So, as all of you already undoubtedly know, the Spanish government has decided to grant human rights and citizenship to apes, based on the fact that they share a great deal of DNA with us, they’re cuter than most of us, their poop-throwing skillz are vastly superior to those of most Spaniards nowadays, and of course the fact that once they count as citizens, the Spanish government will be able to take up to 70% of their bananas and tire swings in annual taxes.  Some may say that this is a bad idea because apes aren’t really intelligent (though if intelligence became a requirement for citizenship, we would probably see our list of registered voters drastically shortened, to say nothing of pretty much cleaning out congress), other say that if we allow apes citizenship, then it will be merely a matter of time before the Spanish government starts granting human rights to other lower life forms, such as turnips, stoats, and boy bands.  And some just think the whole thing is retarded.  The truth, however, is that far beyond merely being an exercise in doofusulosity, this could be the beginning of the end for humanity. 

            For you see, the three sorts of apes the Spanish plan of granting full equality are chimps, gorillas, and orangutans, the very same three species that took over the world in Planet of the Apes, (The good one, not the new one with Marky Mark and the Monkey Bunch).  Indeed, no sooner shall the Spanish have ratified this new law, than apes from all over the world shall leave their homelands and immigrate to Spain, where they will quickly form a large and fanatical voting bloc, quickly overwhelming the native population and establish a new ape government.

            But it won’t stop there, because as we all know, apes, like Osama bin Laden and the Olsen twins are not merely content to rule over their separate empires of eternal darkness, performing catchy musicals and kicking babies, but inevitably turn their boundless ire to the one object in the universe which they hate above all others: The Statue of Liberty.  Yes, the first thing that the apes may be relied upon to do as soon as they take control of the EU will be to attack America, land of freedom that it is.

            Perhaps you doubt that apes hate us that much.  Remember how at the end of Planet of the Apes Charleston Heston was all walking along the beach and found that it was Earth all along?  He thought it was at least like, a thousand years in the future, but alas, all that had transpired had really taken like, two weeks.  The ape rebellion has begun, and if we hope to preserve the Statue of Liberty for future generations of Americans, that they too may be protected by it from the vile machinations of Vigo the Carpathian, we must act without delay.

            My plan, audacious though it may sound, is, I believe, the best chance we have to stop this madness with a relatively modest, yet totally awesome, amount of gratuitous violence.  I propose that we hire the two greatest ape fighters that America has to offer, Charleton Heston himself, veteran bane of the apes that he is, and Dick Cheney, whose army of robo-baboons and unparalleled shooting people in the face abilities make him nigh unstoppable as well.  These two must immediately disguise themselves as 19^th century opera divas and work their way to Spain on a tramp steamer.  Once there, they’ll lure all the apes out of hiding and into the open by building a humorously large fiberglass banana and hanging it from a helicopter, which they will then fly out over the Strait of Gibraltar, which Charleton Heston will have caused to turn into dry land, thanks to his divine mastery over the elements.  Once the army of apes runs out after the aforementioned banana, Charleton Heston need merely withdraw his providential hand, at which point the ape army shall be drowned and, just for good measure, shot in the face by Dick Cheney, who has at last mastered the art of the Hadoken.  After this, universal peace and harmony will soon follow, as the stars of the heavens come into perfect alignment and all the nations of the world at last agree that football is actually that sort where you where a helmet and score touchdowns, while the one with a black and white ball and really low scoring shall hereafter be known as “curling”.  Gummi bears shall rain from the sky and everyone who won an Oscar this part year will be eaten by trolls.

            When I was little, and I saw that episode of Next Generation where Picard gets borgled, I always wondered why he kept saying “I am so cute as a borg.”  I mean, obviously he was, he didn’t need to keep pointing it out, like Riker was going to be all like, “Darn right you’re so cute as a borg, girlfriend!”

            I was at the bank, and they had a sign which read, “It’s always a good thing to save for a goal!” But what if your goal is something evil, like committing genocide, or buying a bunch of Partridge Family records?  Good job First Market, way to encourage financing for evil.

            I saw a Mercedes the other day, the plate of which said MB OF R3.  Mere words cannot express how relieved I am to know that not only have The Monkey Butlers of Richard the Third come back to Richmond, but they’re apparently traveling in style.

            You know how they have fat camp for the portly youth of today, where they go and earn like, I dunno, fat merit badges, and study fat lore, and fat basket making?  They need a camp like that for kids with ADD and call it concentration camp.  And they’ll learn all sorts of good study skills and like, ways to help them pay attention in class and stuff.  Also, it’d be fun to tell kids who were acting up, “Timmy, if you don’t stop fidgeting this very moment I’m going to send you to concentration camp!”  That would wunderbar.

            There’s apparently a coastal plant called Diablo Buckwheat.  Nothing I can add to that could possibly make it any funnier than it is already.

            I saw a boat being towed down 95 the other day called “Bound for Pleasure.”  There’s just something wrong with society these days when someone can go and take their freakily-named S&M boat down a public interstate like that without some decent-minded citizen setting them on fire, though they’d probably enjoy it anyway.  Freaks.

            There’s a barber shop in the mall called Mr. Nick’s.  You know, if you’re going to be shaving people, maybe your name oughtn’t be Mr. Nick.  At least Abercrombie & Fitch had the good sense to change their name from Mr. Make You Look Like a Three Dollar Ho, take a page from their book, Mr. Nick.

            Barnes & Noble had a book called, “The Book of the Dead.”  So I got all excited, because I love the Dead.  I opened it up though, and it was just full of pictures of mummies and skulls and Bob Dole and stuff, no Jerry Garcia anywhere.  I was severiously disappointed, to say the least.

            They say if you buy an animal and plan on killing/eating it, you shouldn’t name it first.  That can cut both ways though.  Sure, your kids’ll hate you if you get an axe and go out into the backyard to kill Mr. Buttons, but say you got say, a sheep and named it after something unspeakably evil, that’d only make it easier to kill it.  “Where’s my gun woman, I’m a going out in the yard to shoot Paris Hilton!” “But Cletus, you only bought her yesterday!”  “I said, ‘where’s my gun?’”

            The other day I saw Saruman out hiking on the trails at Henricus.  That’s great and all, I just hope he’s not breeding orcs with goblin men back there; we’ve already got enough of that going on down at the boat landing.

            If Ted Danson ever learns how to read and decides to write an autobiography, it had better be called, “Danson in the Moonlight.”

            There’s a restaurant in Carytown, and their sign says, among other things, “We’ve got a Patio!”  Like, in quotes, just like that, which strikes me as really weird, assuming it’s just a regular patio.  I mean, quotes are for saying stuff like, “Our priority is quality!”  or, “Putting the pug in pugilism!”  So unless it’s like, the metaphorical patio of good customer service, I think it’s time someone taught them a lesson.  In grammar.

            It is a generally accepted fact that as role models go, Barbie leaves a lot to be desired, insofar as presenting girls with positive and empowering notions of what women are capable of in this world.  It is similarly acknowledged by all the cool kids of the sociology scene that He-Man, as a general rule, is not a cartoon particularly noted for instilling in its viewers the qualities which make one a well-rounded and badass global citizen.  But, how often does anyone ever take the time to compare the two, each on its own terms, in the view of determining which is in fact doing a better of job raising our children whilst we’re all off playing quoits and drinking absinthe?  Fear not, ye funky readers, for today, I shall do just that, the better that a few loathesome and wlatsome myths may be laid to rest like Zombie Chester A. Arthur.

            First, let’s take a look at their respective family situations.  Barbie has no parents, has been dating Ken (who, it just so happens, is a eunuch) for approximately a brazillion years, and other than occasionally taking the time to be a sterling example of sluttiness for Skipper, is the very epitome of everything that most parents (except for Scientologists, of course) want their little girl to be.  He-Man, on the other hand, is constantly looking out for his parents, King Randor and Queen Whatshername.  He’s put of college and further career plans just so that he can stay home and look after the family business (in this case, fighting Skeletor and growing soybeans).  And how many brothers would drop everything and travel to a completely different and unicorn-infested dimension just to help your sister fight a pig man?  He-Man would (and, as my sister would surely tell you, so would I).

            Now onto the matter of accepting those who are different from yourself.  Barbie has like, a hundred and fifty friends, all of whom look exactly like her.  Barbie doesn’t make friends with fat chicks, or people with less than ideal complexions, nor with anybody whose feet are anatomically constructed for anything other than high heels, nor black people.  And of course, the doors in the Barbie dream house are all too narrow for Barbie’s one handicapped pity friend to fit her wheelchair through (which also explains why we’re all still waiting for that Barbie/Professor X crossover).  He-Man on the other hand, hangs out with nobody except for freaks.  Just about everybody in his posse save for his immediate family and girlfriend has something blatantly non-standard about their physiognomy.  In fact, it can be pretty much completely assumed that if you’re one of He-Man’s homies, then you’ve got like, a giant battle hand that makes you fall over, or maybe you have a mechanical neck that lets you, you know, look over stuff, or maybe you’re just a giant bee.  Whatever the case, He-Man loves you anyway, and not even in that condescendingly patronizing affirmative action way that so many superheroes do.  None of this, “Let’s all listen to the unique cultural insights of Man-E-Faces concerning the phenomenon of lookism in our society before I punch this robot in the face” nonsense.  Nope, aside from valuing the talents of all his compatriots, He-Man never goes and makes them feel all different and freaky, despite their flaming level of freakitude.

            And how about economics?  Barbie seems to never have a steady job, despite having tried her hand at everything from being an astronaut to a 15^th century tavern wench to Nelson Mandela.  Yet she lives a lavish lifestyle in a giant pink house with three walls, drives numerous sports cars, and dines exclusively on endangered species and 3^rd world orphans.  He-Man on the other hand is still living at home to help save up more money for graphic design grad school.  Not only that, but home is Castle Greyskull, which, though no doubt the absolute favorite spot with all his dawgs, is not exactly the kind of romantical bungalow that he needs to win Teela over.  Even so, it’s paid for, and He-Man is a fellow who lives within his means.  Unlike Barbie, he works two jobs, one as the Prince of Eternia, and one as a beefy guy with a tan who likes to punch things.  Also, he occasionally moonlights at Heavenly Ham during the Christmas season.  And he’s a devout Methodist.

            So the choice, she’s a’clear, if you let your kids play with Barbie they’ll soon end up as racist, elitist, unemployed, skankaholic, exhibitionists, while if you introduce them to the wonderful and diverse world of He-Man, they’ll soon learnt he value of getting along with those different than themselves, living on a budget, wearing furry briefs, saving the world, and filial piety.  I rest my case.

            First off, allow me to apologize for being somewhat completely not here this past week.  I was a-vacationing, and it was most righteous.

            It must really suck to be Spider Man, not because you’re poor and all your friends end up turning into supervillians, but because the only way you know it’s time to swing into action is when you hear a police siren.  Which may be all well and good when it’s the cops chasing down some hood who stole Uncle Ben’s land yacht, but I bet Spider Man gets so many false alarms where like, he and Mary Jane’ll be having some nice romantic dinner they’ve been planning all week, and then he hears a siren and leaps out the window and all, only to discover that it was just a guy getting pulled over for a having a taillight out.  And let’s face it, after that, it’s just gotta be tough to recover that lovin’ feelin’.

            Whilst I was at the beach and in a coffee shop (with the ever charming Amy, no less) we espied a fancy-shmancy chocolate bar under the brand name of Dagoba.  Man, I cannot tell you how relieved I am to know that Yoda in not only alive and well, but has started an esoteric chocolate bar company from his wretched swamp planet.  I guess that mess that Luke’s X-Wing sank into was really just a morass of nougat and ground up heath bars after all.  I now shall turn my energies back to eagerly awaiting the day when Chewbacca finally gets his cosmetics company off the ground.

            You know how people always have those stickers in their windows of Calvin peeing on various things like say, losers, or Osama bin Laden, or Chevrolets in General?  That’s great and all, but aren’t there so many other things in the world that Calvin might better devote his time to the taking of whizzes upon?  Like how about if Calvin decided to take a leak on world hunger for a change?  And when was the last time you saw Calvin peeing on racism?  And don’t tell me that you’ve never thought about unfair it is that Calvin never pees on say, the Chinese occupation of Tibet.

            Don’t you hate it when you’re getting on a plane or getting ready to pilot your giant anime robot against one of the vile robeasts of King Zarkon and the guy who’s selling you the ticket is like, “Have a nice flight/totally awesome robeast battle!” and then you’re like, “You too!” but then you realize that in fact, he is not about to fly/battle any abominations and you feel all silly.  Fear no more though, because all you have to do to recover is fake that you were about to say something about the band of the same name as your previous accidental statement.  So instead of saying, “You too…um, in case you ever happen to fly to Mongolia or battle Hnothrag the Defiler.”  You can just say, “You too, is a totally awesome band; I enjoyed their musical stylings on “Stuck in a Moment” particularly.”  Then, not only do you not sound retarded, but they’ll appreciate your fine knack for musical criticism. 

            Does anyone actually call McDonald’s “Mickey D’s” aside from the oleaginous buffoons in their commercial?  Seriously, is that like, what passes for cool in say, Oregon or something and I simply haven’t heard about it yet?  I hope not, because if it is, then Oregon, I’m afraid that one of your oxen has indeed died, and by “one of your oxen has died” I mean “You’re the most benightedly uncool state ever.”  And don’t even ask me to explain what I mean by “Little Timmy has Cholera” because you don’t even want to know.

            Is Vigo Mortensen really related to Vigo the Carpathian?  I hope so, because then they can finally do that sitcom together that I’ve been having fevered and phantastic dreams about in the red-litten arboreal shadows of restless and aeon-forgotten Yuggoth.  You know, they could be like, caterers or ninjas or something, and their other roommate would be an escaped government cyborg.  Oh, and they’d be raising a small child.  That would rule.

            I tend to fall a bit behind on my newspapers, what with my endless battle against the forces of darkness and work and all, so when I picked up Monday’s paper today and read the news: “Celebrate Orlando Jones!” I knew I was already too late.  I hadn’t sent Happy Orlando Jones cards to any of my friends, I hadn’t made it out to the lot to buy my Orlando Tree, my Orlando Menorah was still packed away somewhere in the darker and more raccoon-infested regions of my attic, and clearly the time had already passed for me to leave out a 50 gallon drum of pickle relish by the microwave in hopes that Orlando Jones would bless my humble offering and fill my wooden shoes with pistachio pudding and good fortune for the new year.  For sooth, I had not even remembered to bedeck my bowling ball (Florence) with Snickerdoodles and beef jerky, set it on fire, and roll it down the mightiest hillock in the city to appease and honor the vengeful spirits of my ancestors, as my Viking forbears were wont to do upon this silliest of days.  In short, I had altogether failed to celebrate Orlando Jones.

            Some of you may chuckle to hear of it, and truly it is the case that Orlando Jones is not a holiday widely celebrated amongst the people of my tribe, and to through all of it thoroughly, I’d have to get way more into the Protestant Reformation, John Calvin, and the A-Team than I have space for here (though I do have space to point out that John Calvin and the A-Team would make a most Orlandoriffic name for a band).  Let’s just say then, that ever has my home been a veritable stronghold of Orlando Jonesian good cheer and wassailing during this more blessed at least than Arbor Day season.  Alas, thanks to all the greeting card companies focusing on such made up secular holidays as Ramadan, the birthday of Martin Van Buren, and Spocktoberfest (which has been so far removed from it’s once great religious import that all anyone nowadays does is use it as yet another excuse to put on pointy ears and burn William Shatner in effigy, delightful a pastime as it may be).

            The origins of Orlando Jones are shrouded in mystery, though recent archeological studies have unearthed evidence that it was the ancient Sumerians who first began to worship Orlando Jones as the bringer of Daylight Savings Time.  This of course was a recent development back then, and as it allowed them all a chance to mow their lawns and slay additional Hittites on the way home from the office, they honored the day greatly indeed, and it is with good reason that Sumerian sites so often are replete with small jade idols of Orlando Jones riding a lawn mower, with a scimitar in one hand, a brief case in the other, a funky demon skull thingie in his penultimate hand, and a flaming bowling ball in his fourth, while wearing a necklace of pistachios and mowing down a general mixture of ferrets and other infidels.

            From thence the celebration of the day passed on to the ancient Babylonians, who would frequently inter their greatest of leaders with great bronze vats of pickle relish to buy entrance into the Elysian halls of the Underworld where great Orlando Jones rules benevolently from an ebon throne of legumes.

            Indeed, though some might call it a coincidence, it is altogether a meaningful thing that the Titanic set sail on Orlando Jones, but having failed, in a fit of modern hubris, to observe the proper rituals to Orlando Jones, great god of the seas that he is, many believe that it was he who smote the vessel with the twin plagues of an iceberg and Leonardo Dicaprio.  In fact, sailors have long venerated Orlando Jones, their cry of “Land, Ho!” having nothing to do with the espying of dry ground, but merely being a nautical corruption of the original cry, “Orlando!”

            So, even if you are among those benighted legions who have never celebrated Orlando Jones before, fear not, and neither despair that his day is passed for the present year.  But rather, make an effort to celebrate Orlando Jones every day, both in your heart and life, and in the way you dwell amongst your fellow men.  So happy belated Orlando Jones, everybody, and may all your shoes be ever filled with pistachio pudding!

            I love songs in Japanese, Latin and all the other various and assorted languages which I don’t speak, because that way even if they’re about Greenhouse or the Hitler Effect, it doesn’t have to get in the way of my musical buzz (though Greenhouse and the Hitler Effect would be an awesome name for a band in any language, especially German, because they have like, fifteen different words for Hitler, kind of like Eskimos do for snow).  Anyway, the problem is that my brain is always defying my attempts to bask in my own linguistical ignorance, and keeps trying to make the lyrics into English.  Seriously, Brain, you need a better hobby than that.  What did you end up doing with that Sudoku book I got you last Christmas anyway?  Pawned it for wine, women and song, no doubt.

            I want to get one of those “Republicans for Voldemort” bumper stickers, and then also get one of those “Dick Cheney 4 Evah” ones too.  Then everyone on the road will know of my boundless evil and hatred for all things living.  Mwahahahaha.

            Flies have to be the most uncreatively named insect ever.  Maybe we should make the most of that though, and do with them the same thing they always do with boringly named dorms at colleges – grant naming rights to the richest person who can both write them a large check and who happens to have such a tragically unfortunate name that nothing ought ever be named after them.  That way, instead of ever needing a fly swatter again, you can just reach for the Eugene P. Snothammer Memorial Filth Carrying Insect and Reading Room swatter, which would at least be interesting, if lame.

            I saw an ad in the hardware store the other day for, and thus I quote, “Toilets to Go”.  I’m a little confused here; I thought all toilets were for going.  If you don’t have to go, you don’t need to buy a toilet in the first place; they’re not so architecturally interesting that even if you’re a robot or photosynthetic or something that you want one in your vestibule just as a conversation piece.

            Pity Goofy.  Every other Disney character has a girlfriend, Donald has Daisy, Mickey has Minnie, even Uncle Scrooge can probably afford hookers on a regular basis.  But not Goofy, he’s forever the smelly kid with bad acne wearing a pirate shirt tux and holding up the wall at senior prom.  Going by naming conventions though, if he did have a woman, her name would probably have to be something like Geefy.  But nooooo, Walt Disney decided that Goofy must never breed.  I’m thinking he might want to take a crack at computer dating, I’ve heard that works for some people.

            Why do people even bother buying “No Dumping” signs?  Aren’t most places in America already not particularly dump-friendly?  Just once I’d like to drive by a ravine full of refrigerators and broken time machines and see a big sign that says “Dump Away, Merrill, Dump Away!”  Oh well, maybe they’re just there so I can steal them and hang one over my Toilet to Go.

            My parents bought themselves some new water bottles in the recent past, and according to the lids, they were manufactured by a company calling itself “Mi-go”  Unfortunately, this already happens to be the name of a race of half-funguous crustacean aliens that dwell in the frozen darkness of the distant planet Yuggoth.  So either those water bottles came with a hefty import fee, or some guy making water bottles in Iowa is about to get a call from an extraterrestrial lawyer (which is not, by any means, to imply that most lawyers are terrestrial in origin either).

            Yesterday, I saw a guy whose license plate said BIG FRO, so I got al excited and sped up that I might witness his fro of unusual size.  Alas, his cranium turned out to be adorned with a fro of merely modest gigantitude.  Now, I know that “Fro of Moderate Size” wouldn’t exactly fit on a license plate, but limited space is no excuse for lying, otherwise I never would have given up my “HAM LORD” plate, since in truth, I am merely a baronet of ham (also, the Baronets of Ham would be a most excellently non-kosher name for a band).

            If I ever own a nuclear power plant and on some sunny summer day I decide to close up early and hit the river, I hope I have the presence of mind to put up a sign that says “Gone Fission”.

            I’ve never understood why it’s called the Sylvan Learning Center when it isn’t even anywhere near a forest.  It really out to be called the mall-infested section of Huguenot Road Learning Center, but alas, the people who built it were either ignorant of that true meaning of the word “sylvan” or what is worse, they willfully chose to foist of a wretched pack of lies on the good people of Richmond.  I mean, I could understand if someone had just built the Sylvan Muffler Repair shop, or the Sylvan Industrial Waste and Hammerpants Reclamation Facility, but one expects more of a learning center.  Unless of course it’s just really old and was built back when Lord Elrond was still teaching study skillz in Midlothian, back in the 80s.

            The other day I was at the hardware store and saw, much to my delight, that they had musical saws for sale there.  Clearly, I thought, humanity had at last realized the potential awesomeness of mixing tools and musical instruments.  When I went across town to the music store, however, and inquired about the possibility of buying a piano that was also a drill press, the dude there just looked at me funny.  And not funny “haha” but funny “sheesh”  which is by far the worst kind of funny to be looked at like.

            I saw a poster the other day for National Child Abuse Month.  Okay, I’m all good with celebrating crazy stuff and all that, but I’m afraid I just have to draw the line at celebrating child abuse.  They even had a bunch of helpful hints for things you could say to start abusing your child with, like, “You’re worse than the New Kids on The Block” or “I should have traded you for those magic beans when I had the chance!” and my personal favorite, “If you were a President of the United States, you’d be Martin Van Buren!”  Honestly, if we let this kind of thing slide, what’s next?  National Puppy Kicking Month?

            I saw that Iran has developed a new torpedo to smite myself and other assorted infidels.  I was thoroughly pleased, however, to see that rather than calling it something predictable like, “The Fist of Allah,” or “The Moderately Buoyant Vengeful Fist of The Beloved Prophet” they have christened it “The Hoot.”  It’s just nice to know that even crazy terrorist nations can give endearing names to weapons of death and destruction once in a while (the last time this happened was back when Ayatollah Khomeini named a new surface to air missile “Pink Fluffy Bunnies” back in the 80s).

            It appears that scientists at the Institute of Someplace That I Can’t Remember Offhand have at least developed the nanomanufacturing techniques required to make tiny sunglasses for flies.  Seriously.  All I can say is that this had better have some immediate and unspeakably funky applications in the field of building giant robots and stuff, because flies are already enough trouble without us giving them a reason to think that they’re cooler than us.

            The other day, I saw a dude at the mall wearing one of those little pulse monitors.  If you have to go to the mall to get your exercise and you’re under the age of 80, then you don’t need a pulse monitor to tell you you’re out of shape.

            I saw a truck out on the road labeled “Molten Sulfur” I was really temped to follow him, just to see what it was in Richmond that was either producing, or indeed of additional molten sulfur.  Alas, I was already late for work, so I’m just going to assume that someone is building an unholy gateway to the underworld somewhere in Southside.  Or maybe a Cracker Barrel.