For My Number One Fan

One of the more exciting aspects of writing for Bonez is the fact that over the last year I have managed to amass my own little fanbase. Of course, by fanbase I mean that there are three or four people who do not immediately close the page when they see my frivolous pontifications gracing the banner headline.

But I would be remiss in my duties as chronicler if I neglected to mention the most insidious of all readers, namely "The Number One Fan". I call mine John, as that's what I've been informed its name is.

Learning that there was somebody out there who not only enjoyed my scribblings but ANTICIPATED their arrival was a truly enlightening experience. It means I had crossed the threshold from "Unknown" to "Virtually Unknown", a major step forward towards my ultimate goal of world domination.

Further reflection made me realize that not only was "John" my first and self admitted "Number One Fan", but he might, just might, be the one to ultimately seek out, stalk and destroy me.

Awesome.

But you know what, John? (If I may call you that.) I feel that it might be best if I give you some pointers on how best to develop the disturbing and inappropriate man-crush that will ultimately lead to my downfall and possible execution. This is serious business. Go about stalking me the wrong way and you'll risk losing me. And we don't want that, do we John?

If Hollywood has taught me anything, it's that as a stalker you need to start with innocuous activities. Have fun with the first steps! You haven't begun your gradual decline into madness and full blown obsession yet.

DO: Go out and start purchasing things I talk about. Hey, I wrote about Stinkor, go buy one! That Creepshow flick sounds scary! Go pick it up and invite your friends over to watch while you tell them little bits of trivia you learned from my articles. I seem obsessed with Guitar Hero, go out and get yourself a copy. I find it's best that we begin by imitating our idols.

You'd also do well to start building up an impressive knowledge of trivia and minutiae about my life so that you can both bore and creep out people you come across in your daily life. Some prime examples:

A) I anthropomorphize stuffed animals. As a result I am incapable of throwing them away.
B) I have to check my alarm clock at least three times when I set it.
C) As a result of multiple trips to the Netherlands, I prefer mayonnaise on my fries instead of ketchup.

DO NOT: Try and impress me with YOUR "zany" sense of humor. I write this witty crap as an unpaid semi-professional and don't you forget it! You will not win me over with crazy and over the top behavior meant to mimic my, at times, "odd" humor. So, no sending me yamulkes and asking to have them autographed. No tattooing of my XBox Live gamertag on a halibut. Let's keep it normal, at least for the time being.

Now eventually you'll need to graduate from cute to frightening, but don't worry I'll help you along. Again, it's important that I, as stalkee, do not become overly annoyed or terrified by you, as I may end up involving the authorities. This, again, is not what we want, John.

DO NOT: Get my phone number and start calling me constantly. I mean this. No heavy breathing, no creepy questions that show too much knowledge of my history, no expected direct personal contact.

I.
Hate.
Phones.

If you want ANY chance of stealing me away from my home for whatever nefarious and horrifically violent sexual purposes you've devised, you'll do best not to try and get me to speak on the devil box. Seriously.

DO: Start standing outside my bedroom window, staring longingly and unblinkingly up at me. It's okay if you want to openly and loudly sob to attract my attention. Once you have it, liven things up. Pull out an axe and a tube of KY and make references to vague concepts like "love surgery" and "stump pumpin'".

As you begin to cross the final threshold into utter madness, learn to understand me and my motivations. (Remember, this isn't just about you. You can't spell "social deviant with psychopathic tendencies" without "e".)

For instance:

"I don't like it here," translates into "Cut my achilles tendons so I can't escape!"

"Please let me go," ACTUALLY means "I want to be your limbless love toy."

And, of course, "Oh, god! Make the pain stop!" really means, "Dress me up like a Japanese school girl and post photos of me on the internet!"

Beyond these steps, John, it's best to use common sense. Don't come on too strong too quick. But bear in mind that I have been going to the gym lately, so come on quick before I get too strong.

The One That Goes Too Far?

Sometimes you're just hit with an idea out of the blue and it's all you can do to contain it in your head long enough to crack it open and let it spill out onto the paper (real or digital). This doesn't necessarily ensure quality, it simply means that inspiration hit and you had something to say. Such was the case for me last night. During a rather innocuous conversation with a friend, I was suddenly struck with the idea of writing a "Letters to Penthouse Forum" style piece that was violent in nature. A little satire, if you please.

I mulled it over on my drive home and played out the scene in my mind. I had a pretty good idea of what I wanted to do with it and how far I intended to go. I'm not going to lie, the piece was intended to be a tad shocking, though it was my plan from the get-go to contain the language enough that it was never overly salacious. The red, red kroovy does NOT flow with any regularity in the piece, though the subject matter would imply otherwise.

I wrote the piece and as intended it gave me a slight chuckle upon my first read. But I knew immediately that it might push the boundaries of what's considered acceptable around here a bit. Again, it's not that the language is overly descriptive or that I went too far with the piece, it's just that it is a morbid little chunk of black humor and those that don't get the joke might find themselves offended by it.

Not wanting to stir up unnecessary controversy, I submitted the piece to Mr. Bonez with a simple query. Is this taking it too far? Is this beyond the fold of what we will allow at Bonez?

I know that if it came down to it, I have other avenues or forums in which I can deposit these little brain leavings of mine, but the simple fact is that I dig it here and the majority of my work debuts right here on the Bonez front page.

Bonez offered some suggestions on what could be done to alter the piece in order to make it more family friendly, but after quiet reflection the fact of the matter is that I don't really wish to change it.

It is what it is, and it's a reflection of where my mind was at last night. Is it dark? Yeah, sure. Is it offensive? Well, that's the rub, isn't it?

Boundaries and taste are a subjective beast. I can assure you that my boundaries do not jive with those of the majority of readers here. It's a simple truth I've had to adapt to most of my life. And while you may be unable to upset me with what most people find offensive, I do try to keep in mind what "most people's" boundaries are.

I re-read my work. I thought it over, and I came to the simple conclusion that my piece is what it is. I have no desire to alter it, nor do I have any desire to battle for it.

It seemed to me that the easiest thing to do would be to provide it here on Bonez, but in such a way that Joe Q. Public won't accidentally read the horrific information contained within.

So, if you have any desire to read my quick little morbid tale, please highlight the blank area below and you shall be able to. If you wish to skip it, by all means please do so. It's not as bad as you might think. And for that matter, not as GOOD either. :P

Choice. It's what's for dinner.


Dear Bonez Forum,

I never thought that this would happen to me! So there I was, all by my lonesome out in some forgotten patch of forest enjoying the brisk country air when out of the blue the most beautiful woman I've ever seen comes traipsing out of the woods. Finding myself both lonely and instantly smitten I called over and invited her to come hang out with me for a bit.

Let me tell you, we hit it off really quickly. She was a librarian out in the woods to "energize her spirit", if you catch my drift. We sat and talked for what felt like hours. Finding myself unable to control my natural male urges I asked if she would be interested in coming home with me, and surprisingly enough she said yes!

After procuring a sufficiently thick branch, I dispatched her with a series of heavy blows, intending, of course, to crush her skull. And boy howdy, did I ever! With her still twitching but quickly dying body laid out before me, I set to work getting her carved up properly so that I could fit her in my duffel bag and head out.

I started with the head, and I'll tell you what, those things are HARD to get off! All I had on me was a somewhat dulled knife, so I went for a mixture of carving at the cartilage and twisting for the better part of fifteen minutes before getting annoyed, at which point I simply started hacking at the vertebrae, hoping to loosen it up. I finally managed to chip my way through one of the discs and was able to pull the rest apart, laying it off to the side.

Realizing that my current methods were going to slow me down, I chose a different approach for the arms. Placing one foot squarely on her ribs, I pulled upward on her wrist until I heard the POP of the ball dislocating from the socket. Once that was done, it was pretty simple to just cut the meat around that joint and pull the whole thing off.

I tried a similar trick for the legs, but they're a lot tougher, and pull as I might, I was unable to dislodge the hip joint. So instead, I stood on the upper part of the femur and pulled the rest of the leg towards me, as hard as I could. My arms were shaking by the time I finally heard the cracking snap of separating bone. After a few minutes of defleshing I was able to pull the legs away.

Knowing that weight would likely be an issue when lugging this cadaver home, I opted to remove the offal, knowing full well that organs retain a lot of excess fluid. By utilizing a deep lateral slash in the lower extremities I was able to allow the viscera to efflux with little effort, though of course I did have to disconnect a few of the wires.

Of course, now the big question was whether or not I could fit the entire corpse in my duffel bag. I managed to squeeze the torso in, and in a flash of inspiration it occurred to me to stuff the head inside the cavernous and newly emptied abdominal cavity. Once those were in place, it was simply a matter of bending the remaining limbs properly and zipping it all up tight.

I sure am glad that I had the forethought to line my duffel bag with tarp some time ago, or else the blood would have left a trail behind me. Wouldn't want to attract any animals!

The good news is we finally did make it back to my house, and what a time we had! I'm sure I'll never have such a chance encounter again, but it was fun while it lasted!

A Quick Little Time Waster

There are some things in life you just can't explain. Take my car, for example. It's a Hyundai, for all intents and purposes a rather ordinary and unassuming vehicle. But something about my little car seems to inspire outright hatred from other motorists. To be completely honest, I can see no rhyme or reason for it either. It's not just anger that is directed at my little vehicle, but downright hatred.

And I don't mean people angry at me, people are angered down to their shriveled black hearts by the very existence of my little automobile.

The first time I ever experienced this malevolence was at a NASCAR event. Yeah, yeah, I know. Getting me to ATTEND a NASCAR event is a story unto itself, and by my measure should hopefully score me a few points in the afterlife for the completely altruistic and selfless act I committed by exposing myself to that particular crowd. But I digress...

After having spent the day surrounded by drunkards watching cars drive quickly (and monotonously) in a circle we made our way back to my car to begin the eternal process of sitting and doing nothing while 100,000 people try to leave a racetrack at once. At one point during the 40 minute wait before our car moved, a rather inebriated gentleman saw my car, stopped and began berating, threatening and inciting it.

"Fuck you, Hyundai, damn Jap car! (It's Korean, for the record.) I'll kick your ass! Come on! Bring it!"

I simply sat and stared, uncertain if I should be amused or terrified. What was I to do if this guy decided to pick a fight with my car? It may be just a small little Korean car, but in a one on one match, I'm gonna have to go with the HUNK OF STEEL over the fleshy meatbag.

Should I honk, or would that just make him jumpy? Would that be considered throwing the first punch? Maybe he assumed my car was a Korean Herbie. Would a menacing rev of the engine frighten him away? If there was a confrontation would I have to testify on my car's behalf?

"Your honor, the entire altercation was precipitated by the aggressive behavior of Mr. Jim-Bob."

Thankfully I never had to put any of these thoughts to the test as he eventually staggered off, no doubt to vomit down the cleavage of whatever Chevy shirt wearin' hot mama he could entice with his 7 teeth and 91 IQ points.

And though I certainly found the event odd, I never thought it would be an occassion I would have to deal with again. Until...

One night I found myself playing XBox over at my sister's house until the wee hours. Around two in the morning I gathered up my stuff and made my way home. Not far from her house I was stopped by a red light. To my left was a mid-80's model Toyota pickup truck.

I heard a commotion coming from their vehicle and turning to look I could see the passenger hanging out the window, gesticulating wildly. I could pick up mumbled bits of threats, but couldn't quite make out the details.

I managed to roll my window down in just enough time to hear him yell, "I'm gonna eat your car!"

I'm sure that the stare I gave him was nothing more than a mouth agape look of incredulity. Eat my car? Did he SERIOUSLY just threaten to EAT my car? How the hell do you respond to that? Was I supposed to give him puppy eyes and scream, "NO! Not my car! Anything but that!" before tearfully begging him to PLEASE not eat my Hyundai? What am I, 8?

Part of me wanted to yell back, "Okay, but you're not leaving until you eat every last bite!"

But of course, being the mild mannered doormat that I am, I just stared at him quizzically until the light turned green and they peeled off, no doubt to threaten other vehicles with gurgitation.

And once more, a couple of months ago I was out with a friend to see a movie. As we're on the way home, yet again a car full of people pull up next to me threatening to kick my car's ass before tearing off into the distance.

I'm seriously beginning to wonder about my car's history.

An Aside To My Previous Post

This will be much shorter and ultimately far less interesting. If, however, you managed to make it through the utter yawnfest I wrote earlier known as "Where's My Cake" AND you bothered to follow my links, you will have found yourself viewing the segment of Creepshow that I spent so many pointless words rambling on about.

What I'm getting at is this: If you DID watch the videos, you would see that the Father's Day segment ends with Nathan presenting the head of Sylvia on a platter, proud of the cake that he has managed to fetch for himself. Richard and Cass are stunned and can do little more than shake and scream.


I find myself constantly wondering...Does Nathan kill them as well? Is it necessary? I mean, he GOT revenge, didn't he? Richard and Cass are more bystanders than anything. They were not directly responsible for his death, though they were certainly aware of it.

Do they deserve death? I suppose you could argue that they do. I don't feel that it is entirely warranted, but hey, that's really up to Nate at this point.

So, after the skit ends I can see two possibilities for its ultimate conclusion.

A) Nate invites Richard and Cass to join him for cake, at which point they all sit around the dining table and attempt to make awkward conversation with the reanimated corpse of their great uncle. I suppose it would be a rather strange scene, as one of them will have to attempt to slice the "cake" that he's made. I don't imagine that the kitchen knives would be sufficient for sawing through a skull. It's not as if anybody would actually EAT the damn thing anyways, though they might politely mime the action. After dining, what next? I guess Nate would wish everyone well and head on home. Tell you what, that would almost make for an equally awesome story.

B) Nate dispatches Richard and Cass leaving just himself and his cake. But of course, being a skeleton he will be unable to eat it, as he lacks salivary glands, a tongue and organs for digestion. I just picture him sitting at the table, staring at Sylvia's head, maybe feeling a bit forlorn that this was all rather anticlimactic. In the end, as the candles burn down to nothing he would simply sigh, push back from the table and then make his way back to the grave. What a shitty Father's Day that would be.

I guess you can't help but feel bad for the guy. No matter what happens he ends up celebrating Father's Day alone, probably lonely and dejected. Doesn't seem like much of an improvement from his earlier state.

Where's My Cake?

As I'm sure you've figured out by this point in our relationship, I am a bit of a horror junkie. I guess "bit" is an understatement. Okay, the fact is that I love horror movies. Love, love, love em. Give me blood and guts and horror and torture and sadism and I am one happy guy.

I'll watch anything you throw at me. Cannibal Holocaust? Been there, done that. Traces of Death? Yawn. Aftermath? Whatever.

The point is that I'm a rather jaded individual when it comes to entertainment of this nature. There's very little that I have seen that evokes any kind of reaction from me, visceral or otherwise.

But in reality, I have a secret shame involving horror, namely one specific visage of terror that, to this very day sends chills down my spine and makes me cower in the corner, babbling like a baby.

In a previous post I made mention of my love for a film called Creepshow, a modern day masterpiece by the master of terror, George A. Romero. As a lad I watched this movie almost daily, absorbing all of the gruesome details and macabre humor it contained.

Before I was even allowed to see the film with my own eyes, I had a copy of the comic book and had more or less memorized all the dialog. I would spend hours poring over the luscious illustrations of torment and death, excited for the time when I would finally see it all with my own eyes.

And see it I did, around the age of 7, excitedly staring at the tv as the movie unfolded in all its stylized glory. But although I knew the stories well from having read them time and time again, nothing had prepared me for the real life visualization of one of the monstrosities that made itself known early on.

I watched as little Billy was both chastised and abused by his father for having brought home the latest issue of Creepshow magazine, only to have the issue ripped from his hands and dumped unceremoniously in the trash can outside. I didn't flinch as "Raoul" (the nickname for the Crypt-Keeperesque host of the movie) appeared in little Billy's window, enticing him to open the window and join him. But it was early into the tale of "Father's Day" that I first realized that things were leaving my safe zone.

A waspish family lounges in a mansion on Father's Day, the matriarch telling her daughter's new husband the tale of dotty old Aunt Bedelia, a woman so tormented by her overbearing father that she was driven to murder. A woman whose only love was murdered at the behest of Nathan Grantham, from a mixture of fear and jealousy. Nathan, who sat in his wheelchair incessantly rattling his cane, DEMANDING his Father's Day cake, while his daughter in full knowledge of the crimes he's had perpetrated against her struggled to prepare it for him.

Pushed beyond her limits and unable to deal with the mixture of grief and rage that overpowers her, she takes hold of a large marble ashtray and does her father in with one well placed crack to the skull. Her actions were known by both the cook (Mrs. Danvers) and her sister, Sylvia, who conspired to obscure the truth and put forward the tale that poor Nathan had suffered a spill in his wheelchair, hitting his head on the way down.

And so every year on Father's Day the family gathers to celebrate the windfall that was given unto them upon the untimely death of Mr. Grantham. Aunt Bedelia traditionally comes to pay tribute at Nathan's grave before drunkenly staggering into the house at 6 for a ham dinner.

And so I watched as these events played out, framed in a comic book style and lit in basic primary colors to give the impression of a comic book come to life.

Bedelia sits by Nathan's grave, lamenting the fortunes that have placed her in this position, cursing Nathan's very name, a bottle of Jim Beam clutched defensively in her hand. Though she is upset and angry the scene remains serene.

And then it happened.

Nathan's decomposed hand springs forth from the ground to the high-toned electric squeal of a synthesizer. Awash in red light, he claws his way upward from his grave, clumps of dirt and decomposed flesh cling to his skull as maggots and other insects continue to feast on what remains of him. Eyeless sockets fix on Bedelia and as he slowly crawls towards her he speaks his famous line for the first of many times.

"Where's my cake, Bedelia? I WANT MY CAKE!" he cries, his voice impeded by the dirt lodged in his mostly decomposed larynx, gravelly and distorted. He asks without mercy, expecting no answer. He has returned to wreak revenge and reclaim what he felt was rightfully his.

That voice. That voice terrifies me to this day, his frenzied demands for his cake still disturb me to the point where I frequently will leave the room or conveniently adjust the volume to miss as much of it as possible. That curdling questioning coupled with the remnants of decaying flesh that cling to his body, putrescent flesh and dirt are caked upon the dessicated and torn remnants of his burial suit.

"It's Father's Day, Bedelia. I want my cake."

After his dispatching of Bedelia we cut back to the remaining victims, enjoying a lighthearted time together, in celebration of the wealth they share because of the actions of the now dearly departed Bedelia.

It does not pass their notice, however, that dear Bedelia appears to be late for the festivities. Hank, the new husband of Sylvia's daughter Cass offers to step outside to both look for Bedelia and to have a quick smoke.

After making a few furtive attempts at rousing Bedelia's attention he decides to make his way to Nathan's grave, in hopes of finding Bedelia there. He finds only the bottle of whiskey from which he immediately takes a swig before losing his footing and finding himself in the loose dirt within Mr. Grantham's grave.

Laughing at his misfortune he reaches for a nearby plant to pull himself up, but instead finds himself pulling the horror struck corpse of Bedelia on top of him.

As ominous piano music kicks in, the stone above Hank begins to shift, making its way forward. After a moment shadow passes before the stone and soon Hank finds himself face to face with the hideously grinning face of the returned Nathan. Frozen with fear he remains motionless until the tombstone loses balance and comes crashing down atop him, his final scream silenced before it has left his throat.

The shambling corpse turns and heads to the house, continuing its intonations.

"Where's my cake? I want it. It's mine."

Back in the house the remaining family members continue their evening, quite unaware of the murders taking place. Ultimately Sylvia decides to let Mrs. Danvers know to start finishing dinner even though Bedelia hasn't arrived yet.

She makes her way into the darkened kitchen and stops upon noticing the trail of dirt encrusted footprints leading further inward. She calls out for Mrs. Danvers not noticing the corpse that is now shoved against the door behind her. Upon seeing Mrs. Danvers' body, she turns to run only to find herself face to face with the undead horror.

"I want my cake", he demands, and then reaching out with both hands violently twists Sylvia's neck so that her head faces completely backwards, the crunching of vertebrae echoing loudly.

Cass and Richard, the final two victims sit alone in the dining room, becoming keenly aware of the absence of all the other family members. Cass finds herself fretting and concerned, while Richard maintains that everything is just fine. At Cass' urging Richard agrees to accompany her into the kitchen to find Sylvia.

They too notice the dirty trail that leads into the kitchen, but before they've had a chance to get to the door, it springs open and Nathan enters carrying a silver platter which is adorned with Sylvia's head, hastily covered in candles and frosting.

A much happier Nathan intones, "It's Father's Day, and I got my cake. Happy Father's Day!"

The scene fades out into a comic book and we are taken to the next story in the film.

But truth be told, the other stories never mattered as much. I loved the movie as a whole, but Nathan's demand for cake never ceased to terrify me.

And why am I telling you all this? Why have I just spent all this time describing a 26 year old movie?

Well, as I said earlier, it STILL scares the hell out of me, even as an adult. As I will mention in a future article, I went and got some new tattoos last weekend, taking my grand total up to 7. Getting inked always brings forth a desire to get MORE tattoos, and after getting my latest two I set to work deciding my next one.

I found that the choice was simple, I wanted, no, NEEDED to get Nathan Grantham holding the platter tattooed on me. Something that has horrified and tormented me for so long deserves a place of honor as far as I'm concerned, so I've spent the better part of my last two evenings poring through my DVD of Creepshow (the imported 2 disc version, of course!) snapping screenshots of various Nathan poses and images.

But finding the images I needed meant having to stare my terror in the eyeless sockets for hours on end, while hearing his horrific voice over and over. I have to admit, I ended up turning the volume way down and tried to not stare at him for any length of time.

Unfortunately, however, placing myself in the line of fire like that resulted in me being wrested from sleep ELEVEN times last night due to nightmares starring that damn skeleton. He haunted my dreams in youth and has returned to terrify me as an adult.

At least I'm smart enough to have him tattooed on my back so I won't have to look at him all the time.

(Shudder)

A Wrap Up of the Democratic Debates

Expectations were high and tensions higher at the Pennsylvania Democratic Debate, as Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama squared off in what is likely to be the last face to face meeting of the candidates prior to the American citizens picking their nominee for the Democratic Party.

Both candidates have had their share of scandal of late, from mistaken Bosnian memories displayed by Mrs. Clinton to the association of Mr. Obama with the Rev. Wright, a fiery preacher who has been both friend and confidante for many years.

Eager to recapture a strong lead in these final days, both candidates are striving to win the favor of the American public at large, hoping to become the final nominee and enter the final race for the highest office in the land.

However, the American political climate has shifted over the past few years and the candidates have to contend with the popular perception that the Democratic Party has undergone a massive swing to the left, leaving both candidates branded, at best, communists and at worst, liberals.

Another key factor in this race has been the loyalty and allegiance of the nominees to American values and the overall strength of their patriotism. Many on the right have called into question whether these final two contenders love their country nearly as much as their Republican opponent.

So it came as little to no surprise when Senator Obama took the stage in a red, white and blue suit, with an American flag tie, bearing no less than 200 lapel pins in the shape of a flag. Atop his head he wore a stovepipe hat festooned with a crucifix, the little statue of Jesus holding flags in each hand. He had also apparently rigged an electronic device into his sleeves so that every time he adjusted his tie, the strains of "God Bless America" thundered from his collar while a miniature fireworks show erupted from the top of his hat.

Senator Clinton, on the other hand, came dressed as the Statue of Liberty, followed on stage by Lee Greenwood who would break into the chorus of "Proud to be an American" every time she held aloft her torch, while a choir of underpriviledged Latino children would take to the stage with cheers of "Viva America!"

After having taken the stage, the debate was well and truly started, and both Senators had to field tough questions pertinent to the election season, the state of American politics and their plans for the future, should they win election.

The questions flew fast and furious, honed to perfection in order to cut through the chaff and get to the important underlying issues.

"Senator Clinton, as a liberal, why do you demand that fetuses be ripped from unsuspecting mothers in order that we may use their blood to oil the machinery of the state?"

In an exciting display of showmanship, upon reaching the word liberal, videos started playing on the rear screens of kittens being doused with benzyne and set ablaze, while recordings of Vincent Price's evil laughter from Thriller played in a loop.

"Senator Obama, upon reviewing your record and countless interviews with you, it is readily apparent that not once have you stated that should you become President, you have no intention of raping every white woman in America. What is your response to this shocking revelation?"

"Senator Clinton, it has come to our attention that at the age of 13 you once passed a man in a park handing out pro-Castro literature. Should the American people be concerned at the close ties you established in that 18 second period of your life, and what can you do right now to demonstrate loyalty to Old Glory?"

"Senator Obama, you have stated a desire to pull the American military out of Iraq in stages. Explain to the American people why you hate our troops and why you feel Al Qaeda has "so obviously" bested our forces?"

The candidates soldiered on as best they could, attempting to provide answers to these important issues. Senator Clinton's attempts involved answering in three to four word bursts while pausing to fellate a man dressed as Uncle Sam, while Obama answered at least one of his questions while the animatronically articulated corpse of James Brown sang "Living in America".

Unfortunately, even with their best efforts put forward, neither candidate could shake America's perception that they did, in fact, hate their country and instead wished for the swift and total victory of Al Qaeda over our troops.

It would appear after this final debate that despite the best efforts of the Media Matters Ultra Left Wing Liberal Conspiracy Media©, the anti-American homo-liberal communist wing of the Democrat political party has no chance against the wholesome benevolence that is John McCain.

Things to Do When You're Board

In the early autumn of 1987, my family relocated from sunny Huntsville, Alabama, home of the space shuttle to BFE, Michigan, home of the cow. During this tumultuous and anxiety laden change of culture, I made fast friends with Terry, my frequent co-conspirator and antagonist of at least one previous Bonez posting.

I managed to enter Terry's cadre of friends rather quickly, as we were all rather like-minded teenagers, confused, somewhat angry and full of a love for horror films and special effects. In fact, it is fair to say that our interest in these topics lay beyond just casual interest, to the point that all of us read books and watched videos on the creation and application of gore makeup.

Whereas most children of the day were concerned with the likes of Prince or Paula Abdul, we immersed ourselves in the teachings of the masters; Dick Smith, Rob Bottin, Greg Nicotero, Rick Baker, and the scareman of the board, Tom Savini.

Our lives were endlessly filled with Karo syrup, fake blood, latex appliances, spirit gum and all of the assorted fun that goes with the territory. And soon my parents had to adjust to the fact that their once quiet and timid cello player would now frequently arrive home with large gashes across his forehead, screaming bloody murder and then giggling uncontrollably.

I would say that it's not unreasonable to expect that, in the event of a fairly major catastrophe my parents would have been unlikely to believe that I was actually hurt due to my habit of arriving home with my friends, covered with oozing bite wounds and crying wolf.

Our reputation for the macabre grew with each passing week, until eventually other kids would want in on the action, asking for a gouged this or a torn that. Occasionally we would oblige such requests, but in general the fun was kept to ourselves.

There were a few times that our skills were used to nefarious ends, one of the better being at a Women's Club meeting being held at Terry's house. For some inexplicable reason, we were tasked with keeping an eye on the younger children at the house while the mothers gathered.

Within moments, of course, we had put together a plan on how exactly we would scare the holy hell out of all those kids. The answer was simple. I took them for a walk outside the house, in the dark, and Terry came tearing out from the woods, tackled me, then slashed my throat while I screamed and gurgled. For the record, that act does indeed scare the shit out of little kids.

But let me briefly tell you of my favorite moment involving our love for the grotesque...

When we moved into our home up north, the previous occupants had left behind a handful of items, mainly forgotten remnants. There was a single toy train engine, a bow and a stack of balsa 2x4's. And it was with those 2x4's that we launched our grand plan.

The idea was simple: We would rig the boards with blood squibs, so that if one were to take a 2x4 to the face, an explosion of blood would ensue. Seeing that the boards were balsa, they had no real weight to them, so a full on swing to the head or body caused no pain whatsoever.

We stood by the side of the road, boards in hand, and waited for cars to appear. As soon as they were within sight of us, we would commence pounding the hell out of each other with the 2x4's, wooden beams cracking against bone and spewing crimson with every hit.

So, after an hour or so of cars displaying little to no interest in two young men clubbing the hell out of each other a new car appeared on the horizon. Suspecting that this was going to be the one to stop and run shrieking from their vehicle, we began the fight.

This time Terry landed a spectacular blow to my head and I dropped to the ground, rolling around and screaming in pain and terror as he stood over me, continuously thrashing me with wild eyed concentration, rivulets streaming down my face and droplets flying through the sky with each upswing.

And we were right, as this car did, in fact, stop. Grinning to ourselves over whatever reaction was about to ensue, I managed to steal a glance at the vehicle. It was my mother's.

Terry turned to face the car with a frenzied glare in his eye as the window slowly rolled down. Once it was finished my mother had only this to say to her now comatose son and his bloodcrazed killer:

"I'm going to Wendy's. Do you want anything?"

More about 8-Balls

Mankind's history is rife with horrific tales of supernatural occurrences and hauntings,narratives so terrifying that the very blood in your veins curdles and runs icy. I had a chance occurrence today with such a dark and evil force. One can never expect a meeting such as this, but the mark it left on my soul will be felt for ages to come.

Quite unexpectedly I found myself in possession of two small yet identical boxes. They were nondescript in nature, black with red striping and a single word, "Prime", emblazoned upon them. They were rather unceremoniously deposited on my desk, no word of explanation given, no note left, merely two boxes left by my keyboard while I was away.

Seeing the boxes threw my mind into a quizzical fit. What were they carrying? What payload of delight or misery was contained within? Would it be a gift befitting a king? A tiny hive of hornets laid as a trap intended to bring harm should I open them?

I found myself mulling over whether or not they should be opened for quite awhile, fear of the unknown pulsing through my body. At last I resolved myself to attempt just one, under the rationale that deadly traps are unlikely to have been lain upon me by my coworkers.

So, with moderately trepidatious fingers I pried open the first box in order that I may cast eyes upon its contents. At last, once the top flap had been pulled back I was able to divine what was within. It was a magic 8-ball.

Finding myself somewhat relaxed at the dearth of deadly insects springing forth at me, I rolled the 8-ball around in my hands, getting a feel for its shape, an almost electric tingling of otherworldly power seemed to surge through it.

Being the curious type I could not help but ask it a question, as that is its very raison d'etre. So, summoning all of the mental concentration I could I focused my mind on the ball and made my query.

The question was this:

"Is there another magic 8-ball in the other box?"

Imagine the frigid bolt of terror that shot through my frame upon the word "YES" making it's way through the ether in the bottom of the ball. It burned itself into my retinas and imprinted itself upon my powerless brain.

The only thought that remained was the ball. The ball and its power. Its ability to divine the future, to see through the cloudy veil of uncertainty to pinpoint with amazing clarity the events which have yet to transpire.

Needing to know full well whether or not this item possessed unholy powers, I turned my attention from the ball as I began feverishly clawing at the second box.

Whether I hoped to disprove the omens of the first, I do not know. But the resolve to determine one way or the other tore at my essence until I beheld the contents of the second box.

It was, indeed, another magic 8-ball.

Sickness permeated my being and I choked back the hot retching that threatened to betray to my coworkers just how tenuous my mental state had become.

How had it known? How could it POSSIBLY have known what was in that second box? Did it receive its knowledge from a source beyond my comprehension? Was its knowledge absolute or were there limits imposed?

In desperation I cried out to the second 8-ball, hoping once again to disprove the evil magic that was obviously at work in these malicious devices. Hoping beyond hope that I could trip it up, I asked the second this question:

"Did the first box I opened also contain a magic 8-ball?"

Need I even tell you what answer swam to the surface? At the emergence of those three hideous letters I tore from my office, clawing at my face and screaming in ever strengthening waves of terror.

It is two hours since and I have only now began to calm myself. I don't know if they are still on my desk, waiting for me to return, mocking me with their simple form which belies the horrendous and nefarious powers that they summon. I hope to never see them again.

I fear what will happen if I do.

Conradus....Domibain.....

"It has been fated since time immemorial and whispered by the stones and trees prior to the dawning of the age of man that one day Yog-Sothoth shall be reborne, cast in fleshen form, craving of the essence of the living so as to strengthen his true darkness for the coming battle against Xexanoth.

It is rumored that his appearance shall first be harkened by the coming of the throne of discord, ridden upon by the beast which smoulders at length from its face, paired with the hideous she-queen of the acrimonious wailing.

Their power will manifest itself as legion, appearing to millions simultaneously, stunning and immobilizing the masses with their demands for regularly timed worship. From this point hence, three less than half a score the first appearance of the unholy one will make itself known.

He shall come not as one, but as two identical beasts, sharing a singular infernal goal. This second form shall not make itself known immediately, but instead will rear it's fearsome and phallical visage three revolutions hence of the initial manifestation.

Moving to the dissonant beat of secondary instrumentation, his ways will apparently differ from the manners of the masses. Borne from the seat of luxury, his scourge will not truly begin until the happenstance meeting with the ones clad in denym.

And you shall know his wretched power some years after those who ascended prior to his arrival return to feed off the fetid detritus of the prince and his kin."

-- Quachil Uttaus




I present you this quote to serve as warning, for I fear that the arrival of this hideous beast may already have come to pass. Through rigorous study and interpretation, I believe I have been able to divine the clues and determine his true identity.

As was so eloquently stated by Mr. Uttaus, the first signal we have of the arrival of the beast will be the throne of discord being claimed by the smouldering beast coupled with his shrill queen.

What confounded me at first with regards to that statement was the quizzical after statement of this first beast's demand for regular worship. And then after some reflection, the first sign became all too apparent.

In 1971, an American television show called "All in the Family" premiered. It's principal concern was the daily doings of a gruff, yet lovable man named Archie Bunker who was regularly broadcast into our living rooms sitting aloft his favorite chair. Although the chair in question was nothing more than average, Americans quickly found themselves captivated by Archie and his mannerisms. Mannerisms, I might add, that included cigar smoking, all accompanied by the constant screeching of his wife, Edith.

It was from this show that the lives of George and Louise were introduced to us, two enterprising Americans who had worked hard to build a life better than their current means. A life that ultimately afforded them luxuries of which they had never dreamed. A life that found them "movin' on up to the top"; ascending, if you will, to the upper echelons of society.

If we take the clues as written, it should be three less than half a score when the first appearance of the true beast will make itself known. Half a score would be ten years, so three prior to that would place the arrival of the unholy one at 1978.

What I found most shocking was that his arrival was proudly proclaimed with a direct, though distinctly modern translation of the original prophecy.

That translation read:

Now the world don't move to the beat of just one drum
What might be right for, may not be right for some
A man is born, he's a man of means
Then along come the two, they've got nothing but their jeans

And with this terrifying verse we are thrown headlong into the twisted world of Phillip Drummond, a man who ran through three house slaves over the course of his 8 year reign of pain and torment. Mr. Drummond was a wealthy, yet widowed urbanite with the financial means to set forth any nefarious schemes he deemed fit.

His ferocious temper was dampened only by the two young rapscallions that he adopted from the mean streets of Harlem, no doubt to propagate his horrific ideals of conquest in the event that the final events did not unfold.

However, those events DID unfold. For Mr. Drummond was played by a man named Conrad Bain who conveniently had an identical twin named Bonar. It bears mentioning that Bonar himself did make an appearance as an evil twin, Hank Drummond, on SCTV, THREE YEARS after the arrival of Conrad on the American scene.

With all of these events having come to pass, only one piece of the prophecy remained, that of the previous ascenders claiming the scraps that the foul one left behind. Well, I regret to say, that too has come to pass.

Mr. Drummond paid a visit to a young Will Smith in 1996, a man otherwise known as the "Fresh Prince of Bel-Air", with the intention of purchasing the mansion which had formerly been the prince's. Finding himself dissatisfied with the terms he left, only to have the estate purchased almost immediately by George Jefferson. It was with this purchase that the prince's reign came to an abrupt end.

This is all meant to serve as a warning. I cannot prevent the horrific devastation that will undoubtedly soon be wreaked upon this earth, but at the very least I can make its coming apparent to you so that you may take whatever precautionary measures are necessary.

Be concerned. Be prepared. And above all, practice constant vigilance.

Leave Luck to Heaven

On September 23, 1889 a young Japanese man by the name of Fusajiro Yamauchi started a small company called "Nintendo Company, Ltd". The original intent of this company was to manufacture handmade hanafuda playing cards. Nintendo was successful in this venture and through the years became one of the dominant players in Japan for playing cards, even being the first Japanese company to make cards out of plastic.

However, in 1956, current company president Hiroshi Yamauchi paid a visit to the United States to meet with the US Playing Card Company, then the world leader in their industry. Yamauchi was stunned to find a small and sparse office as the headquarters of an industry leader. Yamauchi decided at that time that Nintendo needed to move in other directions if they truly wanted to grow as a company.

The playing card market hit a saturation point in 1964 around the time of the Tokyo Olympics and soon the company's stock plummeted from 900 yen a share to 60. Nintendo soon began to branch out into other ventures, trying to find the market that was right for them. Over the years they dabbled in taxis, love hotels, a TV channel, instant rice and many other products. It was the release of a toy called "The Ultra Hand" in 1970 that pushed Nintendo headlong into the electronic entertainment industry.

Seeing that there was money to be made in electronics, Nintendo secured the Japanese distribution rights for the Magnavox Odyssey. At the time the Odyssey was the only game console on the home market, predating even the Pong units.

Based on the success of the Odyssey and the desire to more fully enter the market, Nintendo developed a series of dedicated home consoles known as the "Color TV Game" series. Many consoles were released in this series, beginning with the "Color TV Game 6" which offered 6 variations of a game called Light Tennis which was heavily based on Pong.

This continued with "Color TV Game 15" which contained two controllers and 15 variations of Light Tennis. The series continued with "Color TV Racing 112", a racing game that came complete with a steering wheel and gear shifter. Next up was "Game Block Kuzushi" which was a console based on Breakout. The final unit in this series was called "Computer TV Game" and was a port of Nintendo's first arcade game.

In conjunction with the Color TV Game series, Nintendo began manufacturing arcade games, beginning with Computer Othello. They also tried their hand at the hand held console market with a series of games known as "Game and Watch".

Realizing the potential of the home market, Nintendo set to work on creating a home console that would be both affordable and powerful. Their original designs called for a 16-bit processor and a floppy disk drive to be priced at $75-100 USD, but these designs proved too costly to implement and Nintendo soon found themselves rethinking their ideas from the ground up.

On July 15, 1983, Nintendo released their system in Japan. This toy like apparatus was designed to be a fun diversion for the family to enjoy together, hence the name FamiCom (Family Computer).

The FamiCom came complete with two hardwired controllers (the second of which had a microphone built in) and an expansion port that would later be used for various add-ons such as the Zapper, Power Pad, a keyboard for creating BASIC programs and a cassette drive, amongst other things. Most of these additions were never released outside of Japan.

The initial runs of the FamiCom contained a number of problems involving systems freezing and locking up. In order to generate good faith with consumers Nintendo announced a total recall of every unit and re-designed the motherboard. Once these issues were worked out the FamiCom began to shine.

The FamiCom was an unmitigated success and by the end of 1984 Nintendo had sold 2.5 million units in Japan alone. Bolstered by the influx of cash and the prospects of an even better venture overseas, Nintendo began to investigate releasing their console in the American market.

Hoping to find a partner for this venture, Nintendo first approached Atari to see if they would be interested in the distribution rights for their console, then known as the Nintendo Enhanced Video System. Atari was initially interested in this prospect until the unveiling of Donkey Kong for the Coleco Adam at the 1983 Consumer Electronics Show. Atari wrongly believed that this adaptation was an indication of Nintendo being duplicitous and asserting themselves to multiple companies. (However, Nintendo had no role in the creation of this iteration of Donkey Kong.) This mistrust caused Atari to pass on the deal. Subsequently, Atari was nearly destroyed by the "Great Video Game Crash" shortly thereafter.

Nintendo worked on a mockup of what would be their American console, this time branded the Nintendo Advanced Video System. However, analysts disliked the machine and speculation was rampant that it would fail.

Nintendo went back to the drawing board and ultimately created the Nintendo Entertainment System (NES) which ended up being the released console. Two major points were settled on prior to releasing the unit stateside.

First, Nintendo did studies and market analysis on the USA and determined that playing with their family was not what most gamers envisioned. Therefore, they removed the reference from the console's name.

Secondly, because of the recent market crash and the fear that video games were a fad that had already passed, Nintendo did not want to brand their console as a video games system. So the initial sets came bundled with a robot called Robotic Operating Buddy (R.O.B.) as well as a light gun called the Zapper.

The initial release of the NES came on October 18, 1985 when 100,000 units were set loose on New York City. Nintendo, aware of retailers' concerns with carrying yet another game system, offered to purchase back any unsold units, therefore putting all of the financial risk on themselves. The system flew off the shelves and by the time of the nationwide release in February of 1986, 90,000 of those initial units had been sold.

Before long the system was a worldwide success and Nintendo found themselves at the forefront of the gaming industry. Whereas a few years prior Atari had been synonymous with gaming, Nintendo now held that mantle. Kids did not play video games, they played Nintendo.

One of the pack-in games for the initial release was Super Mario Bros., the game that more or less created the platform genre and served as the introduction to gaming for an entire generation of American youth.

Apart from the overwhelming success of Super Mario, many other game series which continue to exist today began their life on the Nintendo, including The Legend of Zelda, Final Fantasy, Metroid, Kirby and many others.

In order to maintain strict control over the games market, Nintendo placed inside the NES a chip known as the 10NES, which acted as copy protection for the console. In order to legally manufacture a game for the NES a company had to submit their game to Nintendo who was the sole manufacturer of cartridges for their system.

Some crafty third party vendors devised methods for bypassing the protection scheme and released unlicensed cartridges for the system. However, Nintendo was not shy about taking companies to court for unapproved usage of their system and companies such as Tengen and Galoob found themselves facing the infamous Nintendo legal staff.

As the NES aged, Nintendo felt that they needed to expand their influence. Remembering the success of their earlier Game and Watch systems, Nintendo set out to create a hand held gaming system.

The result of this was the Game Boy, a pocket sized gaming console that had graphics comparable to the NES, though on a 2 color screen that lacked backlighting. The vast library of games as well as the inclusion of some of Nintendo's flagship titles helped the Game Boy dominate the hand held market even after competitors released machines that were more impressive from a technical standpoint.

Nintendo's control of the home market was so strong that even after more advanced systems had been created, (namely the TurboGrafx-16 and Genesis, known overseas as the PC-Engine and Megadrive) many retailers held off on stocking them.

However, Nintendo was not content to rest on their laurels and in 1990 they released the Super Nintendo Entertainment System (Super FamiCom in Japan). The SNES was more powerful than the NES and ushered in the 16-bit era.

Though Nintendo maintained their lead, they began to feel the bite as Sega began to draw players away from Nintendo. This was never more so the case than the release of Mortal Kombat for their respective systems.

Mortal Kombat was a sleeper hit at the arcades, a graphically violent fighting game that involved the killing of your opponent in gruesome and detailed methods. When the time came to release the game to the home market, Nintendo refused to budge on their "no blood" censorship policy.

As a result the Sega version of the game outsold the SNES version by 3 to 1, even though Nintendo's console offered better graphics and sound. It was becoming apparent that Nintendo was not moving forward and progressing with the wants and needs of their audience.

On December 9, 1993, congressmen Herb Kohl and Joe Lieberman held Congressional hearings on video game violence. As a result of this hearing, the Entertainment Software Rating Board (ESRB) was created.

Because a ratings system was now in place for games, Nintendo allowed the adaptation of Mortal Kombat II to reach the SNES unmolested from its arcade form. This version outsold the Sega release by a substantial margin.

As time wore on, the move towards 32-bit gaming and 3-D hardware became inevitable. Not wanting to be left behind by the next generation of games, Nintendo sought to both extend the life of the SNES and work on a new console that would fill the needs of modern gamers.

Nintendo had received assistance from Ken Kutaragi at Sony when choosing the sound processor for the SNES. In the end they had settled for the Sony SPC-700. Because of the connections they had formed when making this decision, Nintendo approached Sony to see about creating a CD-ROM add-on for the SNES.

This addition was to come in two stages, the first being an add-on for the SNES, the second was to be a brand new console that utilized both Nintendo and Sony's hardware and upped the ante for what a home system could do.

Nintendo found themselves unhappy with the terms of the contract they had signed with Sony, feeling that Sony retained too much control over the titles made in the SNES-CD format. Because of this they began working in the background with Philips to the same ends.

At the 1991 CES, Sony was shocked to find that Nintendo did not announce their partnership, but instead announced their partnering with Philips. This was an unforeseen and stinging blow to Sony.

This move turned out to be an enormous mistake for Nintendo, as the wrath of Sony played out in the next generation of consoles and Nintendo found their control of the market slipping away. Nintendo's joint venture with Philips, the CD-i was a complete failure. Nintendo entered into lawsuits to prevent Sony from continuing on with their project, but ultimately it came to fruition.

The codename of their original joint venture? The Playstation.

Life's Lessons

We've all heard it said in the past that the best way to learn things is the hard way; that pain and misery are the best teachers we have. I think it goes without saying that many of us have had to learn a good deal of life's lessons this way and in the spirit of both A) offering sage advice to our younger readers and B) getting a post up for the sake of keeping Bonez updated, I would like to offer up some of the things that I have learned over the years that could prove useful to our readers.

1) Do not draw on cars with dry erase markers. Now, you're probably of the same mindset that my friend and I were when undertaking this venture; namely that dry erase markers ERASE, and therefore one can safely draw on any surface and enjoy the screams of terror of those whose things are being destroyed. In retrospect, bad idea. It might have even been incumbent on us to draw a test phallus on one small section of the car before covering the entire thing in various representations of male genitalia. For the record, not only does dry erase NOT wipe off of cars, it also does not happen to wash off. Ever. If you ever come across an 80's model gray Oldsmobile that is covered trunk to hood in penises, great and small, you can smile quietly to yourself knowing that somebody thought that was hilarious to do...20 years ago.

2) Do not use a lighter to light a gas grill. Now, this is one of the few times in my life that just prior to an accident I said, "Hey, I don't think this is a good idea". It is subsequently also one of the few times that I was right. No matches were available, and since I was a smoker at the time and always had a lighter handy, reaching in there and "sparking her up" seemed like a grand idea. Or not. I lost most of the hair on my right arm that night. 3 years later (Yes, ONLY 3 years ago) and I still do not grow hair on a large area of my arm. Oh well, at least the burgers were tasty.

3) Do not attempt a flying Jackie Chan style kick at a door if you are not, in fact, Jackie Chan. I learned this one in my teenage years. The end result was my foot slipping, throwing my arms out to break my fall and in turn breaking one of my arms with my fall. Yes, you read that right, I broke my arm kicking a door. To make matters worse I had to leave where I was to go do lights for a play. In order to get to that play I had to ride my moped, which I managed to do by bracing it with my feet, revving the throttle with my left hand and then dropping my rapidly swelling and useless hand onto it. I managed to perform lights for the ENTIRE play (Oliver, so you know) before heading off to the hospital to tend to my wounds. Broken bones hurt. They hurt even worse when you just let them dangle and do little, if nothing to repair them for a few hours.

4) If you are a teenager, never trust a group of your friends who promise you won't get hurt. Chances are you will. If you're one of that group of friends, never stop egging your friend on. Their pain is pure hilarity.

5) Yes, the little metal plate they put on your table at a Greek restaurant prior to bringing out the plate of meat is heated. It is not just a good conductor of heat for when the meat arrives. If you don't believe me, I recommend that you test this by poking it with a finger, not with your entire palm. Ouch.

6) Burying your feet in snow does not actually keep them warm. In fact, snow is frigidly cold.

7) Yes, you can draw blood with Nerf.

So there you have it, a handful of things to avoid in life, or at least the answers to a few questions that you never asked.

Bombs Away

Michigan was mired in yet another of its frigid winters and I was forced, as was my daily routine, to make that half mile walk down to the bus stop to await the yellow chariot that would transport us to school. Our house was situated back from the main road by a driveway roughly one half mile in length. To wander down this road you would find but two houses, ours and THEIRS. In the twenty plus years that my family has lived in that house, I have come face to face with THEM perhaps five times. Ever. It helps to be from a non-social family that happens to live next door to another non-social family.

Setting forth for the stop that day, I had a strong suspicion that I would not ulitmately be ferried to our vaunted den of education. No, I had the knowledge that my parents would be leaving on yet another of their interstate ventures, this time to peddle antique books somewhere in the suburbs of Chicago. That meant that freedom was mere minutes away. As soon as they left, I would once again have full control of the house for whatever term they would be gone, which in this particular case was about a week.

My bus stop was used by only one other student, namely Terry. You should be aware that we were regular partners in crime, so any plans I had for cutting out on class and in general being a juvenile reprobate would no doubt need to include him. I met him down at the bus stop at our normal time and proceeded to delicately broach the subject of hiding out at my place instead of actually going to school.

"I don't think I'm gonna go to school today, man. Wanna join me?" Again, I wanted to make sure that the subject was handled with all due aplomb.

"Sure" he said, and at that point our blood vow had been made. No school would be attended by us that day, and in fact, we would make a solemn vow to ensure that no education of ANY TYPE took place in the time that we should have been in attendance.

The only thing to do at this point was to avoid getting on the bus while also remaining hidden from both the bus driver and by my parents as they made their way out. No problem, we figured, as it was still early in the morning (ergo, dark) and there was a baseball field across the street from our bus stop.

The plan was simple, make our way behind the concession stand at the baseball field, wait until my parents venture forth and then head to my house to reap the spoils of our clever and devious ways. The only thing standing in our way at this point was the cold. The frigid cold. The oppressive, HOLY FUCK Michigan cold. Fortunately, we were both completely underdressed for this venture, having assumed when we got ready that we would either be attending school or would quickly be heading to my house. Of course, no such luck was to be had.

The bus came and went at 6:30 and we basked in the warm glow of our clever hiding spot. A glow that was neither warm enough nor long lasting enough to assist us as the time wore ever on. 7:00 came and went. As did 8:00.

Far from being warm enough to handle such a situation, we found ourselves in desperation, digits turning beet red and then purple due to restricted blood flow and soon we were burying our appendages in the snow in order to capture what little warmth was leaving our bodies. I'm sure it would have looked odd to passersby to see two teenaged boys, almost purple with cold packing their hands and feet in the snow, assuring one another that this was "for warmth".

By the time 9:00 rolled around, we were beginning to become seriously worried about frostbite. This is the sort of shit we had more or less come to expect from life. You come up with a great idea and then life decides to fuck it all up by necessitating a trip to the emergency room. Sigh.

At 9:00 our shivering had become so severe and our inability to feel our fingers and toes so concerning, that we decided to head to my house under the assumption that we had simply missed my parents leaving. I mean, come on, it was nearly 3 hours since the bus had gone. My parents had a 7 hour drive ahead of them and that didn't even include getting a hotel room, setting up for the show, attending the pre-show dinner, etc. There was no way they had dallied behind at the house this long without a reason involving an ambulance making its way down our road.

So, collecting ourselves and our backpacks as best we could with fingers that no longer gripped, we began the long trek down the road to my house, grumbling between us the entire way about how we CERTAINLY had frostbite to some degree on any number of parts of our body. (Author's note: Yep. The toes on my right foot have never been the same and will turn ghostly white the second they get cold.) As we neared the halfway point of the driveway we heard a sound. A sound that sent an even icier chill down our spine than the one currently inhabiting the space.....My parents' van.

"OH SHIT!" we screamed simultaneously as we took off at the most breakneck speed we could manage back down the driveway. Oh fuck, oh fuck, what if they see us?!?! Our run nothing more than a hastened hobble, we managed to make our way back to the end of the road and cut over to the baseball field just in time to see the van pulling out of the driveway and making its way to Chicago. Breathing a collective sigh of relief, we made our way down to my house at the best pace we could manage. Not quite a run, not quite a crawl. (Which was impressive, considering.)

We deposited our backpacks upstairs in my bedroom and proceeded to fill the bathroom sink with warm water. Taking opposing spots on the counter, we submerged our hands and feet in the warm water, feeling the life slowly creep back into our bodies. After some time we were able to switch to hot water and in fact were able to feel our fingers and toes again. Numb with exhaustion and near-hypothermia, we made our way into the den, turned on the tv and were both fast asleep within five minutes.

We awoke later that day still chilly, but ultimately none the worse for wear. (Ahh, the resiliency of youth.) It was decided then and there that lunch time had arrived and we sauntered to our respective lunches. This being my house, I made my way to the kitchen, while Terry ventured upstairs to gather his bagged lunch from his backpack.

I stood in the kitchen preparing my sandwich without much more thought about the future than what movie I intended to watch shortly. And then I heard it.

"Bombs away!" Terry said, followed by a dull thud, which in turn was immediately followed by, "OH SHIT!”

Now, let's be realistic. "Oh shit" really NEVER means something good. But "Bombs away" FOLLOWED by "Oh shit" can only mean disaster. Major disaster. In MY house disaster.

I ran from the kitchen, screaming "What the fuck did you DO?" but didn't even have a chance to finish it before I saw. The pool. The ENORMOUS pool. Of grape juice. On the white carpet. A pool with a four foot radius, glistening in the sunlight streaming through the bay window.

Fear and rage welled in me, twisted and convoluted into an emotion so powerful words cannot describe it. I call it fage, and there's not a teenager alive who hasn't felt fage at some point. Currently, my fage was focused squarely on Terry.

I tried to stammer myself through a repeat chorus of "What the fuck did you do", but found that my fage had stripped me of my voice. The best he could offer in reply was that "I didn't know it was in there" when he dropped the bag. I retorted with the relative idiocy of dropping your lunch from the second story onto the white carpet in the first place with or without the involvement of Welch's.

I'd love to say that I cleverly grabbed a knife, slashed his throat and forced him to bleed out on the very stain he had just created, crafting a meticulous story for my parents about Terry tripping and falling onto the blade. If nothing else, the blame would be deflected from me. But unfortunately, I just wasn't that creative as a lad. And I was left with a rather large, round and increasingly purple problem.

I stormed off to the garage to gather a bucket and a couple of sponges. Filling the bucket with cold water and a liberal amount of Woolite, I made my way back to the living room, stuffed them into Terry's hands and very nicely suggested that he should consider cleaning the mess. (Author's note: I was not nice nor did I suggest anything. I am certain that a threat involving crushed testicles was levied.)

Feeling a tad high and mighty due to the fact that I had NOTHING to do with this fiasco, I watched Terry furtively scrubbing at the stain moreso than get involved. Oh, I scrubbed a bit here and there, but the meat of the work was done by him, as felt fitting at the time, and frankly still does as I write about it.

He scrubbed that carpet until his fingers were but nubs, reddened and raw from the continued motion of the carpet against them, frigid water and copious amounts of Woolite, both from the bucket and applied directly to the stain. After a good hour of cleaning, it became readily apparent that his efforts were completely in vain, this stain was making its way into the carpet and had no intention of leaving without a fight.

Realizing that these efforts were fruitless, it was decided to phone a carpet cleaning place and throw out our favorite question. The hypothetical. Any time we made a phone call starting with the phrase, "Hypothetically speaking..." you could pretty much just assume that we fucked up. Bad. Hypothetical calls were made when we knew we had done something really, really terrible and wanted to see just how deep a hole we had dug for ourselves.

So I dialed the phone and started the conversation with the dread term. "Hypothetically speaking, let's say you spilled a large amount of grape juice on a white carpet. What would be the best way for cleaning that up?". Of course, the answer we prayed for was to spend $5 on some miracle elixir and be done with the whole sordid affair. Unfortunately, that was NOT what they had to say to us. They recommended a steam cleaning but made extra sure to point out that NO MATTER WHAT, do NOT use cold water and Woolite, as you'll just set the stain forever.

Shit.

So, the bad news is that the carpet is ruined and I am filled with a fury so indescribable that Terry fears my imminent explosion, as it will rightfully be directed at him. The good news is that since my parents have left me for the week, a small stipend was left so that I could afford luxuries such as food. So, further phone calls were made to try and get our hands on a steam cleaning unit. Unfortunately, the stipend was just that, a stipend, and nowhere near enough money to cover those costs.

Ultimately, I made Terry come over every day during my parents' absence and clean that spot. By the time they returned from their trip, it had gone from a brilliant enormous purple stain to a vibrantly bright enormous purple stain. But, all things being equal, life decided to be fair on this one. I managed to deflect ALL of the blame onto Terry, and for years he was unable to live down his accident with my parents.

Of course, the version we told involved an innocent Terry having a very severe accident involving a Keatonian pratfall, but nonetheless, the end result was a huge stain, compliments of him. He was therefore banned from ever having a drink in the house anywhere except the kitchen from that point forward, in perpetuity.

We were lucky that time.