Richmond, it ought to be obvious to all by now, has always been a city of great diversity.  Yes people of many races, religions, and preferred steak preparation methods have long called Richmond home.  Richmond also happens to be home to a thriving vampire community, assuming that one vampire counts as a community.  The vampire in question is reputed to be none other than WW Poole, and this is his tale: (then again, maybe it isn’t and I’m getting him mixed up with a couple of Richmond’s other vampires, of which there are presently reputed to be several, though lest you worry, they prey mostly upon the emo)

            WW Poole, who’s first and middle names we shall henceforth assume to be Wedginald Weaseltrousers, was some mildly wealthy guy who lived in Richmond back in the late 19^th century, having been chased out of England under suspicion of being a vampire and dodging his income taxes.  As so many freaks and weirdoes eventually do, his path led him eventually to Richmond, and there he set up shop.

            Now, Mr. Poole was not fantabulously wealthy, rather, he was that kind of wealthy that people are in Victorian romance novels, you know, where even though they’re always talking about how money is tight and someone has to go ahead and marry Heathcliff, nobody in the family seems to have a job and all the servants keep showing up for work anyhow.  And what should a man of such modestly impressive means do upon finding himself here in town?  Why build a castle out of sheet metal, of course (unbeknownst to many, there is traditionally no better way to make a splash in Richmond society than by being demonstrably undead and building a castle out of modern industrial materials, just in case you were looking to impress anybody).

            Richmond, lest any try to tell you otherwise, is a city of very industrious folk, and if you happen to be appropriately weird, then you may rest assured that in short order all manner of rumors shall spring up in connection to your person.  Mr. Poole proved to be no exception and before long it was noised about that he had beneath his castle a dungeon lair where he did all sorts of crazy vampire stuff, like sleep in a coffin shaped like a racecar, turn into a bat and fly around shrieking, and counting stuff in a jovial and educational manner.  It was also said that he built his castle deliberately near to the Richmond city prison and via a system of underground tunnels, did his own part to, shall we say, render parole a moot issue for the more succulent inmates within.  And of course after the castle was destroyed in the 40s, there were just enough rumors that such things were found to keep the legend alive.

            But I digress.  Mr. Poole has the misfortune to die in 1922, and for three years, did very little other than lie in his tomb in Hollywood Cemetery and occasionally go “Bleugh!” at passing youngsters.  In 1925, however, there was a collapse in the Church Hill railroad tunnel, and though no definitive evidence was ever found to pin the disaster on mole people, one can only infer from what happened next that they were working in collusion with our dear friend, Wedginald Weaseltrousers Poole, Esquire.  For immediately after the collapse, from the mouth of the tunnel emerged a creature whose flesh hung about him like ribbons and whose teeth were uncommonly pointy.  Far from being the least bit disturbed by recent events, this singular individual was observed to quiver, as if with unholy glee, and immediately flee on foot.  Those who dared to follow chased him to the tomb of Mr. Poole, where they are said to have found the door locked from within.  Needless to say, to this very day at midnight on some of your more spookier of holidays (Halloween, Boxing Day, Samhain)  all the goth kids hang out there, paint them selves up with pentagrams graven in Heinz 57 Sauce, and read bad poetry about Darkness, Satan, and Not Being Familiar With The Concept of Shampoo.

            And, just to make everything all uber symbolic and whatnot, the tomb of WW Poole just so happens to be adorned without with a statue of a lamb, this being said to signify a charming twist on the biblical verse about mutton and the king of the jungle, that mostly Mr. Poole is just a’lion in the mausoleum, but when he escapes, he’s on the lamb.  And with that horribly bit of punnery, I wish you good night, and sweet dreams.

“There ain’t no cure for the summertime blues” ~ Eddie Cochran, 1958

            There is a disease which annually kills over 17 bajillion people every year*.  It strikes silently, often without visible symptoms, and can affect anyone, regardless of race, sex, or whether or not you live in Canada.  That disease is the Summertime Blues, and despite the fact that almost half a century has passed since Eddie Cochran first tried to raise public awareness about the threat posed by the Summertime Blues, scientists still have yet to find a cure.

            This is no doubt in part due to the fact that while diseases like AIDS, Parkinson’s, and that thing that Stephen Hawking has have all recently been brought to the public eye by celebrities who didn’t care about any of them either until they came down with them and decided that the most important thing in the world was to find a cure, no famous or pretty people have come down with the Summertime Blues and gotten into the whole fundraising scene.  My friends, it is time to change this sad state of affairs by joining the race for a cure.

            While it is true that there is no cure for the Summertime Blues, there are treatments, most of which involve a combination of electro-shock therapy, monkeys, watermelons, stolen hotel bath towels, and EZ Cheez, all of which are far too scientific and ridiculous to go into here.  With early detection and a generous slathering of unquestioned funding and those little flavor packets that come with ramen noodles, it is possible for many sufferers of the Summertime Blues, (or STB, as we in the abbreviation industry (or the AI) like to call it), but even the best that modern medicine has to offer falls far short of the goal of completely eradicating this horrible plague.

            No one is sure where the Summertime Blues first came from, though many geneticists are fairly confident that it has something to do with that time that Rick Moranis got turned into a devil dog.  Others, who are quite possibly just trying to stir things up, maintain that it first developed when American settlers briefly tried to use buffalo in place of orange juice.

            How can you help support the cause?  First, send me lots of money.  Lot’s of it.  Buy a teacupmammoths T-shirt, write me a check, carve me one of those big stone wheels they used to use for currency in Indonesia before they went over to the Euro, whatever, as long as it’s shiny and I can trade it for beer.  If you want, I can even send you some pictures of adorable children from 3^rd world countries.  Sadly, raising a fuss and a holler, and writing to your congressman will not work, nor will taking your problem to the United Nations, since North Korea, Sudan,  and Djibouti all sit on the Council of Silly Ailments, and all three of them think you’re a big poophead.

            Wearing a ribbon would probably help, because if there’s one thing that diseases and international terrorists fear more than any other, it’s a colorful magnet stuck to the back of your car.  Unfortunately, the color blue is already taken, and if you tried to go around wearing a blue ribbon, you would at best be taken for the winner of the regional hog-calling contest, and at worst be sued by PBR.  The black ribbon already belongs to fighting melanoma, and supporting anarchy and the Amish, so it’s right out too.  Orange is always nice, but it’s already been taken by feral cats and Ukrainian independence, so no help there either.  Silver is the ribbon for supporting the abuse of the elderly, and I like to think that we opposers of the Summertime Blues are better than that, so it’s no good either.  In fact, the only color ribbon that’s still free is apricot with magenta polka dots and the Decepticon symbol in the middle, so by process of elimination, that’s the one we have to go with.

            So yeah, join the fight against the Summertime Blues today, because together, we can build a more awesomer tomorrow.  Do it for the children.

            *This number is based on a combination of demographic surveys, CDC tabulations, ingredient lists on cereal boxes, and the fact that a bajillion is a fun number to say.  Bajillion, bajillion, bajillion.  I feel better now.

            During the cold war, the Army developed nuclear landmines capable of causing a ten kiloton explosion.  They were to be buried around Berlin in the event of a Soviet invasion, and were designed so that during the winter, chickens could live in them and keep them warm.  When ever you think about us beating communism, remember that it was exactly this sort of thing that carried the day.  American scientists also discovered that the Nuclear Chicken Mines would be an excellent name for a band, but the war ended before they had time to get any major gigs.

            I wanted to paint a shark face on my van, to symbolize its ferocity and vulnerability to attacks by Richard Dreyfuss, but upon further inspection, I discovered that the front wheels are set in a way highly detrimental to the depiction of shark faces.  However, I did a bit more research and found that there is one deep sea creature that would work: the humpback whale, because it’s got that weirded out wiggedy, over the face, flip top head.  Not only would this imply that my van is capable of cruising the highways while simultaneously straining billions of interstate krill through its mighty baleen, but it would also be a visible testament to the fact that Star Trek IV was totally sweet.

            Why does Batman not have a Bateaux?  It’s like the one vehicle specially named to fit with his theme, and he chose something else like the Batdinghy.

            Why do Dennis the Menace’s parents keep letting him come to dinner parties?  I mean, every single time they have someone over, Dennis makes sure to bring up whatever snarky thing his parents said about the guest in question (which is of course completely avoiding the issue of what kind of people his folks must be to talk trash about literally everyone who they invite over for supper).  Seriously Mr. and Mrs. The Menace, if you don’t like your boss, then you’d best keep your kid locked upstairs, because otherwise we’ll all get treated to a one panel strip of your son saying with all innocence, “Why ain’t you dressed like a bitch?  Cause my dad you’s always actin’ like one!”

            On a similar note, maybe Mr. Wilson ought to just take his phone off the hook at night, since it seems like he gets about three one in the morning calls a week from the human ferret next door.

            If you really want to mess with people, next time you’re out, take a magic marker into a public restroom and write something on the walls like, “You know what?  Jews aren’t so bad after all.” Or “For a deep philosophical discussion on the cultural implications of the lesser known works of Geoffrey Chaucer, call Becky at 555-8372.”

            I think it’s really dangerous to get one of those “Hey, I’m an Organ Donor!” license plates, because if the guy behind you needs a new kidney and is tired of waiting for the system to work, you could find yourself in the middle of a most unfortunate “accident”.

            I’m glad that if they had to remake just one Charleton Heston movie with Marky Mark, that it was Planet of the Apes, because if they’d tried such shenanigans with The Ten Commandments, I’m pretty sure divine wrath would have been in order.

            How does 7-11 get away with making their motto that “Oh thank heaven…” thing without getting sued by atheists and other non-Christian folk.  Watch, now that I’ve pointed it out, I’ve gone and jinxed them on it; in a couple of weeks you’ll be driving by and see one with a big sign that says, “Oh, thank Allah for my 72 virgins and 7-11” which will actually be kind of an improvement, so far as catchiness goes.

            I am inclined to believe, though it is ever a difficult thing to trace this sort of business to its very origin, that it all began when the headlight of my van decided to snuff it one night, thereby rendering my estimable vehicle into what both botanists and theologians alike have commonly termed a “padiddle.”  Now, being as it is the case that my van, by some great stroke of foresight on somebody’s part, came equipped with two headlights, mist likely in case of just such an eventuality as this, I failed to notice at first, the diminished luminosity of my totally fly ride.

            Unfortunately, this new event did not fail to escape the attention of on of the many policemen who hang about Jeff Davis Highway in the small hours of the morning, it being one of Richmond’s seamier underbellies (of which there are many), and since it is apparently the case that 89 Plymouths are all the rage in the international terrorism  scene these days, I found myself shortly promising to an officer of the law that I would replace the faulty lamp in short order, as well as hoping that he didn’t feel the need to ask me how many axes I presently had along with me (because let me tell you, no matter what line of work you happen to be in, the authorities rarely approve of any number in excess of three).

            Now, the great problem with changing headlights is that at night, when you need them, it’s far too dark to replace them properly, and in the daytime, the Sun is shining anyway and you can just forget about them altogether.  At any rate, it was the better part of a week before I got around to actually changing the offending bulb.  In the interim, I found myself to be constantly passing police cars, and was therefore presented with the continual choice of whether to allow them to see that I had in fact, as a result of raininess and constitutional ennui, not yet gotten around to changing the bulb, or to just turn on my highbeams and risk giving offense.  In any case, I eventually had a day off and was able to summon sufficient vitality to get the job done at last.

            Which brings me, of course, to the next event in my litany of hilarious sorrows, when the next night, shortly after stopping at one of Richmond’s many fine Wawa’s, I made most unpleasant discovery that my van had, either out of capriciousness or a mere yearning for a bit of excitement, decided to drive as if someone had nailed legos to all of its tires.  Now, there are, as regarding these sorts of things, two main kinds of people in the world.  The first are those who, when presented with a problem, step back, figure it through, and do not proceed with other things until finding a practical solution.  The second is comprised of they who, rightly figuring that it is already late and there are not, in fact any legos visibly attached to their wheels, decide to ignore the problem and hope that it goes away.  I myself have subscribed to this latter view for most of my adult life, and can attest to it’s efficacy in ameliorating nearly all ills.  Sure enough, I turned out to be right, for within another day the matter had resolved itself satisfactorily, as either my van had quickly wearied of the entire super offroad effect, or its mutant healing factor had kicked in.  I was now, however, in the unenviable position of being really low on gas, and in a distinct hurry.

            The discerning mind may well ask why I was in a hurry.  Well, it just so happens that I often find myself running late, much in the same vein as Osama bin Laden often finds himself to be living in a cave, and monkeys often find themselves to be addressing the vicissitudes of life by throwing poo at them.  Indeed, if Virginia and Late were ever to declare war upon each other, I would be sorely pressed to choose sides, since both make an impressive claim for being my natural and native state.  To make matters worse, the gas gauge with which my van came equipped has always held the view that in our increasingly precision-obsessed world, it would be a breath of fresh air for it to merely tell me, whether I had more or less than half a tank on hand at any given moment.  At the particular given moment in question however, less than half a tank seemed to be in vogue, and since every time I took a corner the low fuel light would flash menacingly at me, I ever so carefully drove the approximately twenty miles between my job and the nearest gas station, arriving with that turns out to have been enough gas to easily carry me another 500 feet or so.

            I departed from the gas station then, in high spirits, and remained blissfully unaware that a soda had rolled itself beneath one of the back seats, quite possibly in an attempt to avoid being quaffed.  Which was all well and good save for the fact that the combined effect of gravity and a really sharp offramp caused a biggish piece of lumber I had in the back to come crashing down upon it.  I, of course, did not know this at the time, being simply sensible that there had been a large thunk, followed by a hissing sort of a detonation, like a mortar hitting a laundry hamper full of snakes, and the sudden realization that the contents of my van, including myself, were now very damp, and slightly carbonated.

            The good news, as of course there always is, is that this explosion seems to have been taken by my van as a sort of disciplinary act on my part, and as a result, no further mischief seems to be afoot, automotively speaking.  Though of course, in the words of Princess Anastasia, one never knows.

I bought some new cargo pants, because if there is one thing that brings me joy above all others, it’s being able to hit myself in the knee with my cell phone every time I take a step.  This time, however, I foolishly went with the classy brand, and saw that they were sold not as pants, but merely as a cargo pant, which is totally whack, because if there is one thing that should always be plural, it is pants.  And monkeys.

            I’m gonna name my kid Marco, so that from an early age, he’ll hate going to the pool.

            At work, we got some new polo T’s to wear around the site.  Mine is red though, and if there’s one thing I’ve learnt from Star Trek, it’s that if you wear a red shirt out into the forest, you’re darn well gonna get all the potassium leached out of your body by a cloud or a horta or something, or at least have to fight a bunch of freaks to keep the quatloo economy alive.  I wish they’d asked me before they ordered, I’d rather have gotten a blue one, cause they come with a tricorder, a bowl-cut, and the Vulcan Death Grip.

            If I ever start a company that sells baby food, I’m gonna ditch the baby and put a picture of Robocop on the jar.

            If you happened to be both a carpenter and a harvester of wheat, and wished to advertise your services with an appropriate logo, you would probably be severely confused when all your customers turned out to be communists.

            Did you ever notice how in movies anything containing radioactivity has to have a big nuclear symbol on it?  And not just like, official American stuff, but like things built by mad North Korean scientists and stuff.  No offense, but if you really want to be considerate of people, then why not just refrain from building a hellish engine of destruction in the first place?  Try building a nuclear-powered Easy Bake Oven or a nuclear sundial instead.

            I want to start a barbershop quintet, because I bet we’d totally pwn all those other guys who had one less dude on their team.  Especially during the steel cage match.

            If you were both a Jehovah’s Witness and a vampire, I bet you’d be severely conflicted on the subject of blood transfusions.

            I want one of those Superman shirts, but with two S’s on it instead of one.  That way people will look at me and be left wondering whether I’m a fan of the Nazis, or I just really like steamboats.

            A lot of people say that the future isn’t going to be like Star Trek; however, I have proof that they are wrong.  Next Generation, of course, aired back in the early 90’s, when the internet was still little more than a cardboard box full of Duck Hunt cartridges in Al Gore’s basement of solitude.  And yet, the following are actual quotes from Data in Episode 16, Season 3: “LOL, the third crosslink transfer series is complete.” “That is a complex question, LOL.” “You are truly becoming sentient, LOL.” “What are your wishes? LOL” “LOL, put him down!”  Yet again, we have clear proof that Gene Roddenberry anticipated not only the technology of the 21^st Century, but also the geeky net lingo.

            The next Harry Potter movie really ought to be called “Snapes on a Plane”.

            As most of you will doubtless have already gleaned (glent?) from recent newspapers, Jedi holocrons, and Family Dollar advertising circulars, Germany has finally gotten around to putting a historical highway marker up over where Hitler’s Secret Bunker of Doom is.  This is, of course, an intensely controversial thing to do, since every time you even mention Hitler in Germany all the Neo Nazis go crazier than old people at Ukrop’s on double coupon day.  Because, you know, there’s probably all sorts of secret Nazi science and stuff still down there, like say, all the ancient artifacts that Indiana Jones didn’t manage to save from them, like the Credenza of Longinus, or Moses’ Catcher’s Mitt.  Or maybe it’s just the secret lost flavors of Fanta that Hitler was planning on unleashing after he won the war, like Mango Blitzkreig, Fuhrerberry, and Von Ribbenpop.  But I digress.

            The real question here, I think is whether Germany is going to go all the way in turning this into a historical site or just wuss out and go with a sign and one of those machines that squashes pennies into little Hitler-related souvenirs.  Now personally, as an historical interpreter myself, I think the best way to do it would be to have a living history museum where professional historical dudes could reenact what life was like back when Hitler was around.  So at one station you could have like, Hitler in hobbit pants running an old-timey flour mill, and another one of him in a hoopskirt and corset trading with the German Indians for corn (which the Indians called “maize”).  And then maybe a ways off there’d a like, a little diorama of Hitler building a palisade with traditional tools, while on the other side of the park they’d have like, a traditional Hitler pewter shop where old Adolf himself would be casting little things like tiny collectible spoons and lead-free musket balls.

             But let us assume for the moment that even in Germany, where the squirrels are red and Helga is still an okay name for an ubermodel, chronic funding issues exist for historical sites.  In this case, they would have but one recourse; that last resort of historical places and minimum security prisons: talking barrels.  Like, you’d show up there with your family and you’d walk a ways down the Historic Hitler Heritage Trail, and there’d be a sign and a barrel with a button on it.  So you’d let little Wilhelm punch it and then the magic would begin. (Note: Never in the history of teacupmammoths have I so regretted not being able to offer the site in an audible format as I am concerning the next paragraph.  Sadly, I was unable to find any text to speech programs that really convey the flavor I'm going for here, so unless you're content to have this be Stephen Hawking as Hitler, which would be pretty funny in its own right, just steer clear of the AT&T R&D page altogether )

“Allo, I am Adolf Hitler, it was on this very site on May 17^th 1942 that I lost the Battle of Hastings.  You see, I had been out late the night before mit some auf mine homies at der luftwaffle haus, and vas still verrückt im mein kartoffel.  So ja, anyways, it turned out that I had managed to show up not only in the wrong war, but also in the wrong century, all of which you can learn by looking at the Bayeux Tapestry, which incidentally is available in der giften shoppen.  Now please continue along ze trail to the scenic uberlook, where I shall speak to you from the next of these most uncomfortable barrels.”

Yeah, that’d be pretty sweet, especially if they had a Sno-Cone stand there, because if Hitler had one weakness, it was his all-consuming passion for Sno-Cones.  Well, that and his weakness against bullets and being set on fire, but just you try to set up a bullets and getting set on fire stand at a family tourist attraction and see how many takers you get.

Anyway, assuming Germany learns a few lessons from how we do history here in the states, they ought to be okay with this whole thing.  Also, as an added bonus, I was looking through my art folder the other day and I discovered that at one point I did, for no reason that immediately presents itself, a picture of Hitler as an ent.  Please accept it with my compliments. 

            So, it turns out that The Omen has its own Myspace page.  Honestly now, who in their right mind wants to be in Satan’s Top 8.  And anyway, what do you write about if you’re the Devil incarnate?  “June 12^th: Man, I’m so depressed.  Ever since Cindy left me and I got fired from down at the frou frou cheese shop my life has just been one long silent scream of angstiness.  On the bright side, I just can’t wait to see Spiderman 3!”

            My Mom, for reasons not entirely understood by myself, decided to buy a rubber purple dragon to decorate the kitchen with.  For reasons even less obvious to me, she has apparently decided that it would be a capital idea to have him just live in my box of cider.  Now, if I were more of a heavy drinker, or she were more the sort of person given to making symbolic statements as a way of keeping her family on the straight and narrow, I might be tempted to read too much into this, but as it is, I think this is just her revenge for all the times back in the day when I left Skeletor and Man at Arms locked in mortal combat in the lunchmeat drawer.

            I was at Wal-Mart the other day, and in their computer accessories aisle, they had printer ink.  The problem was that all the boxes had brightly colored butterflies on them.  Sorry Wal-Mart, but whoever told you that the butterfly is an ink-producing animal was lying.  Really, this is worse than the time all the frozen crab legs there had a picture of a manatee on them. 

            Did you know that George Washington had a set of hippopotamus teeth made after he lost all his original ones?  I bet that’s why he was such an effective President.  Nobody wants to be bitten by an angry founding father with hippo teeth.  He must have been like Jaws or something.

            In a completely non-characteristic bout of conformity last week, I bought a Batman antenna topper.  The problem is though, that now I have Batman’s severed head stuck on my antenna, and he looks so freakin serious.  It’s like he knew this was coming; that someday the Joker would manage to remove and shrink his head and mount it on a Plymouth Voyager, so now all he can do is bear it stoically.  Also, whenever I go above about 60, he spins around, which does nothing to enhance his dignity.

            Speaking of heads, why is that shampoo called Head and Shoulders anyway?  Do a lot of people out there have insanely hairy shoulders and need a special shampoo for them?  Am I paying more by always getting the shampoo with the shoulder option?  Is there a shampoo out there simply called Head, which would suit my needs more affordably?

            This all of course begs the question: have they ever thought about making a foot care product called Knees and Toes?

I passed a truck today for Southern Tile Delivery. I kid you not; their acronym does not leave a favorable impression.

You see Keanu Reeves is doing a new movie in which he falls in love with Sandra Bullock.  And travels in time.  Honestly, I’m beginning to think that he’s got some kind of contract thing going on where unless he gets to travel in time and be the Chosen One, he just won’t sign on.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m okay with this and all, but someday someone is going to make a time traveling chosen one movie with say, Lindsay Lohan in the starring role, and the universe will just implode or something.

If you went postal and shot up a Target, it would be tragic, yet strangely appropriate.

            It’s a good thing that most obscene gestures are things that you have to do like, really deliberately.  Like, what if there’s a culture somewhere where waving your open hand cheerfully at someone was a mortal insult concerning both goats and the mother of the person at whom it was directed?  I hope there is such a country, and that someday they send a lot of immigrants here.  Unless of course this culture already happens to be the French, in which case it would explain a lot.

            This happens to be one of the more exciting times in colonial Virginia history (which, as all right-thinking people know, is way better than what passes for colonial history up in New England), primarily because the quadracentenial of Jamestown’s 1607 founding is fast approaching (or Stardate -715634.4351851852 for all of you tourists from the future), I thought it might be a good time to deal with a few of the myths, misunderstandings, and historical narfage concerning the most famousest of Indians, Pocahontas.  So gird about thy loins with The Girdle of Learning Some History, because it’s time to set the record straight.

Myth: Pocahontas was a princess.

Fact: Actually, she wasn’t.  You see, the Powhatan Indians were what we call a matrilineal society, in which royalty was chosen not by the line of descent from the king, but rather by a series of grueling yet hilarious reality shows in which those who wished to be the next chief would have to live in a house with all sorts of washed up celebrities from the 1580’s, such as Francis Drake, captain of the humorously named ship, The Golden Hind, William Shakespeare, who was still at this point completely ignorant that future generations would decide that he was either gay, black, or a posthumous committee, and Vanilla Ice, who lead the English navy to victory against the Spanish Armada.  As a result, Pocahontas was not in the running at all to take command of the nation; rather the next in line was Junior Assistant Sub-Chief, Gary Coleman.

Myth: Pocahontas and John Smith were, as the bard himself once said, “getting’ it on.”

Fact: At the time of the first English settlement, John Smith was in his mid to late 20s.  Pocahontas was about 10, and spent her days running around the village naked singing the theme from the Powerpuff Girls, as all the children of the Powhatans were wont to do.  This was not, his writings tell us, really something that John Smith was into, and as such they mostly just messaged each ther on Myspace a lot.  True, the name “Pocahontas” means “little naughty one” in Algonquian, but hey, what’s in a name after all?

Myth: Pocahontas spent all her time jumping off of the majestic waterfalls of the James River and talking to her pet raccoon.

Fact: By the time the Powhatan Indians arrived on the scene, there were no more majestic waterfalls left on the James, all of them having been hunted to extinction thousands of years before during the end of the last ice age.  As for the talking raccoons, the Powhatans had no use for raccoons, talking or otherwise, except in the form of the raccoon hot pocket, the raccoon hat, and the occasionally role of a tetherball.  The English, as we now know from recent archaeological evidence, did in fact keep, tame and look after raccoons briefly, but when they turned out to be incapable of human speech or wacky hijinks, they were eaten.  Take that, Miko.

Myth: Pocahontas looked totally weird, as evinced by that portrait of her they’re always showing.

Fact: Actually, that’s simply the only picture of her taken during her life, and it happens that she had the bad fortune to have had it taken at the London DMV.

Myth: When the Indians and the English got angry at each other, they’d all march purposefully off to war, taking the most circuitous and scenic route possible, like Billy from Family Circus, while singing a dramatic two-part battle duet about how much they disliked eachother.

Fact: In truth, while the English were very fond of marching places, they were epically white, and as such lacked the rhythm necessary for such large-scale impromptu musical performances.  As for the Powhatans, they were really more of a moseying people, and while they did their best to engage the English in song, it just came off really awkward and they just decided to fight it out with a bit of cheery whistling and a couple of drum solos.

Myth: If you’re ever at a historical site in Virginia and see someone dressed as an Indian, it is an excellent idea go up and say, “Whoa, are you Pocahontas?”

Fact: Actually, it is a great idea to do this.  Assuming that you also happen to think that it would be fun to have your kidneys removed through your ears with a dull oyster shell.  Otherwise, you may wish to back off and not be such a ‘tard.

            So there you have it; everything you always thought you knew about Pocahontas but in horrible reality, did not.  Well, I think we’ve all learnt something very important here today, so class gets out early for the day.  For extra credit, be sure to bring me a buffalo or one of those delicious talking raccoons to class tomorrow.

            Well, here we are again, on the sixth day of the sixth month of the sixth year, and all the smart money is on Satan appearing in all his demonic evilness and doing a really bad remake of a 70s movie (speaking of which, isn’t just a little bit blasphemous to try and cash in on Satan?  I mean, even if its not like, a mortal sin or anything, it seems like one of those things that makes you more likely to get struck be lightening or eaten by a hungry, hungry hippo).  And then like, jump out of a volcano somewhere as a cheap stripper doth a cardboard cake.  And, um, you know, fly around and be all apocalyptic and stuff.  The only real problem is, of course, that in fact, this whole 666 date thing is that it actually comes once per century and according to every single “stuff what happened today in history” page I could find, absolutely nothing of historical interest has every happened on June 6^th, ’06, in any year, ever.  No demons flying around throwing marshmallow peeps or death at people, no oceans turning to blood, no Captain Planet after-school kids-stay-away-from-drugs-or-I’ll-eat-your-dog special, nothing.

            This of course leaves us at a bit of an impasse concerning the reliability of pop culture prognostication concerning old Beelzebub.  It is of course possible that, Prince of Darkness that he is, just has a really busy schedule and never goes in for the big holidays.  Or maybe, inveterate butthead that he is, he just likes messing with everybody and his favorite number is like, 582, but since it never comes up for him when he plays it on the lottery, he’s kind of given up on the whole superstition deal and become a more secular source of all evil.  Or maybe he’s just a trekkie and is waiting for stardate 666, which happily enough won’t be until September 1^st, 2323, at which point I expect to have become an immortal caveman supervillian and be living under the sea in my fortress of doom, surrounded by minions and singing crustaceans.

            But before we even get into all the complications of bringing to Devil himself to Earth, let’s take look at a few of the greater concepts of Old Sparky down through the ages.  The Bible tells us that Satan, much like William Shatner, rebelled against God and was cast out of heaven with all his groupies to run amok here on Earth and give goth kids someone to write edgy yet vacuous songs about.

            In early America, the whole goat-legged pitchfork guy look was widely favored, to the extent that forks came to be looked upon as the dining utensil of Satan and all good people either made do with sporks or just adjusted their mental image of Lucifer to have him wielding something a bit less common, like a pair of salad tongs, a spatula, or a rubber chicken.  A fiery rubber chicken of lies and eternal damnation.

            The Pope, who is, it appears, still learning the difference between the “reply” and “reply to all” buttons on his email recently made major eschatological booboo (that’s less dirty than it sounds) by confiding in the entire internet that he personally believes the Devil to be none other than President Martin van Buren, who happily enough died in the year 23,000,000 BC, after an unfortunate yet hilarious time machine accident, so we’re all safe after all.

            And of course, according to those guys who wrote all those Left Behind books, the Devil is in fact Vigo the Carpathian, who shall remain imprisoned in a New York art museum forever, so long as Harold Ramis remains a faithful brother of that weird order that tried to kill Indiana Jones in Raiders of the Lost Ark.

            As for myself, I though the temptation to just pin being Satan Incarnate on Ben Affleck is both great and oh so probable, I’m gonna go with the less obvious route and suggest the Pillsbury Dough Boy.  First, he looks like some creepy little anime ghost thingie.  Second, he has no belly button, much like Alfred Hitchcock (who lost his when it fell off on the Shockwave at Kings Dominion).  And of course, he never takes off his hat, which suggests the presence of either horns or the hidden face of Voldemort.

            So anyway, until next time, I don’t think any of us have to worry much about all of this- RAAAAWRRRR!!!! AT LAST I AM FREE! FREE TO BRING RUIN TO THE EARTH AND TYPE IN ALL CAPS!  MWAHAHAHAHA, THE NEW AGE OF DARKNESS HAS BEGUN; WHAT WAS WILL BE, WHAT IS WILL BE NO MORE.  TIME TO LISTEN TO SO LINDSAY LOHAN ALBUMS AND SEND OSAMA A FRIEND INVITE ON MYSPACE.  Oops, sorry about that, the cat just jumped on my keyboard there.  She’s been kinda funny ever since my grandmother pegged her in the head with that accursed Babylonian can of orange juice.  Well, she’s hovering around in a circle of fire again, so I’d better let her out for the night.  Catch y’all tomorrow!

            I dunno about all y’all guys and gals out there in blogland (which may or may not be a real place or merely a figment of my tortured imagination, like Count Chocula and the miraculously wacky resurrection of Calvin Coolidge), but if there’s one thing that keeps me lying awake at night all angsty and sleep-deprived, it’s the decline of western civilization.  Well, that and the fact that someone seems to have gotten me a subscription to Stuff magazine.  I’m not quite sure when it happened, but I think it was back around the beginning of the year when my first issue shewed itself unto me.  My mom, who is a woman of decency and discretion if ever one lived, saw fit to leave it on my desk, face down, lest I be corrupted by the image of the scantily clad whore of Babylon on the front cover.  Either that or she was worried that the aforementioned brazen hussy of the media might see what a horrible mess my room was and tell all her scary supermodel friends. 

Anyway, I’ve never been quite sure what to do with it.  I mean, I’m sure there are folks in third world nations going without borderline celebrity porn and technogossip, so just throwing it away doesn’t seem right.  At the same time, I can honestly say that I’ve always been just a little too weirded out by some of the blurbs on the cover to venture within its skanky pages.  But then, the world must know what perils lurk in the hearts of magazine publishers, so here follows a brief tour of this month’s attack on that that is good and decent in the world.

First, the covergirl of the month is Brooke Burke (who may very well already be a senator from some state up North for all I know), who has apparently traded most of her clothes for an alliterative name and a retro hairstyle.  Also promised in this issue are exclusive photos of Kristin Cavalliari, who, not to be outdone by Miss Burke has also given in to the alliterative name craze, and Michael Moore’s feet (really!) which I can only hope are wearing more than the other people so far mentioned.

And of course, I’m promised fifty ways to live like a rock star.  And by fifty, they mean of course, three.  Namely, big money, crazy sex, and total destruction.  Now, I’m an old fashioned kind of guy here, and I’ve always been a fan of the cashless economy of the future, and find such a retrograde position in Stuff to be somewhat offputting.  As for crazy sex, I personally find crazy people to be extremely non-sexy and as a result would be much more intrigued if the blurb said something like “emotionally well-adjusted sex” or “hey, why not take your time and just take her out for dinner and a movie first?”  And so far as total destruction goes, I already get all I need of that from my subscription to Evil Overlord Quarterly (this month’s covergirl: Attila the Hun!) and since Stuff hasn’t done too well thus far in terms of winning my trust, I think I’ll just stick with what I know about the annihilation of all that is.

            So far I’m just to the table of contents and I’ve already been promised a peek at Skeletor’s homoerotic fantasy.  I’m sorry, but the Skeletor I know is a dedicated and faithful husband to his wife Betty and his three children, Toby, Beast Man Jr, and Rush Limbaugh, and would never in a million years even think of such a thing.  Stuff magazine, you’re not doing too well here.

            On the very next page, I find an ad for a razor with five blades.  I’m sorry, but now they’re just making stuff up. 

            Page sixteen; so far, at least half the pictures have been of dudes.  This does not bode well.

            Page fifty presents me with the opportunity to get washboard abs with the assistance of Stacy Keibler, who apparently ran away from her tyrannical uncle and his tree-based cookie factory to become a professional ab-abber.  Alas, my abs are already so mighty that France signed a non-aggression pact with them, so this does me no good whatsoever.

            Moving on, I get the chance to buy a professional goatee trimmer.  I didn’t even know that having a goatee was a profession.  What’s the starting pay for being a professional haver of goatees?

            On page 81, Motley Crue (whom I shall not honor with the unnecessary umlauts which they insist upon) say one ought to beware of vans.  Perhaps so, Mr. Crue, at least you should beware of my van, for with it I shall smite all who dare to oppose me.  Yet again, Stuff manages to choose the wrong side, because vans are always cool.  Just ask yourself: What did Mr. T drive around in?  That’s right, a van.  And since, according the Gospel of Awesome (it’s in the Apocrypha, ask for it at your local Christian bookstore) Mr. is infallible about what totally rules (seriously, in the council of Nicea, the early church decided to make Mr. T like, the Pope of cool stuff and he’s been right about everything ever since), vans are just ineffably cool.

            And finally, Stuff tries to teach me how to cut down a tree.  Look Stuff, I’ve had just about enough of you trying to tell me how to run my life, be a rock star, and slander Skeletor, the last thing I want from you is your opinion on how to fell a tree.  In fact, I will personally go up against you in any sort of a tree-vanquishing contest you can imagine at a moment’s notice.  Like, I can be coming out of Waffle House with all my homies at like, three in the morning, and you’ll be all standing there by my van (which you will beware of, lest it smite thee) with a tree, and I’ll just pull out a felling axe from like nowhere, like Anime characters are always doing and like Optimus Prime used to do with his trailer when he turned into a robot, and I will mightily slay the tree in question, and then turn it into something in conceivably awesome, like a monster stuck/catapult/wet bar.  So yeah Stuff Magazine, I don’t know how you decided to invade my mailbox, but bring in on!