they leave the sports entertainment to the koalas...only the violence is very real.
My job was to be costume designer for the koalas. Just like our country's humanoid grapplers, wrestling koalas are required to wear gaudy ensembles. Now, to some of my skeptical readers, I'm sure the notion of a koala clad in a purple Speedo with skull-and-crossbones stitched onto the crotch seems absurd. To those gripers my response is, “Would you prefer a NAKED koala? Gross!”
Had Uncle Orpheus not choked on a doobie made from parasite-ridden Eucalyptus leaves, he would have been in charge of marketing and training in the KBWF. As Head Trainer of the koala bears, he intended to convert a gentle species of herbivores into malicious brawlers capable of wielding steel chairs for entertainment purposes.
His untimely death has devastated my job prospects. As any economist will tell you, the job market for Koala Bear Speedo Designer is dire in America. My only recourse may be to set up a pyramid scheme that tricks the elderly into blowing their retirement money on Hummel figurines for autistic blind children.
But let's not dwell on that. In times of mourning, it is essential to recall the good things a departed loved-one has imparted on your life.
Case in point: The family reunion a few years ago. Uncle Orpheus showed up with his jaw wired shut. The previous week he had fractured his jaw after trying to “unscrew a pesky bottle of champagne” with his clenched teeth. What's even worse, he wasn't even holding a bottle of bubbly at the time; it was a damn bowling pin and he was too wasted off his ass to realize the difference. With his jaw wired shut, he couldn't partake in festivities such as Grandma's Beer Bong Challenge and Uncle Orville's Racial Slur Bonanza. He became envious of everyone in attendance and ordered me to dump out his bag of mushy “astronaut food” and replace it with some schnapps. He intended to consume it little by little through a straw, but I refused to accommodate.
At this point an indignant rage consumed Uncle Orpheus. He grabbed a nearby Scattegories die and hurled it at my head. I ducked just in time. The die flew over my head and cracked against my grandma's right temple. The feisty old woman's response was to chug a large quantity of German Potato Salad, which has a Popeye/ spinach effect on her. She charged Uncle Orpheus with a Jenga box packed with blocks and pummeled the hell out of him.
“I sunk your battleship, son!” grandma slurred. Her timely line didn't make much sense, but we all shared a hearty laugh, anyway.
And that is what I try to remember most about my semi-beloved fictitious uncle: the laughter. Upon your cremation, I vow to spread your ashes across the vast cyberspace of Twelvepackistan...unless Greg deems this column unfunny or too long, in which case, you're shit out of luck.
Oh, and by the way, for the sake of closure, the final attack command for “Pulverizing Pollos” is the Feather Duster.
