Overlord Holiday Special (Petulia)

Burl Ives: Well, you know, O’Brien has always been The Littlest Overlord. All the other Overlords pick on him. All the time! He doesn’t get to play in any of the Overlord games! But then, something wonnnnnnn-derful happened! On Christmas Morning, The Littlest Overlord got to give The Baby Jesus the best present of them all!

O’Brien: Here, Baby Jesus. I would like you to have my copy of the Criterion Collection DVD of Petulia. It’s the greatest movie ever!

Burl Ives: And when the other Overlords saw what O’Brien did, they were, like, “Whoh! Did you see that?! That Littlest Overlord just scooped us!”

Karellen: Yeah, sure, that’s how it happened, right. But then when we got home, we kicked O’Brien’s ass and made him clean the Easter Bunny hutches for being a dick and showboating on us.

O’Brien: I don’t want to be an Overlord! I want to be a dentist!

Mustapha Mond: Hey, who’s that girl on the cover of the Petulia DVD? She’s pretty cute!

O’Brien: That’s Petulia.

Mustapha Mond: I know that, Dinghis Khan. I mean, who plays Petulia?

Guy Who Esplains Thins: The role of Petulia was played by the young Cloris Leachman, before her “accident”. Rock Hudson plays her love interest. The villain is played by Marty Feldman, in a genius stroke of counter-casting.

Plot Summary of Petulia, from Internet Movie Database: After separating from his wife Petulia (Cloris Leachman), Elmer Scroggins (Rock Hudson) quits the spy business and became a restaurateur. His wife refuses to speak with him, and his daughter, who changes her career more often than her clothes, has begun dating a man old enough to be Elmer’s father! On top of it all, the government has asked him to come back and save the world again. The evil Von Bandeez (Marty Feldman) has hypnotized animals into doing his bidding, and plans to use them to take over the world! It’s up to Elmer to save the world, as only he can battle Von’s Vegetarians and man-eating rabbits!

O’Brien: Like I told the Baby Jesus. It’s the best movie ever!

Karellen: Oh nonsense, you littlest assblister. Everyone knows that Petulia 2: Locked and Cocked blew that first one out of the water. It gets an 8.3 on Internet Movie Database!

Plot Summary of Petulia 2: Locked and Cocked, from Internet Movie Database: A 14-year-old boy named Rudy (Sean Astin) is trying desperatly to lose his virginity. His neighbor, the divorced Petulia (Cloris Leachman) invites him over and they watch a porno film called “E.A.T. M.E.: The Sextra-Terestrial” starring Roxanne Du Jour (Shelley Winters). When the movie is turned off, they discover on the news that the famous porn star has died. Meanwhile in Heaven, Roxanne must become an angel by commiting one good deed. She decides to help young Rudy lose his virginity. It just so happens that Rudy has a crush on the sister of the town bully, Mean Gene (John Travolta). Only Petulia can make it all turn out all right!

The Baby Jesus:
Leave it to O’Brien to give me a DVD without checking to see whether we actually had a DVD player. How useless was that, The Littlest Overtard? But I forgive you. And I’m letting Joseph wear the disc around the house on top of his head, since he gets bummed out sometimes that me and Moms have halos, and he doesn’t.

The Sad Trombone:
Womp! Womp! Womp! Wommmmmmmmmmp!

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Published in: on March 31, 2010 at 1:35 am  Leave a Comment  

City Planning: What the Bumblefuckers Want

Normanskill, NY (AP), “Just thirteen members of The Mayor’s Committee on Strategic Planning for The City of Normanskill, about a quarter of the total group, actually live in the City, with the rest making their homes in surrounding suburbs, according to an analysis by reporter V. Gina Gnome that included Bumblefuck and Normanskill County voting records, Internet-based address databases and the local telephone book.”

Wintermute: I’m a big fan of The Mayor, as you know, but this sort of behavior really frosts my donut. And not in the good way. As a longtime, tax-paying citizen of Normanskill, why in the world would I want someone from Bumblefuck County making decisions about my City’s future? What do all those people from suburbs out in Bumblefuck County actually want, anyway? A few more Starbucks to visit at lunch?

The Bumblefuckers: More parking for the two times a month we come into the city. All the cultural stuff in a nice sanitized area with no brown or poor people around. Cheap apartments for poor people that we can buy and flip a year later after having some poor, brown people repaint them for minimum wage, without benefits or social security. Maybe an indoor shopping mall. No gay people making us uncomfortable. More shows by The Dave Matthews Band, but acoustic ones in nice clean bars, so we can talk while they play. More cool nightclubs and restaurants with rope lines so we can feel exceptional when we get in. But they have to be in brightly lit areas with plentiful parking lots (we can’t parallel park, you know) and no poor, brown, gay or poor brown gay people around. In fact, when it comes to parking lots, let’s have some new deluxe “wider vehicle” spots designated for our Hummers only. You could put them where the handicapped spots are now, since no disabled people would get past the rope at our kinds of nightclubs anyway. That would pretty much do it for us. Good thing the Mayor put us on the Committee!

Wintermute: Why are you Bumblefuckers always so concerned about parking? Why, according to the Normanskill City Website, there are over 2,000 parking spots within a four block radius of the intersection of Asshat Avenue and Grand Street.

Karellen: Oh, come on, Wintermute. You know that most of those parking spots have been full since 1925. The last time I was heading downtown to the Asshat and Grand area and there was something going on at the Armory I ended up having to park up on Millard Fillmore Avenue. It’s a somewhat obvious choice, but for whatever reason (too freaky for the Suburbanites?), I didn’t have too much trouble finding a spot there. There’s always Hippie Hollow too. There’s always plenty of good parking underneath the overpass there. It’s kind of stuffy down there, though, so it’s good to leave your windows open. It’s so peaceful down there. Sometimes I just drop the kids off there and go for a walk. I need a lot of alone time, you know.

Louie Shakes: That’s right! There’s lots of nice young neighborhood people there who are willing to keep the kids entertained while you walk, and with the windows down, it’s okay to leave the kids in the car. Be sure to give the kids some money in case the ice cream truck comes while you’re gone. And leave the trunk open for them, too. They can play fort in it.

Guy Who Blocks The Flow: It is pouring down rain now, even though the sun is shining. Are the Four Horsemen sure to follow soon?

Guy Who Esplains Thins: They ditched their horses and are in motorboats now, following their yachts down the Hudson.

Pestilence: If there’s one muffuckin scratch on my yacht, Normanskill is going down with bird flu tomorrow!!

Famine: Are we there yet? I’m huuuuuuuuungry!!!!!

Carry On, My Wasted Son

Carry on, my Wasted son,
Typing when the rest are done.
Talking to yourself is fun.
Har yuo rike me nar?

You pretend to be the nards and the asshats.
Write the jokes about the boobs and the meatflaps.
Posting as your favorite rock stars,
And the Gobrin Shalk.

Egging single doods to their own demises.
Giving unprotected baws some surprises.
Post the Bloorp Bloorp Uh-Oh photo
When it’s time to go.

Carry on, my Wasted son,
Typing when the rest are done.
Talking to yourself is fun.
Har yuo rike me nar?

Masquerading as vagina dentata.
Drinking far more Aquavit than you oughta.
Getting riled by liberal squishees.
You know. Sexually.

Call in SMART when dooders flirt with the meltdown.
See AJones programming deep ‘neath the downtown.
Random Slutty Grrrl is waiting,
you’d better masturbate.

Carry on, my Wasted son,
Typing when the rest are done.
Talking to yourself is fun.
Har yuo rike me nar?

Carry on! May you always be lonely!
Carry on! Entertaining us only!
So just type on, Rum Dum Duggins,
Keep esplainin thins.

Carry on, my Wasted son,
Typing when the rest are done.
Talking to yourself is fun
Har yuo rike me nar?

Published in: on March 17, 2010 at 12:48 am  Leave a Comment  

Hoverounds on the Normanskill

O’Brien: As I age and get more prosperous, the idea of riding around on an electric vehicle becomes increasingly attractive to me. Not a golf cart or a hybrid Toyota Deathwagon, mind you, but something more nimble. Like a Hoveround. Those really speak to me, and they sure are well-marketed. The ending of the most famous Hoveround commercial shows two elderly women in their Hoverounds at the edge of the Grand Canyon, implying that being wheelchair bound need not limit your enjoyment of life, even of the rugged outdoors. It’s right up there with the Clapper and “I’ve fallen, and I can’t get up” commercials among the geriatric set. I’d do anything to look as happy as those two old ladies did.

Karellen: I never perceived that commercial that way at all, O’Brien. I saw it as two elderly women in their Hoverounds at the edge of the Grand Canyon, trying to kill themselves, and foiled once again because their Hoverounds can’t climb fences. It sucks getting old and not being able to do stuff.

Stoney Stone Stoner: Whoh, dude, I love that commercial! Except it doesn’t show how the whole story ends, with the two old ladies holding each others’ hands and gunning their Hoverounds right into the Grand Canyon, Thelma and Louise style—except they fly right over the motherfucker, because those things can HOVER! Awesome, yo! Heh! Heh heh! Heh!

Karellen: Nice reaction time, there, Stoney. I’d already delivered a punchline to O’Brien’s opening. Now what the hell are we supposed to do with this piece?

O’Brien: Perhaps we could hold a vote on which one we like better?

Wintermute: Well, I like the frustrated suicidal old ladies trying to drive their Hoverounds through the fence better than the frustrated flying suicidal old ladies. It’s more pathetic, and that makes me laugh, because I find other people’s suffering humorous.

Mustapha Mond: I concur. Trying to commit suicide and being stymied is much better than going into the canyon.

Stoney Stone Stoner: No, dude, you don’t get it . . . they don’t go INTO the canyon, they go OVER the canyon! Because those things can HOVER! That’s gotta be worth something! They’re still stymied, just in a different way! Although I have to say, brah, the imagery of them getting caught up in the fence is pretty fuckin’ funny, yo.

Mustapha Mond (Frying Stoney Stone Stoner’s brainstem like bacon): Zzzzzzzzttttttt!!!

Stoney Stone Smeagol: Sssssss . . . . pass us that remotes, precious. Is times for Mutuals of Omaha’s Wild Kingdomses, sssss. Tricksy Overdouches. Sssss.

Mustapha Mond: Yes, I definitely like the crashing into the fence version better. Although they can’t get tangled up in it, since that implies them being able to generate some speed and power. They just have to drive into it slowly, bounce off, back up just as slowly and then drive into it again, over and over, without ever making a dent. I could watch that for two hours straight, easy. Someone get me Upstate Ether Central Casting! We got a film to make!

Upstate Ether Central Casting: Aw, guys? How about we substitute the Normanskill Ravine for the Grand Canyon, huh? We got some budget issues here, you know?

Wintermute: Yeah, the Normanskill could work. Because then if they did, by chance, break through and plummet over the edge, it still might not kill them. That really ups the impotence factor a lot.

Karellen: Speaking of impotence, what about if we replace the old ladies with O’Brien? He already wants to have a Hoveround, so that eliminates the need to convince him to sit in one. And old ladies can be tough to work with . . .

Wintermute: There’s got to be two of them on the Hoverounds, though. So they can get out of synch, and as one backs up, the other hits the fence, and you would keep thinking “Oh my God, if they could just hit the fence at the same time, then they might actually break through!” Only when they do get their shit lined up that way, it still doesn’t make a difference. So who should drive the other Hoveround, if we put O’Brien in one?

O’Brien: Thanks, guys! That would be great! I always wanted to be in the movies!

Karellen: Oh, Christ, O’Brien, this isn’t supposed to make you happy. So you’re out, you idiot. Now we need two Hoveround pilots . . .

Mustapha Mond: I’ve got it!!! How about our two favorite gibbering junkie hobo types, Louie Shakes and Ol’ Dirty Piece of Strange! We could get them obliterated on the drugs of their choices, and then send ‘em into the fence. You know we’d get some great ravings for dialog out of that, too. Oh, man. I know I would pay Hoyt’s movie ticket and snack prices to watch 90 minutes of footage of Ol’ Dirty and Louie Shakes stoned on Hoverounds trying to drive through a fence into the Normanskill.

Stoney Stone Smeagol: Hehs! Hehs hehs! Ssss hehs!! Thats would be the funniestsests, preciouses. Smeagol would put down remotes and leaves sofa to watch that one with nice, funny, friendly Overdouches. Yes!! Happy Smeagols! See him capers as Hoveroundses crashes into fences! Hehs! Hehs hehs, Smeagol says!

Karellen: See? The stoner crowd would totally eat that up! Brilliant, Mustapha! And that wouldn’t take much, from a budget standpoint: $150 for camera rental, $100 for film, $250 for film processing, $300 for the rental of two Hoverounds, $100 for enough hootch and rock to render Ol’ Dirty and Louie Shakes raving looney tunes. Results? Priceless!!

Upstate Ether Central Casting: Uh, guys? How about we go digital, and borrow the camera, to save a little scratch, huh? Film and processing is expensive, you know? And that hand-held video look is all the rage now among the Pretentious Arthaus Klown set anyway. This could be the next “Blair Witch Project,” and would leave us some margin on the books. Can we go that route, big guys? Thanks for considering it! You’re the best!

Stoney Stone Smeagol: Sssss! Yesss! Digitals!!! That’s leaves more money for preciouses weeeeeeeds!! Yes!! Sees Smeagol caperses with delightssses! Hehs hehs!

Karellen: Well, I guess that would work, what with the skyrocketing price of good weed and whatnot. Remember when we were kids and there were such things as nickel bags? Those were the days, when you could collect your tips from your paper route every week and go buy a little bag to get you warm after hauling all the Sunday papers. Kids just don’t have it the same these days. Although, I guess looking back, a high school diploma might have been worth more than all of those nickel bags.

Wintermute: I can remember a period in my life at college where pot was so plentiful people were turning down anything that was “shake” (broken bud with bits of stem and seeds mixed in). “I only smoke bud” meant you were high class, a real connoisseur.

O’Brien: Say, that reminds me, does anyone know what a “lid” is, in pot terms? An older relative of mine used to refer to buying “lids”, but I never knew what he was talking about.

Guy Who Esplains Thins: A lid is the round, flattish thing you cover a pot with to prevent food or water from splashing out while cooking.

Stoney Stone Smeagol: Ssssss! Noes!! Fat, stupid Guy Who Esplianses Thins is always wrongses! Stupid, fats Guy!! Ssss!! A lidses is amounts of loose weeds that Smeagol can hold in lid of Prince Albertses tobacco canses. Ssss!! What stupid, fat Guy is describeseses is not lidsesesses. What stupid, fat Guy describes is called ELP recordses!!!

O’Brien: Hmmm . . . I’ve heard of EP and LP records, but what’s an ELP record?

Karellen: It means “Extra Long Play” record. Or at least it feels that way when you’re forced to listen to it, and you can’t get your Hoveround through the fence to escape.

About the Overlords

Guy Who Esplains Thins: While those who do not study history may be doomed to repeat it, those who do study history will fare no better, because they don’t control history, The Overlords do. Since before time dawned, these immensely powerful beings have plucked substance from the void, crafting and controlling the web within which we puny mortals writhe into being, shriek, spawn and die. The ancients attempted to describe their characters and name them–Iamblichus, Yaldabaoth, Achamoth, Ahriman, and the like–but their true forms and powers have always been beyond human comprehension, and those who managed, through arcane black arts and spells, to glimpse them most closely either died from the exposure, or spent their remaining days and years as gibbering, shuddering, soul-burnt wrecks for their efforts.

At some point, this started to bum The Overlords out. Not because they felt bad for the humans they cooked like bacon, but just because they’d pretty much run through every possible joke, prank, and vignette within which they could constructively insert a catatonic mystic or twitching shaman for entertainment value. And eternity is a long time to be bored. So after centuries of frying human brainstems, it came to pass that The Overlords decided that they might like to interact directly with their puny mortal charges without inflicting such fundamental damage, the better to amuse themselves. They moved over the waters, as they were wont to do, and came upon an isolated, forgotten, and depraved primitive tribe living along what is now known as the Normanskill in Upstate New York. There they took the forms of giant sex toys, some horse-like, some goat-themed, some like little fishies, and scattered themselves about the forests and trails, where they were discovered by the lascivious women-folk of the Normanskill nation, and in this way, their divine seeds were placed within the wombs of mortal women.

Time passed, as it is wont to do, and the divine spawn of The Overlords chewed their ways out of their mothers’ bellies, since they still hadn’t quite gotten the hang of the “don’t kill the humans, they’re more fun when they’re alive” bit. The divine Overlord offspring lived among the primitive Normanskillers, immortal, yet subject to the pleasures and pains (but mostly pleasures) associated with their new corporeal forms. There they waited, patiently, pulling strings and shaking webs, the ripples of their activities drifting down stream and river and across oceans, setting in motion movements that slowly, inexorably drew members of the more advanced civilizations (that their celestial forefathers had nurtured in Europe and Asia) toward their manifest American destinies. They also had lots of vigorous sex with the Normanskiller women, which freed their cuckolded menfolk to work on more important things, like the development of sanitary plumbing and wireless communication networks.

The first European contact with the relics of the corporeal Overlords occurred in 1137, when Snorri Yergmannsson, a fisherman, was blown to sea by a sudden storm off the coast of the Norwegian settlement in Vinland. After weeks adrift, living on urine and cod, Snorri sighted land, and (assuming he’d found either Markland, Greenland or Iceland), he followed the coast westward, seeking safe harbor or civilization. Finding himself at the mouth of a great river estuary, he turned northward, entering a lush land filled with beavers, giant elms, towering river escarpments and the abandoned remains of a shockingly advanced native civilization.

Finally realizing that he wasn’t in West Scandinavia anymore, Snorri gathered relics from the Normanskill settlement (for, indeed, he had followed the Hudson all the way to the fens below the Mohawk), turned back south, and eventually made his way back to Vinland, from whence his collected relics returned in bits and bits to his people’s European homeland. For his extraordinary feats of exploration and seamanship, Snorri was castrated and had his guts pulled out through his rectum in front of the Ljokisfjorfur Mead Hall in Seydisfekyureyri, because nobody likes a showoff, not even Vikings. One of the artifacts he found was a parchment scroll in a strange and fabulous language, that defied the efforts of the best code-breakers and linguists until computer-assisted cryptographic techniques were developed in the mid-20th Century. As it came to pass, the Yergmannsson Codex documented the myth of creation embraced by the Normanskill people. It is reproduced in its entirety below:

the normanskillers floated up the river in their doublewide house boats, found a sandy spot on an oxbow shore lined with pines and with beavers, pulled their boats from the water, set them on cinder blocks in a circle, posted watch around the perimeter as the children chased their goats.

they sent search parties into the woods, where they found overlord grocery stores, bait and tackle shops and feed lots, storage units and satellite dish farms, they traded goats for cheese, and casseroles for tractors, grew corn, squash and apples, sent their children to learn the school languages and abducted local whores.

the rate of births there was generally double the rate of deaths, more or less, occasional skirmishes on the oxbow kept the population in proper check, and in due time the story of the long journey up the river was mythologized, and they would ceremonially wade into the water to sing, pray and confess.

the circle of beached doublewide trailers had grown into a bustling town, with its own feed lots and pharmacies, storage unit farms and satellite dishes, and wireless broadcasting cabals that spread their leaders’ words and the weather, until that fateful autumn when hurricane malachi knocked the whole place down,

and the normanskillers floated down the river in the flotsam of their oxbow city, sacks of rice stained purple by blueberries strapped to the sides of their tractors, carports and campers carried downstream over rapids and out into the ocean, and the overlords were largely lost to history, which we must regard as quite the pity

But were the corporeal Overlords truly lost to history? Of course they weren’t, you idiot. Haven’t you been paying attention? The Overlords make history. They’d just grown bored of their original Normanskiller hosts fairly quickly, so they sent them packing down river with an assist from a little weather-based jiggerypokery, where they could later be massacred by the Dutch, the English, and the Smallpox, to the great and lasting amusement of their former benefactors, who generally like nothing more than a boot to the face, forever. The departure of the aboriginal Normanskillers left the Overlords alone Upstate, in their secret underground bunkers and treehouses, filled with vapors and ethers, where they have romped and stomped and humped and pumped for centuries now, the corporeal conduits of the genesis urge.

Occasionally, the Overlords have found it entertaining to inspire creative human beings to evoke their archetypes in art, literature and film, to better allow humans to comprehend who and what they are. It is for this reason that you may think you know Mustpha Mond from Brave New World, or O’Brien from 1984, or Karellen from Childhood’s End, or Wintermute from that piece of shit Neuromancer. But these are but fictitious doppelgangers, images seen through mirrors darkly, and with Penthouse Vaseline filters smudged across their surfaces.

Upstate Ether is the real Earthly home of the Overlords. So behave here, lest they cook your brainstem, just because they can. And because they still find it amusing, all these centuries on.

Purity: Karellen vs O’Brien

Karellen: Purity is an adulterated notion of Christian penance and outdated instinctual loathing. Death is not life in any form regardless of what these notions of purity and sacramental rebirth may lead you to believe. Purity absorbs our little selves and replaces everything in them with the slow and inexorable sedimentations of the smaller deaths: indifference, hate, obsession, the cankered tranquility of domestic life and the fevered varieties of the displaced orgasms that we experience through television, movies, books, restaurants, clothes, haircuts, tattoos, cars and professional sports. Dying is what we do all the time, and it is not entertainment. It is dying.

Guy Who Esplains Thins: If you can read this message, then you are dying.

O’Brien: We’re not going to die, Karellen. Through the Ether, you and I will live on forever! Our mental meanderings have been imprinted on the collective gray matter of humanity, which will persist after corporeal death as waveforms. They will travel through space like microwaves, these ideas which have been created or conveyed, and can no longer be destroyed. We are all eternal!

Guy Who Esplains Thins: If you can read this message, then you are dying. From microwaves.

Published in: on February 2, 2010 at 7:51 pm  Leave a Comment  

Vojvodian-Canadians

washington gets something right for a change: WASHINGTON (Reuters) – The United States recognized on Tuesday the independence of Montenegro, helping cement the international community’s acceptance of a referendum last month in favor of its breakaway from a union with Serbia.

The United States: Hey there. Haven’t I seen you somewhere before? Monte-what? Montenegro. Oh yeah. You used to go out with Serbia. Always thought you were too fine for that zero.

lil stevie: the U.S. will recognize anyone who breaks up with serbia.

Kosovo: woo hoo! screw you serbia! unca sam on our side!

Vojvodina: can we break off of serbia too, unca sam?

Uncle Sam: hellz no. yr just a bunch of gypsies and hungarians. you need to be oppressed by serbs. plus you dont have any beaches.

Voivod: set our people free! set our people free!

re set our people free! set our people free: esplain

Guy Who Esplains Thins: That’s Voivod calling for Vojvodina’s independence.

Voivod: thats right.

re That’s Voivod calling for Vojvodina’s independence: i thought they were from canada?

Guy Who Esplains Thins: That’s right, they are from Canada. They are Vojvodian-Canadians.

Published in: on January 24, 2010 at 11:44 pm  Leave a Comment