Archive for April, 2008

Jesus Comes A-Knockin’

Tuesday, April 29th, 2008

There’s something about this image that really bothers me.

I think it’s the lost look on his face. Like he’s not sure whether he’s at the right house or not.

But maybe… just maybe… he’s been knocking awhile. And nobody’s coming. No one’s opening the door for Jesus.

I guess, what this picture is really asking is: Why is no one “letting Jesus in”?

Well, judging by the picture, it’s pretty late.

And, with the exception of the staff in his hand, there’s no real clues as to what he wants. He could just want to say “hey”, but he might want to hang out. Usually I’m cool with that, but sometimes he just keeps going, you know? On and on and on, and then you’re like “Hey, you know, might be about time to head out?” And he’s all, “I don’t know. I’m pretty hungry.”

And you can’t not feed him. So you give him the smallest piece of fish and tiniest bit of bread you’ve got in the whole house. Lo and behold, two minutes later, the jackass has multiplied his snack into a three hour meal. By this point he’s usually got about three glasses of “water” in him, so it’s only seconds before he starts in on the apostles. Who’s the Greater, who’s the Lesser, you know, all that stuff. After about two more glasses he’ll “accidentally” take a walk on our indoor pool, saying things like “Oh, is this not floor? This felt like floor to me.”

After that it’s not really a question of whether he’s staying the night, it’s just a question of where. Then he starts in on the whole “oh, i’ll just sleep in the barn. Yeah. Don’t worry about me. I’m a barn baby. I’m a manger man. Just a dirty floor and a couple animals, and it’s lights out, Jesus.”

So you kind of half offer him your bed, but not really. To which he responds “Are you sure?” Which is really the most jackass response you can give because it’s like a “yes, i’ll take it, but only if you offer it to me one more time.”

And then you’re up all night. Sleeping god knows where. Worried out of your mind because tomorrow morning you have to somehow throw Jesus Christ out of your house. And you can no longer use the only real weapon you had: “It’s late.”

So knowing what you know now. Knowing all this. Take a look back at that picture.

Yeah. It’s a lot scarier than you thought it was, isn’t it?

He’s the Tallest Skeleton In Your Closet

Tuesday, April 22nd, 2008

Hey, check out this guy

Once lauded as “The World’s Greatest Entertainer”, he has quickly become the source of cheap amusement, some stooping so low as to openly mock him in online blogs.

I’m, of course, speaking of our friend pictured above: Dolph Lundgren.

Now, I know what you’re gonna say: “Wow. He aged really well.” And I agree, the man still knows how to use his lips. But that aside. I want you to take some time right now and use it the way God intended, thinking about Dolph.

Think about “Universal Solder”.

Think about “Rocky IV”

Think about “Masters of the Universe”. He was He-man, you guys. He-man. He killed Frank Langella, and he did it for all the right reasons.

You know his name’s not really Dolph. It’s Hans. He changed it. Changed it for you. So that you’d have the opportunity to call another human being “Dolph”. So you could call his mom at home and say, “Is Dolph in?”, and then stifle your laughs before screaming “I must break you!” and slamming down the phone . He did all that for you.

The least you could do is stop thinking about Emilio Estevez, FOR ONCE, and focus on one of your long forgotten friends.

He-man, you guys.  He-man.

(NOTE: Please use the comments section to share your favorite Dolph Lundgren experience.  And yes.  You do have one.)

Displeased With Pete McElligott

Thursday, April 17th, 2008

There just aren't words.

People have a certain expectation when they hear the words “Pete McElligott”. They expect a certain face, a certain feel, a certain font, a certain “grandiose” if you will. But more than that, they expect me. But still even more than that, I expect me. We all should.

I guess that’s my first problem with

He’s not me.

His web address promises something very specific. It promises Pete McElligott. And yet, not one link. Not one photo. Not one ballad or villanelle written in ode to yours truly.

I can only imagine the betrayal you all must have felt when you were googling my name, clicking on every link you could find, and coming up with this. The hate-mail this man must have received. The death threats I’m sure he’s gotten, unless my postage was incorrect. It’s just a bad situation.

And not only does the site not deliver on the promise of me, but what it gives you is not just him. It’s him and his wife! Now it’s two versus one, and, goddammit, that’s just not fair.

And yet… perhaps it works to our advantage. Try and follow my brilliant mind on this one.

We get them divorced. How, you ask?

Mayhaps a bra planted in the couple’s bed. Something lacy and red with another woman’s name painted on it DOUSED in his cologne with a note pinned to the left cup that says “oh oh oh sex so good while wifey gone outside”.

Boom. End of marriage.

Questions arise. “Who gets the kids? Who gets the house? WHO GETS THE SITE?! Do we even still want the site? Probably not. Too many bad memories. What do we do?!”

Two months later the site is dead and gone along with their love. A week later is doing what it was meant to do from the start: selling cheaply made t-shirts as a front for my numerous credit card schemes.

But I didn’t do it for me. Oh no. I did it for Joe and Jane American. Whose domain I just bought. And have turned into a poster shop.

In closing, Pete McElligott, give me back my website. Or I will fuck up your marriage.


Your namesake.

This Makes Awesome Sense

Monday, April 7th, 2008

It’s a book. It’s about zombies. Read it.

That being said.

Where did the idea of zombies come from? Well, it’s horror, right? And what’s more horrifying than the thought of your whole family being killed and them coming back to life to kill you? Nothing. The answer is nothing.

But here’s the thing, I don’t think that’s where the idea for zombies came from. I think it came not from a place of horror, but from a place of “Wishful Thinking”. Listen.

Who among us hasn’t gotten really pissed off at our neighbor and said something along the lines of:

“Oh, I wish they’d just get sick and die.”

We’ve all said that. All of us. Some of us have shouted that in the middle of church we’ve wanted it so bad.

But then you think about it and you realize, it’s really not enough. It’s not enough for them just to die. I want to hurt them in some way. Preferably, with my shotgun.

But at the same time, I don’t want to just walk around shooting sick people. I don’t want to be known as “that guy.” There’s gotta be another way.

And then it hits. What if. What if after they go through their terrible, horrible, somehow-involving-lots-of-puss death, they were to come back? Not only come back, but be trying to hurt me? So now, I’ve got no choice. I have to shoot Carl. Not because his dog keeps shitting on my lawn and I’M the one who has to clean it up, but because Carl is now the living dead and out to get me. Add to that dream come true, the fact that Carl can only move about an inch a minute and stumbles into almost everything he can, and you’ve got something that’s closer to therapy than a horror story.

Who among us isn’t secretly hoping that tomorrow morning we’re going to have to grab our gun and our best gal and just blow the rest of the neighborhood straight to hell, grabbing as much canned corn along the way as possible?

The answer to that question, ladies and gentlemen, is why people are scary.