RIP Dr. MacKillzie

Good-looking fella.

As you are all aware, my new glasses made me evil, and I changed my name from Mike MacKenzie to Dr. Might MacKillzie.  The good doctor had a good run, but in the end, he inadvertently killed himself.  Earlier this week, he purchased some multi-vitamins to take everyday.  He did this in the hopes that it would grant him super strength.  (His doctorate was in art history; science wasn't his forte.)  The result wasn't what he hoped it would be, but it's for the best.  Instead of super strength, the multi-vitamins counteracted the effects of my new glasses, and my original personality has re-emerged, drowning out the maniacal rantings of hyperfellonyism.

What a nice guy.  I'm wearing my old glasses in this picture, so not only was I my original nice self, I was extrasuperspecial nice.  Vomitously nice, one might say.  I no longer combine the multi-vitamins with the old glasses.  People just can't take that much sweetness without going into a diabetic coma.

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.

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.

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.)