I Need a New Nemesis Now

Alliteration is for a-holes.

As you all know, Ian Fortey is dead.  I came out victorious in our eternal struggle that started a few weeks ago.  The best part of all is that I got Peter Weller to admit to killing him, so I'm off the hook.

Anyway, that's not the point of this entry.  The point of this entry is my need for a new nemesis.  Finding a nemesis isn't as easy as you probably think it is.  (Moron.)  In the case of Fortey, he personally insulted me and people like me.  Underjets, which he mistakenly referred to as underbites, are beautiful, bold, facial features.  Powerful, too.  I can chew through a steel bar as thick as my arm, which is why no prison has ever successfully confined me.

I digress.

I can't think of anyone who has personally insulted me lately, so I need a different method of selection a nemesis.  I considered that dog down the street that barks at me whenever I walk past him, but he's too dim-witted.  So I figured that I'd figure out something a little more dramatic:

Bam!  What's more dramatic than my arch-enemy being my best friend from junior high and high school.  That's right, Jake Heninger is my new nemesis.  (Or "Jay Keninger" as I sometimes like to call him.)  Know what's even better?  He's my cousin!  Bam!  Drama!  That idea alone would get the movie of my life story green-lit in Hollywood!

Now, besides the obvious reason of dramatic appeal, I need to concoct a real reason why he's my nemesis.  How about because he's a traitor?  Yeah, that'll work.

The fiend was born and raised in Canada.  True, it was smalltown Alberta, which is as close to American conservatism as you can get in Canada, but dammit, it's still Canada!  And what did he do just a handful of years after marrying an AMERICAN!?  Why, he moved to AMERICA!, that's what he did.  And he's been living in AMERICA! ever since.  Even lawyering for those dirty Californian's.  Why, I hear (from myself) that he's in league with Arnold Schwar...Schwartneg...Schwartnegra the Terminator himself!  The above picture was taken during his time living in AMERICA!.  Just look at the mocking in his face as he holds aloft the Canadian maple leaf, no doubt a mock gift from one of his AMERICAN! cohorts!

But you haven't even heard the worst of it.  BEHOLD:

Yes, you recognize this photo.  It's in the very sidebar of this very blog in an edited form.  This is at Sir Headolence's knighthood in 1967.  That's me on the right, Sir Headolence in the middle, and the dastardly Jake Heninger on the left!  Not only has Jake betrayed Canada; he has betrayed Sir Headolence the Dubious!  I know, I know, you all want to lynch him now.  But you must restrain yourselves.

He's mine.

Conniving Souls Scenes 7-10

Scene 7

Crane’s bathroom.  Crane stands in front of the mirror wearing a tight T-shirt and flexing his muscles.  He holds his hands in front of him.

CRANE:  to his hands.  Congratulations on yet another successful brain surgery, fellas.  Kisses his hands.  Daddy loves his little moneymakers.

Cylash enters.

CRANE:  Good morning, sugar-bottom.

CYLASH:  Good morning, darling.  I have to go.  I have a photo-shoot at 1:00, and wardrobe and make-up always take so long.

CRANE:  Has your private investigator found out anything about Chuck yet?

CYLASH:  I haven’t heard from her since I hired her.

CRANE:  Nothing?

CYLASH:  I only hired her yesterday.

CRANE:  He was home alone last night.  Surely, he took advantage of your absence to fool around with his mistress.  Pause.  Or mistresses.

CYLASH:  I’ll call her later for an update.  I have to get going now.  I’ll see you later.

CRANE:  Bye.

Cylash leaves.  Crane turns back to the mirror.  A John Black-like look of exaggerated suspicion spreads over his face.

Scene 8

Music montage of Connie following Chuck around all day.  He goes out for breakfast, goes to work and sits at his desk doing nothing, goes out for lunch, goes back to work and falls asleep, and finally goes home.  Connie waits around to see if any women show up.  Cylash enters the house.

Scene 9

Chuck sits on the couch watching Superman cartoons.  Cylash enters.

CYLASH:  Hello, Chuck.

CHUCK:  Cylash!  Hi, honey.  I’m so glad you’re home.

CYLASH:  Why?

CHUCK:  I missed you.  And I was worried.  Where were you?

CYLASH:  What’s that supposed to mean?

CHUCK:  I—uh—what?

CYLASH:  Are you accusing me of something, Chuck?

CHUCK:  No, of course not, honey!  I was just worried.  You seemed so upset when you left last night.

CYLASH:  Oh, yes, I’m sure!  The benevolent Charles Lexington Stanton was concerned that his wife was off somewhere along crying!  Why don’t you just cut the crap and admit that you think I’m having an affair?

CHUCK:  What?!

CYLASH:  Don’t play dumb with me, Chuck.  You’ve always been jealous.

CHUCK:  No I haven’t.

CYLASH:  You’ve always been suspicious.  You figure a woman of my great beauty must be unfaithful.  Admit it!

CHUCK:  No!  The thought never even crossed my mind!

CYLASH:  Well let me tell you something, Mr. President-of-the-company: high-powered businessmen like you are notorious for having affairs.  If there’s a cheater in this marriage, it’s you!

Cylash turns and walks away.

CHUCK:  Cylash, wait!

Cylash storms out of the house.

CHUCK: My middle name isn't Lexington.

Scene 10

Connie sits in a car across the street from Chuck’s house.  She watches Cylash leave.

CONNIE:  Is that your deal, Mr. Stanton?  Fight with you wife until she’s driven out, allowing an opportunity for your mistress to arrive?  Eats a carrot.  But why go through the trouble of upsetting your wife that much?  Why not just tell your wife that you’re going to the bar with your buddies and then meet up with your mistress?  There are easier ways to have an affair.  Eats another carrot.  Well, let’s see if your mistress shows up.

PASSERBY:  Who are you talking to?

Connie blushes and pulls her hood up.  Passerby moves on.


Any suggestions what song I should use for the music montage in Scene 8?  And don't say "I'll Be Watching You" by The Police.

Earth Puncher

 Sometimes I wish the Earth had a big face so that I could punch the Earth in its stupid, smug face.

"Oh!  Look at me!  I'm the Earth!  I'm so pretty and diverse!  You need me to live, but I'll kill you if you drive too many cars!"  Geez, what a prick!  So I took my offspring out into the wilderness over the long weekend.  I have a new child, a she-child this time, and I need to get an early start instilling in her a deep hatred for nature.  My heir and my second son are already on the road to being ecological terrorists (the kind of ecological terrorist who terrorizes the ecology, not the kind that blow up pipelines and hang harshly-worded banners in the Fort McMurray oilsands).  I, myself, am a legend among environmentalists.  I'm like Hitler to them.  Maybe I'll shave the goatee and leave a Hitlerstache.

Things went well.  There were victories on both sides, but I think I came out on top.  We wasted no time in wreaking havoc on the forest once we got there.  Within minutes, we were murdering fish.

Yeah, that's blood in the water.  Once the fish were dead, we cooked and devoured their flesh, tossing their heads and bones into the trash along with the kids' dirty, disposable diapers.  It was, however, during the fish slaughter that nature scored one of its few victories, if only a minor victory.  While my second son, out of pure contempt for nature, was beating the surface of the lake with a rod, the lake reached out and hauled the youngling into its depths.  Ready for such an attack, I was quick to pull the child out of the grasp of the water, suffering only a minor injury to my ring finger.

After teaching the lake its lesson, we turned our attention to the forest itself.  We felled two trees, dismembered them, and cut the trunk to pieces.  Not content with merely killing the sap-spewing sun-lovers, we cast their bodies into a pit of fire, a fire which I had created with my own two hands.

Once the tree carcasses were burning satisfactorily, I thought, "What better way to celebrate the death of a tree than by stabbing animal testicles and roasting them over the burning trees?"

After two days, I decided that I had had enough of nature and returned home, and now I'm pooping in fresh, potable water again, which is how man was meant to poop.

Conniving Souls Scenes 4-6

Scene 4

Cylash sits gracefully on the couch in her living room dressed in a fancy outfit reading comic books.  Chuck enters.

CHUCK:  Hi, Cylash.

CYLASH:  coldly.  Hello, Charles.

CHUCK:  How has your day been?

CYLASH:  drops her comic book on the coffee table.  What’s that supposed to mean?

CHUCK:  blinks.  Wha—?

CYLASH:  stands up.  Really, Chuck, I’m tired of you always sticking your nose in my business!

CHUCK:  But—

CYLASH:  You’re my husband, not my jailer!

CHUCK:  Cylash!

CYLASH:  I just can’t take this!  Not tonight!  Turns with a dramatic flourish.  I’m going out!  Leaves.

CHUCK:  Say, what gives?

Scene 5

Cylash and Crane are together.  The camera is close in on them, so it isn’t clear where they are.

CYLASH:  It was terrible, Crane!  He said such awful, malicious things!

CRANE:  It’s okay, sweetheart.  You’ll be fine.  You’re with Dr. Crane Sextopoulos now; Chuck can’t hurt you.

CYLASH:  I want to leave him right now!

CRANE:  I know, baby, but you can’t.  Not yet.

CYLASH:  When?

CRANE:  When Ms. Stellation gets proof that he’s having an affair.

CYLASH:  I don’t know how much of that ogre’s abuse I can take.

CRANE:  Patience, doll-face, patience.  When our private investigator does her job, divorcing Stanton will be simple.  And you’ll be able to snatch up most of his assets.

CYLASH:  calm now.  You’re right.  I can suffer through this.

CRANE:  Of course I’m right.  Kisses her forehead.  You’ll see.  Any day now.

CYLASH:  wraps her arms around Crane.  You’re so good to me.  Lets go someplace more private.  Tries to kiss him.

CRANE:  Not now, Cylash, I’m busy.

Camera zooms out to reveal an operating room.  Crane is in the middle of brain surgery.  Nurses stare at Crane and Cylash with wide eyes.

Scene 6

Chuck in his house.  He’s still in his work clothes, but his tie is loosened and his top button is undone.  He’s playing video games and singing along to Weezer.  The phone rings.  He pauses the game and the music and answers it.

CHUCK:  Hello?

CONNIE:  Hi.

Pause

CHUCK:  What can I do for you?

CONNIE:  Is this Chuck Stanton?

CHUCK:  Yeah.

CONNIE:  Don’t mind me; I’m just testing the tap on your phone line.

CHUCK:  laughing.  Oh, yeah?

CONNIE:  Yeah.  Don’t worry; it’ll just take a minute.

CHUCK:  So you’re spying on me, are ya?

CONNIE:  I prefer to think of it as “surveillance.”  “Spying” has bad connotations attached to it.

CHUCK:  So who do you work for?  The CIA?  CSIS?

CONNIE:  Oh, I’m independent.

CHUCK:  I see.  So why are you keeping me under surveillance?

CONNIE:  I dunno.  Gotta watch someone.

CHUCK:  laughs.  I guess everyone needs a hobby.

CONNIE:  Exactly.  Pauses.  Okay, I’m done.  You have yourself a good night.

CHUCK:  Hold on, you never even told me who you are.

CONNIE:  I work with your wife.

CHUCK:  She isn’t here right now.

CONNIE:  I know.

CHUCK:  blinks.  Did you want to leave a message?

CONNIE:  No.  Bye.  Hangs up.

Chuck shrugs, hangs up, and goes back to his video games.

Conniving Souls Scenes 1-3

Welcome to the first installment of a script I wrote a few years back while I was newlywed.  At the time, I had an inexplicable obsession with the initials C.S., as will momentarily become apparent.  In fact, I can think of four separate pieces I wrote that prominently featured a character named Chuck Stanton, none of which were any relation to each other.  This is one of those works.  Enjoy!

(It's a soap opera, by the way.)

Cast:
Chuck Stanton (if I had ever actually filmed this, I would have played this role)
Cylash Saltlickington-Stanton
Connie Stellation
Crane Sextopoulos (this would have been Sir Head's role)

Scene 1

Crane and Cylash are in Crane’s bedroom.  Cylash is brushing her hair.

CRANE:  I don’t trust him!

CYLASH:  Who?  My husband?

CRANE:  Yes.  I bet he’s cheating on you.  All those high paid executives have a mistress.

CYLASH:  Chuck’s harmless. 

CRANE:  I wouldn’t be so sure.

CYLASH:  Why would Chuck cheat on me?  I mean, look at me!  How could he possibly hope to do better than me?

CRANE:  You don’t understand men like him.  They never have enough.  They always want more.

CYLASH:  shrugs.  So maybe he is having an affair.  Big deal.  I’m sleeping with you.

CRANE:  That’s different!

CYLASH:  How?

CRANE:  waves the question off impatiently.  There’s no time to explain that.  It’s not important.  But consider this: if we can prove that Chuck is cheating on you, you can divorce him and take a sizable chunk of his estate with you.

Cylash puts down her brush and pays more attention to Crane.

CYLASH:  How do we prove it?

CRANE:  We hire a private investigator to watch him and take pictures of anything suspicious.

CYLASH:  Yes.  Pauses, then smiles.  Yes!  Pauses agains, smiles bigger.  Yes!

Crane and Cylash both laugh wickedly.

Scene 2

Satan’s Special Blend Tobacco Company boardroom.  Chuck is in a meeting with Board Members 1, 2, and 3. 

BOARD MEMBER 1:  We have teenagers hooked.  That was no problem.  We’ve convinced them that the anti-smoking ads are uncool and the product of baby-boomers trying to make them conform.

BOARD MEMBER 2:  That’s great, but what do we do about all of our customers who are dead?  They aren’t buying our product anymore.

BOARD MEMBER 3:  Exactly.  Teenage smokers don’t fill the void left by the dead, dying, and quitters.  Shakes with rage.  I just hate quitters SO MUCH!

BOARD MEMBER 1:  We have to find a way to get kids to smoke younger.  I won’t be happy until I see 8-year-olds lighting up at recess!

CHUCK:  Now hold on a mi—

BOARD MEMBER 2: But how!  The government will never let us advertise directly to children.

CHUCK:  And for good rea—

BOARD MEMBER 1:  I’ve thought of that.  Displays a poster.  Let me introduce you to television’s newest Saturday morning cartoon: Captain Tobacco and the Cigarette Commandos!  It doesn’t actually advertise cigarettes, but it makes them appealing to young children.

BOARD MEMBER 2:  Brilliant!

CHUCK:  That’s going too far!

BOARD MEMBER 1:  It is brilliant, isn’t it?

BOARD MEMBER 3:  Hey!  I just thought up a new slogan: “Quitters never win.  Are you a quitter?”

BOARD MEMBER 2:  Brilliant!

BOARD MEMBER 1:  I’ve also been thinking that we should lace our cigarettes with heroin to make it harder to quit.

BOARD MEMBER 2: Brilliant!

Later.  Chuck is alone in his office.  He’s bored, so he eventually pulls out a Gameboy and starts playing it.

Scene 3

Connie’s office at the Orion Detective Agency.  Connie sits behind her desk with Cylash sitting across from her.  A bowl of carrots is on the desk.

CYLASH:  You’re a private investigator?

CONNIE:  blinks.  Yes, I am.

CYLASH:  You don’t look like one.

CONNIE:  That’s why I’m a good one.  No one suspects me.

CYLASH:  sounding doubtful.  Yes, well.  I’m sure.

CONNIE:  bristles, but keeps her temper.  What can I do for you Mrs. Saltlickington-Stanton?

CYLASH:  I think my husband is cheating on me, and I want you to get some proof.

CONNIE:  making notes.  What’s your husband’s name?

CYLASH:  Chuck Stanton.

CONNIE:  Where does he work?

CYLASH:  He’s the president of Satan’s Special Blend Tobacco.

CONNIE:  looks up from her notes.  How old is he?

CYLASH:  27

CONNIE:  And he’s the president of a tobacco company?  How did he manage that?

CYLASH:  shrugs.  He already had the job when I met him.

CONNIE:  Do you have a picture of him?

Cylash hands Connie a picture of Chuck along with a piece of paper.

CYLASH:  Our home address and phone number is there, as well as my cell phone number.

CONNIE:  Thank you.  I’ll get right on this.

Cylash and Connie awkwardly shake hands.



More to come.  Stay tuned.

 Had it ever been shot, this would have been the cast Conniving Souls.  The main characters, anyway.

Dr. Seuss Was An A-Hole

Now that I'm evil, thanks to my new glasses, my first project as a supervillain while hyperlairianism is under construction is to invent a resurrection machine.  The first person I resurrect will be Dr. Seuss.  "How sweet!" you're all thinking.  "He wants to resurrect a beloved author of classic children books!"  Let me explain phase two of Operation Seuss Puncher: after I resurrect Dr. Seuss, I'm going to punch him repeatedly in the nuts.

Why would I want to hurt one of the most beloved authors of the last century in the testicles?  He made fun of me, that's why.  I was reading One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish to my heir last night and came across a startling and insulting passage.

Look at that insulting caricature of me!  Yes, I know, I'm hairy, but to depict me as nothing more than an animal is crossing the line.  Especially a butt-lipped slave of an animal!  Look at how I'm forced to sit at the back of the bike while the white-as-ghosts children get to sit up front and control where the bike goes.  And what happens when the going gets too tough for the Aryan brats?

Mike does all the work when the hills get high!  Eff this shiz!  I have bad knees!  Also, I'm fat, and I get winded by hills while I'm carrying nothing but the hair on my back.

You know, if this were the '70s, my body hair would be appreciated.

New Glasses; New Personality?

I have new glasses.  They're my first pair of new glasses in ten years.  My wife had never known me in a different pair of glasses until yesterday.  Now she's worried about the new personality that is sure to come with this change.

I'm already noticing the early signs.  For instance, I'm growing a goatee, which, as we all know, is the most evil of all facial hair.  (At least I'm not growing a chin-strap, which is the most douchie of all facial hair.  I'd rather be evil than a douchebag.)  I've also caught myself drawing elaborate blueprints for a secret underground lair.  No one will breach its defenses.  I'll be INDESTRUCTIBLE!  HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!

*ahem*

Excuse me.  I had another maniacal outburst.  They're becoming more and more frequent.

I'm thinking of changing my name from Mike MacKenzie to Dr. Might MacKillzie.  And I'll change my screen name from hyperferrianism to hyperfellonyism.  Thoughts?

I took my worries to Sir Headolence and asked for his advice.  He advised me to double the number of laser turrets around the perimeter of my underground lair and suggested that I call it "hyperlairianism."

My nemesis will be Cracked.com's Ian Fortey for what he said about my People.  (People with underbites; not hobos.)

An Evening With Sir Headolence

The coach arrived in front of my house at promptly 6:45 pm, exactly 15 minutes after Sir Headolence said it would arrive.  Like clock work.  I bid my wife adieu with a double pat on the butt and kissed my children once each on the forehead.

The lavish coach, constructed of ebony and bronze with gold trim, was drawn by six red-eyed horses black as Sir Head's soul and rippling with steroid-enhanced muscles.  The driver, a mass of unnatural muscle, barely restrained the horses when they spotted me.  Every time they spotted me, they yearned to dismember and devour me.

"Oh, you guys!" I laughed and waved a dismissive hand at them.  I climbed into the coach.  The door closed itself behind me.

The Impostor sat across from me, his emaciated frame bowed beneath the weight of his age.  I had long since given up asking the ancient man his name, and Sir Head only ever referred to him as "The Impostor."

"Hey, Imp, what's shakin'?" I asked.

The Impostor turned his blind eyes to mine and peered into the depths of my soul.  "You," he wheezed, "hyperferrianism, man of no origin, must drink of this--" he held up a chalice filled with a black, steaming liquid "--if you are to enter the presence of the one called Sir Headolence the Dubious."

I was pretty sure the dented steel chalice was filled with hot tar, possibly mixed with LSD.  "Sure, no problemo," I said, taking the filthy goblet and emptying it down my eager throat.

"Good," The Impostor hissed.  "Goooooooood."

The last thing I remember was saying, "GRRRAAAAAAAAARGLE!" before passing out.

When I awoke, I was no longer in the coach.  I was naked and dancing on the roof of a moving car.  I had no way of knowing how long this had been going on.  I waved as the car passed some gawking Jehovah's Witnesses.  "Nice night," I said.  In one, fluid motion I swung down from the roof and through the open window.

"Evening, Noah," I said to Sir Head.  He answered with a solid punch to my left eye.

"Hey, Mike," he said.  "I thought I told you never to call me by my peasant name again."

"You did," I replied.  "I just like to keep things interesting.  So, what do we have planned for tonight?"

Sir Head slammed on the brakes and leaped from the car as it screeched to a stop.  I had long ago learned to react swiftly to this sort of thing and followed his lead by evacuating the car.  After running several steps, the car exploded in a giant fireball.  The shock wave propelled me forward.  I landed and rolled, coming up on my feet.  Somehow, Sir Head was standing next to me as I came to my feet.

"Here," Sir Head said as he removed his pants, revealing a second nearly identical pair of pants beneath them.  "Wear these."

"Thanks," I said as I covered my shame.

"So I was thinking we just go watch a movie or something," Sir Headolence said.  "Then maybe grab a burger later."

"Yeah, that sounds cool."

We ended up watching Kick-Ass.  A couple of hours later, as we sat in Burger King, Sir Headolence approved audience for a supplicant.

"Please, Sir Headolence," the elderly woman pleaded.  "Please, bless my grandson that he may vanquish his enemies."

"And who, dear woman, are his enemies?" Sir Headolence asked.

"The cast of the hit TV show M*A*S*H."

"Of course, of course."  Sir Headolence placed his right hand over the woman's face.  "Go," he said.  "Go with my blessing."

The woman left with tears of joy in her eyes.

"Let's go mini-golfing next week," I said.

"No."

Mental Diarrhea

As I sit down to write this entry, I have no topic in mind.  I have no idea what I'm going to write.  So why am I writing anything?  I just felt the need to update my blog before too much time passes.  I don't want to lose the groove that I'm building up.  This is the most exciting creative project I've had in a while.  It's slightly more exciting than the short story I'm writing about telepathic time travel.

I wrote an entry earlier today using pen and paper (or dead tree skin, as I like to call it in an attempt to feel bad-ass).  However, I can't post it until Lenscrafters gets their freaking act together and gives me my new glasses.  I should totally make them pay me an advertising fee for that link there.  It's the least I deserve for waiting a week for my ready-in-1-hour glasses.

I just asked my wife what she was working on, and then totally ignored her answer.  That's just how I roll, baby.

Remember when I said I Photoshopped a picture of my wife taking a knife to my severed head?  Of course you do; that was just a few days ago.  Well, the above picture is what I used.  I just replaced the cake with my head and added some blood.

I Need Photoshop

Photoshop is the greatest thing to happen to civilization since the invention of dinosaurs (The invention of dinosaurs, of course, happening in 1945, effectively ending World War II).  Several years ago, before I met my wife, I was given a laptop computer from my parents.  This computer came equipped with Adobe Photoshop Version something-or-other.  Out of sheer boredom at my uneventful job, I taught myself how to slightly-better-than-poorly manipulate photos.

The above isn't one of my photos, but is about on par with my skill level.

My crowning Photoshop achievement would have to be the photo of my wife taking a knife to my severed head.  I put it on a mug.  I wish I still had the original file so that I could share it with you.  Drop in for a visit, and I'll show you the mug.

My point is this: I don't have Photoshop anymore, and I want it.  There are two problems, though.  Firstly, Photoshop is expensive.  Steal it, you say?  An intriguing proposition, but it brings me to the second problem.  Through a series of events that I'm not too sure how came to pass, I am no longer an administrator on my own computer, and the only other administrator is a former co-worker from several jobs ago.  Even if I did steal it (or buy it, for that matter) I wouldn't be able to load it onto my computer because I don't have sufficient administrative privileges.  Also, my desktop computer doesn't have a monitor, so what's the point?

Again, not one of my photos.  I'm stealing these from cracked.com's Photoshop contests.

I move that Photoshop should come standard on all computers.  For free.  Photoshop is a basic human right.  Why shouldn't I be able to stick the head of Justin Bieber on the body of Ron Jeremy?  It's a travesty of justice.

New Direction

I have been inspired.  hyperblogianism, one of three blogs that I maintain, has always been lost, aimless, and without cohesion.  I had abandoned it; my last post dating back to September of last year, and it was just a copy-and-paste collection of banality.  But now, I have found inspiration from the most unlikely of sources: a LOLcats blog.  By the way, that's the same link as my first hypertext at the beginning of this post.  Go ahead and visit it again; you'll be a better human being having done so.

My mentor for the last 45 years or so has been a man who is now known as Sir Headolence the Dubious.  His birth name has long since been lost to time, fallen between the cracks of history.  Also, it's Noah.  When I visited his blog at http://arkwelder.blogspot.com/ (third time's a charm), I found his collaboration with Dr. Jennifer Rockwood (she needs no introduction or links; we all know where to find Dr. Rockwood) nothing short of miraculous.  Literally miraculous.  But, as I said, Sir Headolence is my inspiration, so I will never again mention Dr. Rockwood on this blog under penalty of death.  (Your death, not mine.)

On this blog, I will strive to live up to Sir Head's strict philosophical path, his ever-growing wisdom, his love for semi-literate kittens, his bearded glory.  I will fail in doing so.  One can only hope to achieve a fraction of his greatness.

Look at his stately beard on the right there.  It makes me look like a woman.