Posts Tagged ‘indie-rock’

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

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

Here is another bulletin. It is a bit haggard, this bulletin. A bit worn around the edges. It’s been around the block a few times, this bulletin. It had a promising start, however. Good schools. Good grades. A hard-worker. And then, at some point, right around early adulthood, this bulletin started hanging out with…well, not the wrong crowd per say. I mean, to look at them, they looked like they were the right crowd. Bulletins from wealthy families. Smart. Good looking. The types of bulletins you’d like to take home to meet your parents. And that’s exactly how it started. But this bulletin, in the company of those other bulletins, started getting into some pretty risky behavior. First the drug use. And the wild, unprotected sex. The drinking of each others’ blood. Fornicating with kitchen appliances. Reckless driving. The blowing up of small churches. Crossing i’s and dotting t’s. Smoking. Handjobs on the operating table. Small molehills transformed into medium sized mountains. Wearing white after labor day. Kissing cousins. Impregnating minds. The works.

After three long years of utterly depraved acts of senseless joy and abandon, this bulletin has ended up here, sitting in front of you, smelling of cheap cigarettes and rubbing alcohol. Please, don’t just toss it out. Please have mercy. Too many bulletins go in and out of decent homes, only to be tossed aside like so much litter. Like trash. Like, unwanted garbage. This bulletin, that once had such a promising career, that coulda been anything, that wanted to be so much more, is now, empty. Wiped out. Erased. Devoid of meaning. Lost. Worse than lost. Abandoned.

Please, take the time to print this bulletin out. Love it. Introduce it to your other bulletins. Those bulletins that you cherish. Those little slices of perfect prose that you hold dear to your heart because they remind you that life isn’t always a bundle of chaos, noise, and mind-numbing static. Sometimes, in the sea of nonsense, there shows up a few words, a thought, an idea, an epiphany that makes perfect sense. And it is those types of bulletins, those unbridled, unfettered ideas of electric current that course from your brain to the tips of your nipples to the webbing between your toes, it is those types of bulletins that this bulletin aspired to be. Alas, it just didn’t get there. Give this bulletin a home. Because everything needs a place to belong.

With a hand reaching down to lift a bulletin up,

Mike TV