Archive for the ‘Blogs and other silly nonsense’ Category

So, anyway, you seem a decent (if freakishly short) fellow.  I hate to die.  So your rehearsal idea sounds intriguing to me… It’s something we haven’t done in a long time.  But there are more important things at stake here than playing a few chords in a made-up key like F# major!  There is a planet to conquer, and cities to destroy!  It’s a prestigious line of work, with a long and glorious tradition!

Luckily, I have just located my copy of a little-known viola sonata by Eric Zahn.  It is an appealing, accessible piece, and if played correctly, it can summon elder demons and such from the nether realms.  So here goes!  I really hope A’chaghoshaac, the blood-soaked devourer from the woods with a thousand eyes, shows up.  I haven’t seen him in a while.  We used to get up to such shenanigans, A’chaghoshaac and I… Ah, memories.  Like this one time in high school, we paid a homeless guy to buy us some beer, and then after he got it for us, A’chaghoshaac ate him!  Heh heh heh.  A’chaghoshaac…what a card.

You know, I just had a thought.  We should do more songs that summon greater eldrich powers from the less respectable dimensions.   I mean, when we play “I Hate Everyone,” we’re lucky if we even get Bhailolei, the tiny nuisance from below with upwards of four spawn.  And I think one time when we played “I’ll Come Around,” I caught a glimpse of Tlogarhogyub, the slovenly irritant from the abyss who always wants to borrow money.  Glad he didn’t stick around.  So can we work on that?  That way we can combine rehearsal and world conquest into a very efficient, goal-oriented, purpose-driven upper management paradigm.

Have fun storming the castle,

–Eric

“Ph’nglui mglw’nafh C’thulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn!” “Ph’nglui mglw’nafh C’thulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn!”  Oh…, sorry.  Nevermind me.  I was just summong Cthulhu, the most fearsome of the Great Old Ones, from his seemingly infinite slumber.  And boy, when he wakes up, is he gonna be a grouch.  I’m serious.  You’ve never seen a distemper like this one, man.  This guy is a monster.  Absolute beast.  And well, as soon as I wake him, most probably with the great Alarm Clock of Og’Dagrabed  or the Clown Horn of V’kazaree or perhaps the Gong of Ongdongalong, well, it’s gonna basically be one earth-shattering grumpfest.  So you might as well start counting your chickens.  Or sowing your wild oats.  Or doing whatever it is that people do when they’re about to die.   It’s sad, however.  You seem a decent fellow, I hate to kill you.  …  (insert your line here)

Crap, now where was I.  Hmm…curses.  I have forgotten my place.  Where the hell did I put that Necronomicon?  I really am gonna have to clean up the TV Mansion.  Ever since your goddamn jets doused my place in gouda it’s been impossible to find anything.  Fortunately, I brought in my hordes of ninja-trained, death-mice to eat as much of the cheese as they can stand.  The only problem is I forgot about all the goddamn droppings.  My place looks like that goddamn Raisin Bran Sun dumped two scoops of raisins in through the roof.  It’s disugsting.  Oh well, I guess I’ll have to start over.   I was feeling a bit rushed anyhow.  You know what they say, if you rush a miracle man, you get rotten miracles.

However, I have a proposal for you, you slack-sacked sister of a fatherless sow.   Why don’t you put down your laser controls and I’ll put down my Necronomicon and we’ll try to kill each other like civilized people?    I think that all of this destruction really is taking time away from the band.  I mean, we haven’t rehearsed in… Oh, who am I kidding?   Us, rehearse?   Ha! Ha! Hahahahahahahahah!  Okay, now really, where the hell did I put that Necronomicon?

With the rending of flesh and the gnashing of teeth and the tooting of little horns,

Mike TV

Ha, you fell for my clever ruse and sent your cow army to my fake secret lair!  I was a little worried that maybe a huge billboard that said “Eric’s Secret Lair” with a big red arrow pointing to it was sort of a giveaway, but the cows were in paroxysms of teriyaki and didn’t think too hard about it.  And they are in for a fitting and unpleasant surprise.

I’m sure you’ve discovered my deep and abiding interest in pain (presently I’m writing the definitive work on the subject).  To this end, the fate I have planned for your flatulent cows is the most painful and insulting thing that can be done to them.  Right about now, they’re probably bumbling right into my pit of hot oil.  Yes, I’m having your cows chicken-fried!  And as you know, the most grievous insult one can do to a type of meat is to cook it in the style of a different type of meat!  Poultry, of course, being the lowest and most degraded rung on the meat ladder (Note to self: remove stairs in real secret lair, replace with meat ladders).  And once the hapless teriyaki gas-cows are chicken-fried to Floridian perfection, they will find themselves trapped forever in the Cave of Mashed Potatoes and Honey-Glazed Carrots!  My minions in the Evil division of Marie Callendar’s have served me well.

Of course, your careless assault cannot go unanswered, you son of a motherless goat.  At this very minute, squadrons of fighter planes are headed to your secluded bay-area TV Mansion to coat it in a delicious smoked gouda cheese sauce.  Goodbye for now… If you can! Hahahahahahaha!  Wait, that didn’t make sense.

–Eric

Actually, you bloated pustule of rotting malodorousness, I actually quite liked the kittens to bumblebees plan. I’m not afraid to admit it when someone has a great idea. Like pet rocks. The guy that came up with that idea was a genius. Sell me a pet that I don’t have to feed? Or pet? Or cuddle? And I can use it to stone the local adulterers? And demolish the windows of the noisy neighbors? And it keeps my papers from floating away? Color me there! Not that I’m saying your kittens-to-bumblebee plan had the same merits as the pet rock, or hell, even the Chia Pet, it certainly was pretty damn cool. So kudos, you festering wound on a chimpanzee’s ass!

But you made a fatal error, my friend. You should well know that you never go in against a Sicilian when death is on the line! Not that I’m actually Sicilian. But I do like Italian food. Most particularly foods served on red and white checked table cloths. But I digress. You have made a fatal error. By flavoring your lasers in teriyaki (a delicious but horribly fattening idea. I mean, really, do you realize that you’ve increased the caloric intake of one blast of your laser by 1000%) you have sealed your fate. Mostly because the aforementioned cows are drawn inexorably to teriyaki flavoring. It’s like an all-you-can-eat-buffet to an over-eater. Trust me. You think humans came up with the idea of soaking cows flesh in teriyaki? Hell no. It was the cows. They love the stuff. Makes their skin smooth, supple, and delicious.

I suspect you can hear them right now. Or, if not, you can feel the rumble of their hooves on the pavement as they descend, like a great cow-ey tsunami, on your secret lair. Oh, and it’s a good thing that you’ve got your gas mask because cow digestion doesn’t work so hot and I bet they’re still processing that gassy stew we made for them a couple days ago. Pee-yew! Good luck getting out of this one, you miserable vomitous mass!

Warm Regards,

Mike TV

It will be the last, Mike.  To the pain!

Luckily for me, your counter-plot involving cow flatulence proved to be just as much a distraction to the unwashed masses as my kitten-to-bee-swarm conversion.  So I was able to use the canopy of chaos to hold up a liquor store anyway, just as I’d planned!  Well, I was going to hold it up.  I ended up just buying some gum.  And a gas mask.  And some of that teriyaki beef jerky.  You know, the kind in the clear plastic container, right by the register?  The really big thin kind that you have to use the tongs to get.  That stuff’s goooood.

In fact, my next plan for world domination involves re-purposing my kitten-lasers to turn the world’s babies into beef jerky!  Which is more difficult than it sounds because they have to be cooked and flattened and covered with teriyaki sauce.  The flattening is easy–just gotta steal some steamrollers–but making the laser teriyaki-flavored was much more difficult than your bovine-flatus-obsessed brain could possibly comprehend!  (And mine, actually.  I subcontracted for the teriyaki laser.  I’ll give you the number for these guys, they can add teriyaki, ranch, or sour cream & chive flavoring to any world domination attempt.)

With zesty ranch wishes and teriyaki dreams (of world conquest),

–Eric

You fool! I knew you were a luddite. I could tell by the fact that you wear a sundial as a watch. So, I knew that your silly GoBot was nothing more than Quaker Oat cans, popsicle sticks, and Scotch Tape. Ha! But you were drawn out by my clever ruse and you revealed your true plot! (In true arch-villain fashion, I must say. So bravo on that point.) But I hope you noticed that at 3:00pm PST that your lasers didn’t blow our poor planet to smithereens. I bet you’re still scratching your head as to why. Well, I’ll tell you, you noisome sack of gnat-eaten pussballs. Or better yet, you warthog-faced buffoon! Cow flatulence! That’s right. Cow farts.

As you well know, as a professional rock musician, most of my myriad friends are cow farmers. Naturally. So I called up all of my cow-farming friends. And they called all of their friends. Who were also cow farmers. And they called their cow farming friends who called their…well, you get the idea. And I told them to feed their cows a tincture of beans, Indian food, cauliflower, eggs, and beer. Which, as you can guess, gave their cows terrible gas. Sending up a protective miasma of violent stink. A stink more powerful than your lasers. Sure, it means that our ozone is going to be depleted in about 16 days. But at least we have 16 more days of American Idol. (My favorite evil-villain show. No show does more damage to the American aesthetic than this nuclear megaton bomb of crap. Just one more week of that piece of shit show and we will finally have the collective cultural taste of a jar of amputated testicles. MuhahahahahahHAHAHAHA!)

So ends your plot to…oh crap. I have to go. Work is done. I’m on the clock. The boss says I don’t get any more Evil Genius overtime. Bah! So I guess no more nefarious schemes for me. Curses! Or better yet… Drat!

With a yo, ho, ho and a bottle of…uh, root beer. *sigh* Effing AA,

Mike TV

Ha, Mike TV!  You may have forgotten, I don’t own anything powered by “electricity,” since I fear technology.  Except my phone, which has a camera in it.  And, obviously, giant robots are an exception.  So while you were mucking about on Earth (which is clearly for losers), having tea and finger sandwiches with girly polarity, I have hatched my most nefarious plot yet!  By hijacking the planet’s entire satellite network, I have managed to implement my Space Laser Project!  At 3:00 PST, with the push of a single button, I will (from space, sucka!) unleash a barrage of lasers which will turn all the world’s kittens into swarms of killer bees!  While the people of this benighted planet are realizing that they’re trying to feed tuna to millions of angry, stinging insects, I will use the ensuing chaos to rob a liquor store! And the confused, swollen people of Earth will be powerless to stop me!

I am just now realizing, however, that this one may need a rethink.  It’s not really much of an inconvenience to you, since Sarah’s cat already very closely resembles a swarm of killer bees.  Hmm.  Let me get back to you on this one.  It… It really hasn’t been a very good week.  Maybe I can, like, control weather patterns instead.  Or something.  I dunno.

–Eric

While you were off building your GoBot, I was in the process of inverting the Earth’s polarity. Which, as you probably know, although you never managed to get further than 6th grade science, means that all electronics on the planet will suddenly cease functioning. Planes will fall from the sky. Cars, most particularly military-green jeeps, will launch from conveniently placed ramps, flip over and explode in a ball of fiery doom. Watches will cease ticking. Everyone will be late. Shows set to DVR record will not record. There will be utter chaos and pandemonium. And, of course, your GoBot is going to be dead on arrival.

So, bring it on, doodsicle! I intend to plunge the Earth into a darkness so profound that it’ll take three seasoned spelunkers armed with klieg lights for you just to find your face. Muhahahaha…*cough*… Ugh. I’m gonna have to work on my maniacal laughter. MuhahahahahaHAHAHAHA! HA! HA!

Ahem. Much better. Okay, anyway. I’ve got to go. Civilization’s not gonna destroy itself, you know. Er…uh, well,….okay, you get what I’m saying. I mean, without my help it could take another six to eight months for civilization to completely unravel.

With all the power and fury of two copper-top batteries,

Mike TV

Oh, Mike TV, my friend in Christ, you haven’t seen wrath.  A 4.5 on the wrathometer is nothing compared to the wrath I felt when I realized the spell actually meant a billion dollars after tax!  I figured I was gonna come away from the deal with maybe forty or fifty grand, net.  The “earnings from summoning elder gods” tax makes the inheritance tax look like the “earnings from selling your collection of Snorks memorabilia at a swap meet” tax!  And I’d already requisitioned and filled out the 6805-NOT-PARTI-Q-LARLY-EZ Supernatural Income form!  But now my actual billion dollars has been hamburgled!

And I should’ve remembered the T-Rex’s susceptibility to number puzzles.  Sometimes I just feel like the elder gods are just fucking with me.

But!  Thankfully, the time I gained from distracting you with the dinosaur chase has allowed me to complete my transformable robot suit.  See, the time I’ve spent over the last few weeks watching Robotech, combined with my previous in-depth analyses of how much the Transformers movies suck, have granted me enough knowledge in the fields of robotics and transformics to make my own giant-robot-that-changes-into-stuff (some of the Robotech commentary is surprisingly in-depth).  So now I can unleash on the world my most kickass creation: A giant robot that transforms into a jet and a half-jet-half-robot and an enormous semi truck!  Which is fully half as good as a whole truck!  So if you somehow manage to withstand my barrage of missiles and lasers and stepping on things–which you won’t–I can still slow you down and inconvenience you on any freeway!  Assuming I’m not late for a delivery of fresh produce to Ralph’s, because since my billion dollars is gone, I’ve gotta pay for this somehow.

Prepare to meet your robotic doom, Mike TV!  Just after I drop off this load of nearly-edible lettuce at Carl’s Jr.

–Eric

PS: Seriously, Carl’s Jr. has the worst lettuce.

Phew! After being chased around the greater part of California by your damn T-Rex, I managed to escape. First I had to start by explaining to that numbskull what a number was. And how two was twice as big as one. And that three followed two. And that it preceded four. As you can imagine, it was a bit time consuming. What with his tiny brain and his insatiable appetite for my tasty, tasty flesh. But once I explained the concept of numbers and counting, I then turned your stupid T-Rex onto the joys of Sudoku! Really easy sudoku, mind. But since his brain is the size of a walnut, he’s totally distracted by the figuring of these puzzles. And I have managed to escape!

Ha! Ha! Ha! Now you will experience my wrath. A wrath that, well, is not something most people like to experience. I’d say on a scale of 1 to 10, with 1 being say, the Wrath of Khan, and 10 being the Wrath of God, I’d put my Wrath at around a 4.5. You know, sorta maybe around the Wrath of the Hulk when he’s really ticked off. But, regardless, since you’re a viola player, you really don’t have any muscles to speak of, so you’re basically up that proverbial creek, you know the one with the flies that really stinks to high heaven. And yes, your paddle is nowhere to be found.

So prepare yourself. I’d suggest maybe making peace with whatever gods you worship, paying back anyone you owe money to, returning any outstanding library books, paying off any old school loans, and perhaps telling your parents exactly how they fucked up your life. You know, the usual your-life-as-you-know-it-is-about-to-end activities. Because, frankly, it is. And no, I don’t mean because you’re about to become a billionaire. Because I intercepted your billion dollar check, dude. And I spent it on a billion dollar-sandwiches at McDonalds. That’s right, now their sign reads, billions and billions AND billion served!

Your friend in Christ,

Mike TV