June 18, 2004
It was just another night of polite and friendly comaraderie at Madfish Willie's Cyber Saloon....
Harv: Yo bitch! Beer me!
Bartender: Blow me
Harv: I was thinking more of a Guinness, actually. By the way, what are you getting me for Father's Day.
Bartender: How about a nice swift kick in the nuts? Why should I get YOU anything?
Harv: Hey, I'm your blogpop. I deserve a little sumthin' for talking you into inflicting your special brand of bitter assholery on the world at large.
Bartender: And I deserve to have a million dollars and a big-titty hooker for putting up with your shit, but you don't see me crying like a sissy girl about it.
Harv: I'm not feelin' the love here.
Bartender: I've got a Louisville Slugger under the bar. Wanna feel that upside your head? It's sorta like love.
Harv: I get enough of that from my wife. I'll settle for the Guinness.
...Just as the Bartender was setting my glass of dark ambrosia on the bar, a pale, gaunt figure dressed sporting a silk tophat and a black cape strolled casually into the room, his blood-sucking fangs gleaming dimly under the saloon's pale lighting. I could tell by his socks and sandals that it was...
Harv: Evil Glenn! Quick, Bartender, toss me a wooden stake!
Bartender [tossing stake]: Catch!
Harv: Die, vampire! *STAB*
Evil Glenn: AIEEEEEEE!
Bartender: Uh, Harv? I think you're supposed to stab him in the heart, not the groin.
Harv: Oops. My bad.
Evil Glenn: Look, you don't have to stab me anywhere. I just came to ask you a favor.
Bartender: What's the favor?... On second thought, why don't we start with a better question, like why the f*** should we help you, ya evil son of a bitch?
Evil Glenn: We'll start with the favor. Father's day is coming and I miss my son who's been missing for years. You Alliance guys are always doing sneaky undercover reasearchy kinda stuff involving various aspects of my life. I figured that your talents would be perfectly suited for the challenge.
Harv: Yes, we are devilishly clever, aren't we?
Bartender: Just get to the "why the f***" part?
Evil Glenn: If you don't help me, I'll take this here puppy [producing cutest, fuzziest, cuddliest puppy you ever saw from one pocket] and stuff him in this here blender [producing Ronco Port-o-Blen-o-Matic 3000 from other pocket]
Harv: I wanna hear more about how devilishly clever we are instead!
Bartender: Forget it Harv, he's got us bent over & ball-gagged on this one. Guess we better help the filthy, no-good, blackmailing bastard.
Evil Glenn: Lawyer. Anyway, the last time I saw my son, an obsessive vampire hunter named Holtz had grabbed him away from me and leaped through a tear in the fabric of reality into a foul hell-dimension, and...
Harv: Glenn... not to pick nits or anything, but that wasn't you. That happened during an episode of Angel. Somewhere in the third season, if I remember correctly.
Evil Glenn: Huh? Oh, wait... let me check my notes... Ah... actually, the last time I saw my son, Barnard Hughes had just driven his jeep through the wall of the house, causing a piece of wood to impale...
Bartender: Dumbass! That was "The Lost Boys". Geez! You didn't exactly study for this quiz, did you?
Evil Glenn: That's not important. I need you to help me find my son, or the puppy gets it.
Harv: Ok, tell ya what. Just give us the puppy and we'll find your son for you.
Evil Glenn: How do I know you won't double-cross me?
Harv: Hey, we're the GOOD GUYS, remember? Now give me the puppy.
Evil Glenn: Well... ok. Here...
Harv: Ya know, Bartender, you're right. He IS a dumbass. Toss me another stake.
Bartender [tossing stake]: Catch!
Harv: Die, vampire! *STAB*
Evil Glenn: AIEEEEEEE! [runs away into the night]
Bartender: Heart, not groin.
Harv: Groin's more fun. Now pour me another beer...
... Thirty beers later...
Harv: I'm bored. What's on TV?
Bartender: Do I look like f****** tvguide.com? Try whackin' the "on" button, ya retarded gerbil felcher.
Harv: Sheesh! That PMS is really kicking your ass, Bartender. Go pop some Midol. [turns on TV]
CNN Announcer: Repeating our top story... the Dark Overlord of the Blogosphere, Glenn Reynolds, was reunited with his son tonight at a touching ceremony in West Hollywood. Reynolds and his son, Michael Moore, were seen embracing at...
...*CRASH!*...*TINKLE*...
Bartender: You asshole! Why the f*** did you smash my TV with a barstool?
Harv: I saw Michael Moore and I struck at him in a frenzy of uncontrolled violence. Perfectly natural reaction.
Bartender: Sure, if you're a goddamn FREAK!
Harv: So why are you holding that Loisville Slugger?
Bartender [noticing the bat in his hands which is still poised for TV-smashing]: You shut up!
Harv [wonderingly]: Michael Moore... Huh... I never suspected that he'd be related to a puppy-blending, Satan-worshipping, Hobo-murdering, Mao-idolizing, robot-dancing, Frank J.-punching, penguin-porn afficianado who wears socks and sandals.
Bartender: Oh, you mean you can't imagine that Glenn would have anything in common with a fact-and-fiction-blending, bullshit-worshipping, truth-murdering, Clinton-idolizing, rhythmic-flab-jiggling, Academy-award-podium-thumping, Iraqi-prisoner-abuse-porn afficianado who wears filthy hats and bum-stubble?
Harv: Exactly
Bartender: Yeah, life is really strange sometimes. So, you want your Father's Day present now?
Harv: I thought you said you didn't get me anything?
Bartender: I was just yankin' yer chain. Here. [pushing clumsily duct-taped package across the bar]
Harv [tearing madly at the wrapping]: YAY! A present! It's... *rip-rip-rip*... WOW! The July issue of "Hefty Hooters" magazine!
Bartender: Check the centerfold.
Harv: Susie?
Bartender: As if those delectable large fonts could belong to anyone else.
Harv: Thanks, Bartender! Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go... uh... practice my wood-handling skills... um... so that my next encounter with Evil Glenn can end with:
INSTAPUNDO DELENDA EST!
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June 10, 2004
After a long week filled with dark signs and evil portents, I took myself down to Madfish Willie's Cyber Saloon to knock back a few cold ones and try to make some sense of it all. The Bartender greeted me warmly...
Bartender: Get out of my saloon, f***face. I just replaced the mirror behind the bar and I don't want your ugly mug to shatter it.
... Warm by Madfish Willie standards, anyway...
Harv: F*** you, Bartender. Just give me a shot your cheapest, nastiest whiskey. I've got some pain to kill.
Bartender: One slug of Granddad's Truss, coming right up. And you forgot to say "please", asshole.
Harv: Blow me.
Bartender: Close enough. So what bug's up your ass tonight? Wife making fun of your cricket dick again? I keep tellin' ya, you should hire me to give her a workout some night so she can see how a real man does it. I'm cheap.
Harv: So says Trixie, the Times Square Wonder Hooker. Speaking of which, she says you still owe her for your last episode of "I'm a bad baby". She also said that just because you wear a diaper doesn't mean you have to crap in it.
Bartender: Yeah, well... Enough about me. What's YOUR hang-up?
Harv: I think Evil Glenn's planning something dark and nefarious.
Bartender: A puppy-blending hobo-murderer plotting ungodly mayhem? Gee... there's a shocker. What was your first clue, Mr. Rocket Scientist?
Harv: Now you be nice! Just because you're a bitter old bathtub-gin-slinging fartknocker doesn't mean you can't show a little sensitivity. I just got a call from my blogless brother Tom...
Bartender: The software pirate?
Harv: The preferred term is "liberator of oppressed intellectual property"... Anyway, you know how the FBI has that new Operation Fastlink to crack down on pir... uh, liberation, right? Well, the other night...
...[recently, at Blogless Brother Tom's house]...A muffled pounding is heard at the door, as a voice yells "OPEN UP! FBI!"
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!", screams Tom. Dressed in his favorite pirate outfit, he runs frantically through the house, eyepatch flapping up and down over his perfectly good left eye. Panting and sweating, he grabs the final armload of homemade Windows XP Pro CD's and fills the last of 10 "Evidence Cook-R" brand industrial microwave ovens that he picked up at Ollie North's garage sale.
Tom [quickly hitting 10 "start" buttons with a practiced finger]: Thank god that's the last of 'em.
[more pounding]: OPEN UP! WE'VE GOT A WARRANT!
Tom: Yeah, yeah, I'm coming. Don't get your jackboots in a twist.
[10 microwaves ding as the smell of hot plastic fills the house]
Tom [opening door]: Come right in, officer, I was just baking cookies for blind, crippled orphans, and...
Evil Glenn: HA! Just yankin' yer chain, Jolly Roger! Say, I noticed your neighbors had a sign saying "free puppies", but nobody's home. Ya think they'd mind if I just took 'em?
Tom [eye twitching slightly]: A million CD-R's... $4000 up front investment... 5 weeks of slaving over a CD burner... $16,000,000 street value... angry Hong Kong mafia... kneecaps removed with chopsticks...
Evil Glenn: I can see you're busy. I'll just go help myself. Tell your Currency Freak brother I said "hi". Later, dude. MUAHAHAHAHA!
Tom watches him go with a twitching eye, then falls to his soon-to-be-chop-suey knees and weeps quietly in despair...
Bartender: That's a real tear-jerker. Should I pretend to give a shit?
Harv: Nah, don't worry about it. He's already ordered replacements from a body-parts dealer in Singapore. I'm just concerned that maybe Evil Glenn is going to be targeting other Alliance members as well.
Bartender: You may be right. Susie was in here the other night, and she was telling me...
...[recently at an Indiana dollar movie theater]...After yet another of her teen-age workers calls in sick due to a badly infected penis piercing, Susie finds herself forced to cover the concession stand. A gaunt, pale figure approaches the counter, resplendent in black cape and tall silk tophat. His dignified and imposing appearance is marred only by the sandals on his rainbow-striped-sock covered feet.
Evil Glenn: A box of Jujubees, some Sno-caps, a bag of Twizzlers, a super-jumbo bucket of popcorn with extra butter, and a "bladder buster" size Mountain Dew, please.
Susie: Here ya go. That'll be $372.
Evil Glenn: Indeed. Do you take BlenderCard?
Susie [pointing to 3-foot high sign on the counter that says "No Credit Cards"]: Just out of curiosity, exactly how far up your ass would you like me to shove these items?
Evil Glenn: Now, now. Let's not get testy. Remember, "the customer is always right".
Susie: The customer is always DEAD if he doesn't pay for his damn snacks, now pony up, you... vampire? Oh crap! You're Evil Glenn!
Evil Glenn: And YOU'RE going to need a really big mop to clean up this mess! [knocking the popcorn and soda to the floor] Clean-up on aisle three! MUAHAHAHAHAHA!
Susie: MY FLOOR!
Evil Glenn: ...is now the snack-food version of Hiroshima. Oh, and by the way... I told your assistant manager that the exciter lamp on the projector needs fixing. I just saw him headed up to the booth with a meat tenderizer. Good day, Madam... [Glenn steps out into the night, sandals flapping]
Susie: NOOOOOOOOOOOO!
Harv: Ominous. And what about Physics Geek's problems with getting the latest Alliance Beer shipment out?...
...[recently at a UPS package shipment center]...Physics Geek: I'd like to send this box to Wisconsin, please. It's very fragile, so handle it carefully, and... when did you guys add socks and sandals to the uniform? Doesn't really go well with the brown shorts. Or the... black cape...
Evil Glenn: Oh, we're just trying to upgrade our image. Focus groups were saying that the whole "What can brown do for you?" thing made them think about laxatives and enemas. Heh. Stupid marketing department. Indeed.
Physics Geek: I notice that that pile of corpses over in the corner isn't wearing socks & sandals.
Evil Glenn: That's the marketing department.
Physics Geek: Yeah, downsizing's a bitch. Anyway, my package?
Evil Glenn: Yes, of course. Well, let's see how much it weighs... [picking up box and shaking vigorously]... feels like about 5 pounds...
Physics Geek: Hey! Careful with that! It took me months to brew that stuff to the peak of perfection!
Evil Glenn: Then I guess I shouldn't do THIS! [smashing box with a "Hobo-Wack-R" brand hammer]
Physics Geek: NOOOOOO! You've killed my precious beer!
Evil Glenn: Say, that reminds me... that flux capacitor you ordered for your time machine is here. Boy, I'll bet that cost a fortune. And they're such delicate things. WHOOPSIE! [hammering it into tiny fragments]...See ya later, brewmeister! MUAHAHAHAHA! [running out the back door]
Physics Geek: NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
Bartender: That bastard! I can't believe he'd stoop so low.
Harv: Yeah. We were going to go forward in time to see if Janet Jackson was going to flop out her LEFT tit at the next Superbowl.
Bartender: No, I mean that f***er murdered beer! We've got to stop him before he kills again!
Harv: You've got a plan?
Bartender: I've got a rocket launcher.
Harv: Close enough.
[Together]: To the Drunkmobile!
...[a short time later, at a forboding Memphis castle constructed of blackest ice]...
Evil Glenn sits in front of his computer, his tophat slightly askew, tapping his sandals rhythmically on the floor as he hacks into Matty O'Blackfive's "Paratrooper of Love" website...
[typing]... and that's why I think Bush=Hitler. I can't believe you deluded Nazi right-wing fools would believe that I would vote for anyone but the noble and trustworthy John Kerry to be the next President.
P.S. Blogging will be light while I am in Washington throwing my medals (or ribbons, I always get those confused) onto the White House lawn.
[knock, knock]
Evil Glenn: Dammit! I HATE it when people interrupt my blogging! ...Of course, since that's all I do, I pretty much hate everybody... WHO'S THERE?
Muffled Voice: Bad Birdie's Penguin Porn Delivery Service. I've got that copy of "Flappin' & F***in'" that you ordered.
Evil Glenn: About time! I've got a naughty monkey here in desperate need of spanking! [opening door]
Harv [covering Glenn's nose with the exciting end of the rocket launcher]: Monkey wait. You die now.
Evil Glenn: Nice try, Currency Freak, but I know you won't pull the trigger. If you shoot me, the back-blast will kill you, too.
Harv: I know. That's why I'm just holding a cardboard tube. The Bartender's across the street with the REAL rocket launcher. You stay there. I'm going to go take cover [diving behind a nearby decorative boulder]
Evil Glenn: Wha?
[insert stock footage film clip of nuclear bomb test here]
[Later, at Madfish Willie's Cyber Saloon]
Harv: Damn, I haven't had this much fun since the last time I put "the Lobby Scene" on endless loop and pulled an all-nighter. Man, that left sandal went a thousand yards if it went an inch!
Bartender: Yeah. I guess we won't be hearing from him again.
Harv: So tell me, where did you ever find a rocket-propelled grenade with a wooden tip?
Bartender: Wooden tip?
Harv: Yeah. Evil Glenn's a vampire. You have to put a wooden stake through his heart to kill him. The explosion's just the whipped cream on the sundae... I guess that makes the flying sandal the cherry on top... Now I'm getting hungry. Let's go to Baskin-Robbins. My treat.
Bartender: Wooden...
Harv: It DID have a wooden tip... right?
Bartender: ...
Harv: ...
[together]: Oh... shit...
INSTAPUNDO DELENDA EST?
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June 04, 2004
If the rumors are true - and they probably are, since I made them up myself, then the vile and despicable Glenn Reynolds of Instapundit will soon be revving up the Bangkok sweatshops and cranking out piles of ill-fitting and poorly constructed T-shirts. What will they say? The mind reels in horror at the imagining:
Know Thy Enemy: Fun Facts About Frank J.Frank J is actually a demented cyber-demon from another dimension, and his "In My World" posts are reprints from his world's version of the New York Times.
Even though Frank J. professes to like guns, he doesn't actually own any. His only weapon is a pair of fingernail clippers.
These were recently confiscated at the airport, so he is now defenseless. Go punch him.
The real reason that SarahK won the IMAO T-shirt babe contest can be deduced from the fact that Frank J. took that now-famous winning picture with his Crotch-Cam.
Frank J. has been known to use third-rate spam-infested search engines like Alltheweb.com instead of Google when doing research for his Frank Answers posts. This may explain why a question such as "How many parsecs in a light year?" will receive answers like "V!@GR@"
Frank J. has a web site. People visit, receive immense pleasure, and go away. Yet afterwards, Frank J. still has his web site, which he will use again and again in an attempt to make money. Although this is analagous to what a prostitute does, this does not make Frank J. a whore.
A T-shirt pimp, maybe, but not a whore.
The Peace Gallery picture of Frank J. wielding a katana? Not really him. It's actually a hand-painted miniature left over from his geeky Dungeons & Dragons days, i.e. last week.
Despite what his gynecologist says, Frank J. is a man.
Well, maybe Evil Glenn wouldn't go THAT far over the top.
Of course, there's still the question of who Glenn's T-shirt Babe will be. Will it be:
A) the svelte and sexy waterfowl who obviously stole the pose from SarahK?
B) Instawife (guess he had the air conditioning working overtime for that shot)[hat tip to Pixy for the link]
or
C) any supermodel who looks like she might be desperate for work.
No matter what the answers are, it's clearly time to start a pre-emptive boycott of Evil Glenn merchandise.
INSTAPUNDO DELENDA EST!
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