With all of that said, I must eat my own words and say that the last three episodes of Season 3, ORB and the two part season finale, are insanely disappointing. Don’t get me wrong, I love insanity but I think Public and Hammer phoned these episodes in. ORB is all over the place not having a true denouement to tie up the loose ends. Even the creators themselves had some criticism of the editing of the show in the commentary provided on adultswim.com.  Doc said that the show would have had made more sense if the extra four to five minutes were left in.

The two part season finale, The Family that Slays Together, is so convoluted it makes viewing almost painful. Part 1 carries over from the abridged ORB episode so it makes sense that it makes no sense.  The true role of Brock in the whole series becomes eerily ambiguous especially the reasons behind his “termination.” Part 2 tries to answer some questions, but I don’t think that the General’s little pep talk at the end is the full truth. One of the smaller problems that I have with Part 2 is the continuity issue with the Ventures hopping a ride in Monarch’s Cocoon. It’s flying away from them in one scene and in the next; they are crawling out of an escape hatch at their compound. The biggest problem I have with the finale is Henchman 24. Seriously what the fuck? What the hell is #21 going to do by himself? By nature, he’s a codependent character.

Fuck you Jackson Public and Doc Hammer. Fuck you. I will see yall next season premiere, but fuck you guys…seriously fuck you. RIP #24. We will miss you.

    What I saw makes Mississippi in the early 1800’s look like a day in Candy Land.  Gummy bears are the totalitarian rulers of a dark and perverse landscape. Their ranks of masochism are differentiated by color and flavor. The clear, pineapple, ones are the highest on the sticky poll. They enjoy sexually harassing the reds, raspberry, by biting large hunks of gummy flesh from their ass cheeks. Strawberries come in second on the cruelty chart because of their collective adverse reaction to a low self esteem. It seems that since they are green, they believe they are misunderstood by the rest of civilization. Therefore, they castigate the gummy worms with black licorice sticks.

    You see, the gummy worms are the labor and sexual slaves of the gummy subculture. They toil day and night through the fields of Sour Patch Kids and gummy cherry orchards aerating the soil for proper root development.  I don’t think that the sexual part is too hard to figure out; they are pretty phallic by nature. The worst part of being a gummy worm is when the Smurfs get drunk on gummy root beer and decide to go fishing for Swedish fish with them for bait. I had to turn away at this point and puke…Smurfs smell worse than the dumpster at the animal shelter.

    Before I left, the head of tourism took me to their version of a “donkey show.” I physically cannot stomach the thought any longer, so I will leave the details up to the imagination. Right after the show, I fortunately awoke in a bed with my friends smiling all around me.

    I had this horrible ringing in my ears for a day or so, but when I finally could hear my friends told me the candy was in a big orange bowl outside the neighborhood pedophile’s house last Halloween. They thought it was either doped or semen laced, so they being good Samaritans took it before the kiddies could get a hold of it. My heavy sleep confirmed the fact that they were filled with heroin, ecstasy, and barbiturates.  They said the black-light they smuggled in the clinic confirmed the latter suspicion. Boy were they pissed they never tried any.

"When I heard about it, I felt really hurt inside," said Special Olympics global messenger Dustin Plunkett. "I cannot believe a writer could write something like that. It’s the not the way that we want to be portrayed. We have feelings. We don’t like the word retard. We are people. We’re just like any other people out there. We want to be ourselves and not be discriminated against."

    Is it not a writer’s job to make people feel?  Hell most us are already sad, pathetic, retards ourselves.  Who in their right mind would chose such a lonely and unrewarding profession?  I wish I could get a job that “special people” get without even being able to spell their full name.  Well that’s enough about me.

    Ben Stiller loves to poke fun at retarded people in most of his movies anyway.  This is nothing new.  Take “There’s Something about Mary” for example number one.  The adult retarded brother is the funniest part of the movie.  Casting Owen Wilson in “Starsky and Hutch” shows that he has sympathy for special people and will even hire them when in true need of an actor.  Barbara Streisand played his fucking mother in “Meet the Annoying Jews.”  If that is not compassion for a ‘tard then I don’t what is.

    Why not spend protesting energy on something important like keeping re-re’s out of Washington DC?  Leave the hopeless alone in Hollywood and set up shop outside the Senate.  Give the people who actually matter a piece of your slightly slow mind.  Big Business, the same employers who give out greeter’s and janitor’s jobs to the mental, hand out Congressional seats like candy to make sure that no one with a fully developed sense of right and wrong can run this loony bin of a broken democracy.  Isn’t a clear sense of right and wrong the foundation of mental health?  Tell me that someone isn’t retarded when they sign their name next to “no” on a bill that would give free and proper health care to the parents, siblings, and family friends that take care of their “special people.”  I know that taking care of a handicapped person is a full time job that doesn’t pay, so why can’t these full time “employees” get the same treatment that their non-working loved ones get?

    I might be all over the place on this one, but I feel hurt inside.  Let’s all get angry, let’s all get pissed, let’s all protest.  Let’s do it for the right reason though.

The crimson Victorian style house sat on the corner of a very normal old neighborhood.  Nothing out of the ordinary except for the lack of chirping birds and grass on the lawn.  There was an abundance of cats though.  My buddy said he could have swore he saw a neon green Siamese with a price tag stapled to its ear run past.  I was too busy looking at the noose rope swing set going for ten bucks.  An overly happy midget wearing sunglasses and a gold tooth said he could make a good deal on anything.

A tall skinny woman stroked his head like a dog and smiled, “Aren’t you a cute little boy.”

“Bitch don’t make bring up the flames of hell on your ass,” he said scampering away.

After searching through the dusty yard for headless sculptures and yard gnomes, my friend and I found out there was more stuff inside.  We made our way into the darkened sanctuary.  Large tapestries hung from every wall with price tags saying $5 OBO.  We tried to find the little guy to offer him a buck a piece for them.  We found him hiding in crawl space under the stairs whistling Eagle’s tunes.

“Hey man will you take a buck a piece for the tapestries?”
“Sorry night sleepers I need at least $3.50,” he hissed.
“I’m a day sleeper asshole, how ‘bout $2.75?” I asked getting a little angry at his temperament.
“Come on, help a brother out.  $3.50 a piece, nothing less.”
“What do y’all need the money for anyway?” my friend asked, sizing the midget up.
“We have to pay off our Hot Topic credit card before the interest rate gets too high.,” he said looking down at the KISS Army rug in shame.

I almost bit my lip off trying not to laugh…this guy might know some black magic, so we left him there to think about our offer.  I walked through the dining room adorned with plaster demon skulls and Franklin Mint Collector’s Plates of 1950’s movie monsters.  Music was coming from somewhere…it sounded like Black Sabbath on a calliope.

There was a crusty old pedophile playing with his organ in the kitchen.  He quit ticking the keys we he saw our faces full of disbelief.

“See something you like?” he asked turning on his stool to face us.  “That’s the biggest 18 incher I’ve ever seen.,” I said staring between his legs.
“Yeah this subwoofer is evil…pure evil,” he said laughing with a crooked grin.
He turned back and let a low E rumble from the keyboard to the woofer.  The whole house shook in appreciation.
“How much?” I asked when my teeth quit vibrating.
“What do you do?” he asked looking between the two of us.
“I sell wine,” my friend said.
“Evil wine made from the blood of the first born?” he asked scratching his crotch.
“No just grapes,” my friend quickly replied.
“I write,” I said.
“Evil writing?” he asked grinning.
“Sometimes I write about eating my neighbor’s pets,” I said hoping that was evil enough.
“Have you ever done it?” His smile got larger.
“Just once.  This guy had a wild hog that he let run loose.  He looked like good eating, so we BBQed him one Sunday morning.”

“That’s really sick kid,” he said losing his smile, “Take the damn thing and don’t come back. You’re fucked up.  You know that the eating of swine is prohibited in most all ancient religions.  You should really think about going vegan.  The modern life span is shrinking due to our diets….”
He was still rambling about crazy shit as we made our way to the van with the one hundred pound behemoth.

“Those Satanists sure are pussies,” my friend said as we sped off.
“Yeah pussies,” I laughed scratching the spot were my pecker used to be.

6) Winnie the Pooh: (disney ursidae)
    Come on who wouldn’t want to eat a jolly pre-sweetened bear with a Honey Badger?  Maybe even stuff the badger with cornbread stuffing and then stuff it in Pooh.

5) Piglet: (disney suidae)
    We all know that bacon makes everything better.  Plus he has to have dipped a little in the honey jar, if you know what I mean.

4) Tasmanian Devil: (sarcophilus harrisii)
    It is rumored that Devils have the strongest bite of any mammal in the animal kingdom.  I like to remind animals that I am the top of the food chain.  I will eat it roasted with parsnips and add it’s teeth to my collection of sharp objects.

3) Baby Leopard Seal: (hydrurga leptonyx)
    I got to see for myself if they’re worth clubbing.  Hey it will be tender.

2) Kting Voar (Pseudonovibos spiralis)
    Though many scientists believe this snake eating Asian bovine is a mythological creature, Dr. Wang, my personal mammalogist, reassures me that the animal does exist and makes a great pot of spicy chili.  Apparently the snake venom adds a little zing to the meat.

1) Dachshund (canis hotdogious)
    I have always wanted to make a hot dog from weiner dog meat.  Question is: what type of mustard do I use?

Fearing further governmental sanctions, the games were moved to a public park where community competition is encouraged.  The Korean BBQ Rib throw off went well with Roy O’Doyle taking gold for throwing his rib a record setting 80 yards.  At this point Mr. O’Doyle is representing Mr. Wang’s proudly with three golds and one silver.  He seemed upset when he missed gold by only one shrimp in the 25 meter shellfish relay.  Martha McCormick ended up with gold, her first and only after realizing that she is mortally allergic to crustaceans.  Our thoughts and prayers go out to the Panda Star team.  She was too young at 46 to pass in such a heroic manner.

The most touching story of the games, however, is the reuniting of former hibachi cook Yang Choy to his twin brother Yang Tsu.  They met after someone made an off-hand racist comment about how all Asians looked alike.  The identical twins shrugged off the remark once they realized that yes they do look a lot alike.  Since both of them were armed with large chef knives, no one else laughed.  They took silver and bronze in the chop shit up really really fast contest.  Gold went to a Mexican that was just walking around with a switch blade in the park.  He was arrested shortly after.  Officials say that he will be able to keep his medal fearing retaliation.

The last event of the evening, Rice Sculpturing, is about to start and I have money on it so I will sign off now.

    I want to take this moment to let you know that I do truly love you from the bottom of my heart, but you know in less than a month I will become the “devil’s bastard spawn” as Grandma put it so lovingly last fall.  College football season is merely weeks away so I want to apologize in advance for my actions yet to come.  I know that I will miss about fourteen birthdays, two anniversaries, and the birth of my retarded nephew.  Come on you know Stacy was on X the night she fucked that hot dog vendor, don’t blame me…I had to hold down the seats…Mom don’t bitch please, she’s seventeen and midfield tickets don’t grow on trees.

    I have already set up an account at the credit union on the corner of Main and 1st with Dad as an additional account signer.  There is enough money in it to make bail twice and a little left over to cover any unmade bets while I’m in.  Steve might contribute a few bucks also for our trip to Oklahoma.  I promise that I will not go back to Louisiana this season.  The restraining order is enough to keep me away.  Uncle Carl I apologize again for calling your Tigers “cheating cum-sucking whores” and I will pay you back at the end of the season when my Gators whoop their sorry asses.

    Grandpa I owe you an advanced apology for betting your house on the Michigan-Notre Dame game.  I don’t remember who I betted on, but if this season is anything like last’s, neither will win.
    The beer is cold and UPS just dropped off a case of Florida orange paint so I will end it here.  I will see yall come January.

Love,
Aluwishes “Go Gators” McFinkelstein

  One day he might be holding a sign at the corner asking for Fifty Cent so he can buy a newspaper to take a shit on.  He should thank Taco Bell for putting his fucked-up name back in the public eye.  Look at what Taco Bell did for Carlos Alazraqui’s career.  He makes me laugh, and not for his name or his Chihuahua voice saying “yo quiero”.  I laughed my ass of when he hit the mime, Ben Garant, in the shins. This nation is fickle, especially when it comes to the “arts” so he might want shut the fuck up and enjoy the ride, which costs fifty cents in front of God’s grocery store.

  While he’s there he might want to get a Hello Kitty temporary tattoo to wear at the next awards ceremony when he’s asking real musicians if they would like a hot towel after taking a leak.  I’m done…and I hope he is too.   P.S. Taco Bell I loved your chili-cheese burritos, please bring ‘em back for fifty cents.

I’m drinking gin on top of wine, just to let you know.  It kills these ear piercing whines.  His bitches go to 11.  I think his parents didn’t beat enough.  Holy shitting pope, he’s published.  Do his books come with a warning, are they sold at the suicide booth gift shop?

“Ready to bail?” a voice from behind asks handing over a beer.
“Thank you, yes.”
We pile back into the sardine can sharing the last bottle of brew amongst the fish in the back seat.  We rant about the absolute shitiness of the evening and argue what is worse…the poetry or our munchies.
Leftover Chinese ends the debate.

It is to the point that I feel like I’m tripping my balls off.  Shit keeps moving in and out of my peripheral, and I think a colony of ants is waging war on my pickled skin.  I don’t know how to come down or if I really want to.  The classic country radio station is the only stimulus I can handle at this moment.  Something about finger picking is a calming harbor.  My urine smells like a Dunkin Donuts.  Donuts sound good.  I’m scared shitless to leave the house though.  Any cop would haul my ass in thinking I just smoked a gram of meth.

I think I’m going to have to swear off the java for a week to make sure my kidneys are still functioning correctly.  If there is such thing as a caffeine hangover, I will surely have it. Oh shit, Glen Campbell is singing…there is no drug on this earth can that make him bearable.  If I could concentrate I would finish typing my longhand manuscripts but the keyboard is beginning to move a bit too much.  Signing off for now, I think my colon is about to erupt.

    There was even some good background music coming from the bar next door.  A band of seventeen year olds, The Blue Threads, were playing Zeppelin covers while drawing away the poetry crowd one by one until just the regulars were left to hear the old nose read his lines one more time just in case someone missed them the first time.

    We split to go back to my old friend’s pad for a quick smoke and memories.  We realized that we had been friends for over ten years now and haven’t physically seen each other in almost two.  Nothing really has changed except that our poems only talk about lost loves and not the bubbly young ones that we try desperately to remember their names while eating breakfast.

    He and thirteen other local Houston poets are doing the “Word Around Town” poetry reading beginning this Sunday and touring through Htown bars and coffee-shops until next Saturday.  Look it up online and plan on going one night…you won’t be disappointed.  Say hi to me if you see a wild haired drunk with a goatee dripping week old nacho cheese.

    A former lover of his and myself, had spent the last week in mourning by snorting blowcaine and chugging beer by the pitcher in New Orleans until we found ourselves back in the Austin city limits a few hours before the service.  How we got back will probably only be remembered in a therapy session years and wives away from now.  I do remember however driving around franticly looking for the funeral home and sneaking plugs of Lone Star while cop’s gazes seemed as if they smelt us through the intersection.

    “Is that a tombstone?”  I asked throwing my beer can to the passenger side of the truck.
    “Where?” Olive asked packing a straw worth’s.
    “On the corner of that strip mall.”
    “Yeah, I think so.  Holy shit that must be the place.”

    Sure enough our dead friend’s last hoorah was being held in the corner unit of a strip-mall right next to T-shirt shop.  I tried as hard as I could to get it all out before I walked in, every single chuckle, every ounce of humor.  But to my dismay it only got worse.

    As we approached the entrance we were met by six large weeping bikers apparently wearing the best leather chaps.  They nodded to me and wolf whistled as respectfully as possible at Olive.  Once inside, we wedged in to the mourning metal-head moshpit.  Even though I was pretty good friends with these guys, I don’t think I had ever been closer to them.  Not even that time when we toured Texas together in a van the size of a king bed.

    Surprisingly, I held in the laughter.  It hurt I tell you, it genuinely hurt.  It wasn’t until the Lord’s Prayer when the whiskey bottles came out that I lost it.  The subtle clink of Maker’s to J&B opened the flood gates of tears and gut spasms.  I grabbed hold of Olive’s arm and tried to play it off as an uncontrolled fit of depression.  Even the drunken drummer holding a fifth of Jameson shook his head in disapproval.

    When it was over, the crowd filed out into the parking lot, lit up cigs, pulled their bottles from their jackets, and fell out on the hot concrete all but pissing their pants in laughter.  I guess sometimes everyone gets the joke.