So, I Was Recognized on the Street Today...

In a rare moment of Rafe fame (fame mostly due to happening to have acquaintences that are also Facebook friends and, despite not having seen me in person for years, can still recognize me from my FB pics) I was recognized on the street today.

In other words: I ran into someone who I once met, but don't know very well.

In still other words: No real fame will be presented in this tale.

In still more other words: I have a fun if not funny story to relate. ^_^

I should get started...

I was walking home from confession this Saturday* (remember, I'm Catholic... we do stuff like that) and I was about half way home when suddenly a Wild Rosi appeared whilst driving a car.

*Saturday would be today if, in fact, you read this on the same Saturday that I post it on. -_-

Her eyes were wide with excitement, her grin was ear to ear, and she was pointing and waving with the frantic energy of a million, mad stallions!

She obviously recognized me. And was exceptionally happy to see me. -_-


To be fair, she looks less like Ben Franklin than my drawing...

At first I thought I recognized her... then I realized she wasn't who I thought she was.

Then she pulled into a driveway I was nearing. I briefly considered the possibility that she belonged to that house, but this only made the matter curiouser, because I know almost less than nothing about the occupents of that domicile.

That was when she burst out of the car and ran towards me, still frantic and excited.

She definitely wasn't who I thought she was, but I definitely recognized her face... but I definitely couldn't place it. Definitely.

"Hi! I'm a Wild Rosi!" She shouted (thus enabling me to remember who she was). "I'm Ellie's cousin!" (Ellie dislikes being called "Ellie," which is why I have opted to make her nom de blog "Ellie.") >:D BWUAHAHAHHAA!!!

Anywho... the Wild Rosi continued speaking. "We're trying to get to Ellie's, but we're kind of lost. I saw you and was like 'hey, I think I know him! He's Ellie's friend!'"

Didn't even remember my name... :(

My Fame-Ego took a small blow...

But I rallied on.

"Can you tell us* how to get to Ellie's from this road?"

*There was, apparently, another wild Ellie cousin in the car.

"Does this road go all the way to Ellie's house?" She asked.

I looked at the street, *le shrug* "I haven't seen it go anywhere yet." (I'm so clever...)

The Wild Rosi then made it unmistakably clear that she wanted directions to Ellie's domicile.

Again... just because my drawings are freakish does NOT mean that the people they represent are. ^_^ The Wild Rosi and Ellie are both new to SDA, and I don't want to insult them more than I intend to.

I proceeded to give her the most confusing--yet still somehow true--directions I could think of.

-_- Because I'm cruel like that.

Anywhozits...

That's pretty much the story of the time I was recognized on the street. I'm now officially (not really) famous. :D

Go do some evil, and Ciao!

~Rafe

*1000 cool points to those who know what is printed on my blue shirt in the second pic. ;)

That Incredibly Sappy "Inspirational" Post -- aka "When I Stopped Giving a Sh*t" -- aka "My Origin Story"

Everyone has a time in their life when they believe the haters, and begin to dislike who they are.
Every hero has an origin story.

I was feeling inspirational bout two minutes ago, and decided to tell my "origin story." Plus, a couple of days ago, Satchel was bugging me to post another post.

Be warned, however: Much of this origin story may be hyperbolic and/or completely made up. (It'll all be loosely based on actual experiences, but my own story is all a bit too--what's the word?--mundane... which is a synonym for "mind-numbingly boring... and stupid.")

So, here we begin...

I was living in a place called Hellonearth. It was cozy, but for the flames, sulfur and horned fellows poking me with sticks. I called them "Haters," because they hated so much that they even hated me. Who could hate ME?

No one sane could, I imagined, and thus declared them nutzo.

And now I've lost my train of thought. I'm talking to Ginger (new character, as I have not mentioned her before) as I write this, and now I've lost the connection between the Haters and my origin...

...oh, yeah...

That was it.

Here we go...

I wasn't as fast nor as strong as the Haters. This made it difficult to best them in any physical feat. Which made it difficult to win their respect.

Haters hate respecting people who can't beat the ever-loving sh*t out of them.

Which I couldn't them.

So they didn't me.

And I didn't me.

This is what we call "the sad part... where our hero has yet to find himself and become awesome." Or, more commonly, "The sappy part. Boo-*bleep*ing-Hoo."

Anyway. Skipping ahead a few years.

We moved out of Hellonearth, to my current residence: Home.

Here I met people who were the opposite of Haters... but I hesitate to call them "lovers" because of the connotations such a word carries.

I'll call them "those who didn't fear befriending me." Or "morons" for short.

One day several of these morons and I were talking in the alley. Why were in the alley is top secret, and I shall not divulge it to you. Irregardless (<--I like this word because it makes people angry... but it IS a word... even if it's not proper. http://www.merriam-webster.com/video/0037-irregardless.htm?&t=1337054276 ) That parenthetical was too long, so I'm going to begin my sentence all over again.

Irregardless of that, the point was that we were talking in an alley (for reasons that I cannot discuss). It was actually Satchel's sister who became Mentor (another new character for the blog). She is called "Mentor" because every hero has that Obi-Wan Kenobi/Yoda/Gandalf/Merlin/Old-dude-who-dies-before-he-and-the-count-can-tunnel-out-of-prison type of guy. (Or girl, in this case.)

Mentor changed my life foreverish when, while chatting in that alley, she revealed to me my route to world domination.

She said (and I quote... ish... or I lie. Whatever. I'm making up about half of this anyway.) "Gee, Rafe, you're funny. You're pretty quick on your feet. You realize that if you hone that sharp wit of yours, and then turn my sister, Satchel, into a minion maker, you will be able to build an army and conquer the world via a funny blog. BTW, you should call me 'Mentor' in that blog. Or 'Special K'--not because of the drug, but so Satchel will be able to know what sister you're talking about. K? Peace out, dude."

And then, just as quickly as she had appeared, Mentor disappeared into the mist... only to be seen several times again... ooo-eee-ooo *creepy music.*

And, as a Rafe is wont to do, I took her advice too far and honed my wit towards the "mock ALL THE THINGS!" line of humor, and became what is generally considered "an arrogant snob."

But you love me anyway.

Anyway... it wasn't long after that that I realized that 99% of Haters only hate because of their own lack of confidence. Thus, I made a conscious decision to not give a vulgar expletive what other people thought of me.

That, my friends, is when a wee little Rafe became your OVERLORD AND MASTER!

As per the usual request, go do some evil.

Ciao!
 
P.S.
I'd like to thank everybody who ever hated on me. You made me stronger. Or I crushed you in a fit of rage... whatever.

"Hulk Smash!" ~Bruce Banner(ish)

The Weighty Issues of Weight, Urine, and Sleep

So, my story begins in room 936 at the University of Colorado Hospital.

The *NEW UPDATED* mailing address would be:

Raphael Biltz, Room 917

c/o University of Colorado Hospital

Mail Stop F771

Aurora, CO 80045

 

…in case you were wondering…you know…how to send me love…

But, you probably weren’t, so I’ll go on with my story.

Let me begin by saying that I have nothing but the utmost respect and appreciation for the nurses, CNAs, and the rest of the hospital staff here. They’re amazing. It may seem like I’m dogging on them in this post, but—you must remember—they’re just doing their jobs. It’s the person who decided the best time for them to weigh me is an hour after I’ve fallen asleep that I take issue with. Anyone who ACTUALLY dogs on nurses and CNAs just doesn’t know how hard they work.

Anyway, it was getting rather late, and I wasn’t tired. My nurse even commented a couple of times on how late I was staying up.

As of yet none of my actual nurses have been zombies...

Sometimes I stay up late.

 

Is that a crime?

Well, in a sense, yes. It is a crime against yourself… If you do not catch your winks before too late, you may have to go without. Hospitals are for the sick, not those in need of rest.

You see, at about 3:30 in the AM—after countless counting, knee bouncing, and wishing—I was finally able to go unconscious.

At about 4:20 in the same AM the CAN walked in… with a beeping machine…

She wanted to attach this machine to my arm and my finger… and another one that she needed to run across my face… but I can forgive the quest for vital signs at night. It’s not too huge an imposition to deal with when they’re just trying to make sure none of their meds are killing you. Ya know? I like them keeping track.

Still, riddle me this: why must one be weighed in the middle of the night?

On this same very early morning the CNA woke me up to say: “I have to weigh you. Do you want to do that now?”

Well, I was awake anyway—and the gods seemed to want me always weighed at night—so I got up… and got weighed. But I’m still curious: Why at night? It’s always at night. They never schedule your daily weigh-in for morning, or afternoon. It’s always at night.

I suppose someone might say that various factors may fluctuate one’s weight during the day, and that—without a lot of food in your stomach—they’ll get a truer weight on you at four in the morning.

But at four in the morning? Is the plus or minus two-ish pounds really going to make a difference?
 
“Holy cow! He weighs 117, not 115! We have to stop everything now, and put him on a strict diet of tapioca and olive oil!”

Dude, I can't think of a witty caption...

Yes, I weigh about 115… laugh at my skinniness now, punk. When you realize you’re you, you’ll be wishing I weren’t me. >:)

(Or something like that…)

She typed my vital information and weight into the computer then, “You drink a lot of fluids last night?” She asked.

I thought for a moment Last night? Like, four hours ago, last night, or twenty-four hours ago, last night? Why at night? Do I count what I drank during the day? There’s not enough information here!

“Yeah.” I said.

“How many times you pee?”

How many times? Since when? Does she means how many times do I pee on average? Are we still on the last night shtick? Does she mean how many times last night, or how many times SINCE last night? Or are we talking about the last few hours? (When it’s technically morning, and you’re working with the graveyard shift, it can get confusing what is meant by terms like “last night.”)

“Three.”

 

This seemed to satisfy her want of urine intel.

Good enough to stop the questions.

She packed up her loud machines, and exited the room.

. . .

And, now I had to pee.

Great.

Going to the bathroom is no small feat when you have an IV in one arm, attached to a pole (that must be brought with you) and have an oxygen tube you must keep on your face that is plugged into the wall opposite the bathroom.

I guess I was awake anyway…

Let the countless counting, knee bouncing, and wishing begin anew.

Ugh.

As per the usual, go do some evil.

Ciao.

 

~Rafe

I Scared Her ^_^ It Was Fun - plus whatever I ramble on about...

I scared a woman at Target the other day. (No, not THAT day... the other day.)


'Cause I'm creepy like that. >:)


I'll bet you're wondering what happened?


So is Queenie... I told her about it, but not really. I told her that I scared someone, and that she would have to read my blog to find out more. -_- I love to tease.


Okay, so let me see if I can tell it funnily.


First of all, I was out with Queenie and Mom-Lady doing some last minute Christmas shopping. (It was the 23^rd day of our favorite month with Christmas in it.) That's approximately two days before our favorite day with Christmas on it.


Yay, Christmas!

Festive, isn't it?

Ah... don't you love it when bloggers begin a post BEFORE Christmas, and then don't go trying to finish it until almost three weeks later? Me too.

Yay laziness!

Okay, back to my story.

I was Christmas shopping at Target. 

Whilst I was engaged in this activity, I was wearing a very special shirt. Let me explain...

I have back problems. I hunch, and have a bit of scoliosis. (Scoliosis is like deadly back breakage, only less so... it's actually more like a curvy spine... my spine's not straight... no, it's not gay either. Sheesh.) Because of this I sometimes wear an uncomfortable, white shirt under my comfortable, non-white shirt. The uncomfortable, white shirt is very tight, and pulls on my shoulders, and rides up in my armpits. It's supposed to help me stand up straighter. (Leave to doctors to find a way to make uncomfortable underwear "healing.")

Meanwhile, back in the story I'm telling, I was looking at hats. I showed a particularly cool cat to Queenie. She said I looked creepy. (Not sure if that was intended as a compliment or an insult...)

Then Queenie left.

I walked to the edge of the hat aisle, and stood, staring off into space with my face pointed in the general direction of the people walking by in the main aisle. I wasn't going anywhere, because I was busy trying to pull my uncomfortable, white shirt out of my armpits a bit. (Of course, I was doing it so no one would notice... 'cause I'm smooth like that.)

As I was doing this a pretty young lady walked by. I saw her, she saw me. I saw her see me, and she saw me see her. I saw her see me see her, and she saw me see her see me. I saw... etc. ad infinitum.

I didn't really take note of her.

BUT (and this is an important "but") she must have taken note of me. (Keep in mind, I am ravishingly good looking... women can't help but notice me... remember the She-Cop?) Also, I finished suavely picking my pits just as she walked past me. So I stepped out into the main aisle, and proceeded to look for where Queenie went.

Coincidentally, I had stepped out into the main aisle with the pretty young lady just about ten paces ahead of me.


So, to recap, here's the situation:
I look creepy (according to Queenie, anyway). I (while staring off into space) seemingly leer at a pretty young woman as she walks by. She notices me. I fall into step just a few paces behind her... as if... (dare I say it?) ...following her! >:D

Jaws music begins... NOW!

That's when I noticed her glance over her shoulder... at me.

Duuuuh.... dum.

I don't think she was checking me out.


She started walking faster.


She glanced over at me again.


She started walking even faster!


By this time I was grinning. (Probably didn't help my trustworthiness factor...)

"Do you wanna know how I got these scars???"

The next thing I know, she's darted around the corner and is running off into the towels, pillows, and pillow pets section.


Despite the overwhelming urge to follow her, I don't want anyone to call the police. So I stroll along my merry way, never to see the pretty, albeit scared witless, girl again.


>:) I hope I haunt her nightmares...


That is all. ^_^


...Ish.


I do have one request.


If you happen to be the girl I scared... respond to this blog. :D I'm not really a creeper (sometimes...)


Anywhosist... ciao.


And, as always, go do some evil!
~Rafe


P.S. Queenie got me the hat I admired for Christmas. Yay, life! 

In Which a Friendship Begins with Me being Slapped Across the Face

On Tuesday I went to my Alma Mater to attend my first school event as an alumnus. -_- I am very proud of myself for knowing those words.

I was invited back to participate in the county famous "Writer's Corner," where writer's read each other their work, and otherwise blab on about stuff and other stuff and poetry and short stories and not-so-short short stories and songs etc. Basically, get fifty cool people in a room, and let them share their mutual love of words.

Yes.

We're geeks.

Get over it.

I didn't share any excerpts from my blog. That would have been interesting. o.O Thoughts are turning, wheels are flying!

Anyway. You don't really care about that, do you? You just want to see me get slapped.

You're mean like that.

FINE!

I'll begin by introducing Hugglez.

This is Hugglez:

She REALLY IS that bubbly. -_-

Hugglez isn't the one who slapped me.

I think she feels bad when she uses a fly swatter.

Trust me, I make her mad on purpose, and the worst she's done is glare at me.

Anyway... after the county famous Writer's Corner, I decided to hang out with some of the students who AREN'T alumni. These included Hugglez, Indiana (who I knew from when I was still studying there) and Buttons (who I had never met before ever in my entire life even on the moon).

This is Indiana:

Indiana's the unassuming type.

Now, some may say "Hey! Why didn't Indiana get as colorful and crazy a picture as Hugglez did?" Well, the short answer is because I haven't known her as long, and don't know as many personality quirks about her to spice up the painting with. The long answer is that I was tired when I painted this one in the middle of the night, and was just glad my art somewhat resembled a human.

Whatever.

Here's Buttons:

This is the caption... imagine it says something witty.

So, as I said, we were hanging out after the county famous (you do get the joke, don't you? it's a play on "world famous") Writer's Corner.

Hugglez was upset because jerks had been jerky to her.

Buttons and I attempted to comfort her... because we're nice that way.

And, of course, comforting her involved pretend-fighting with her... because we're mean that way.

In the course of the pretend-fight Buttons made to hit her. But, of course, Hugglez just laughed and said "You wouldn't actually hit me and make it hurt."

And  Buttons said "Yeah, I'd feel bad."

"Why?" Hugglez asked.

I thinks... she may have said something else, but whatever. I replied:

"Because there are a couple gentlemen left in the world."

Gentlemen NEVER hit women. (Unless said woman is coming at you with a chainsaw... then it's perfectly acceptable... but Hugglez was chainsaw deprived... so we couldn't hit her.)

Then, to illustrate the point that being gentlemen, who never strike women, isn't necessarily the same thing as being pansies, who never strike anyone, Buttons hit me.

Hard.

In the face.

It looked like this.

Slightly exaggerated.

Okay, okay, okay... fine.

He didn't laugh maniacally, and I didn't fall over and painfully writhe in a pool of my own blood.

Actually it was more of a *slap*tap* no death.

But Hugglez did freak out. She couldn't figure out why he hit me.

What can I say? It's a guy thing.

Buttons and I shook hands, and have been friends ever since... Tuesday.

It's a guy thing.

The End

In which I Run with Scissors to Save Behemoth from Shorts

Did the title pique your interest? (I almost put "peak your interest" which, I suppose, could have made sense if I was asking if the heighth of your interest was reached when reading the title of this post. But I wasn't... so that would have been wrong.)

Where was I?

Oh yeah!

I was running with scissors to save Behemoth from shorts.

But I'm not there yet... First I have to explain something.

Behemoth and I are brothers. He's the cool one.

Behemoth, aka "the cool one."

In fact, if I may be honest, sometimes I hate am annoyed by Behemoth. He's my "little" brother, he's supposed to be LITTLER than me... not three times my size.

How am I supposed to teach my brother anything if I can't beat him up when he makes a mistake?

Answer: I don't. I stay the hell out of his way, is what I do.

But, we're friends. Despite my never being able to teach him anything via the route of physical abuse, we have been endeared to each other in many ways.

One of the events that resulted in our close, brotherly kinship that neither of us is quite willing to call "love" I will endeavor to relate to you here.

It is an episode of our mutual lives that I like to call:

In which I Run with Scissors to Save Behemoth from Shorts

But you knew that already.

Well, you should know that, despite Behemoth being the "cool" one, as youngsters neither of us kept up with the most recent fashion trends. Actually, whenever possible, we would use last year's clothes!!!!

Okay, yeah, I still do that.

So what?

I'mma geek, I can if I want. -_-

Moving on... One spring day we were hauling out last summer's clothes to see what still fit and what was garbajo. (That's pronounced Garr-Bay-Hoe... my word for "garbage" ... and it has nothing to do with Jorge Garbajosa, who I didn't even know existed until I did a google on "garbajo" to make sure it wasn't slang for something horrible like baby-panda-slapping or anything like that that has no place in my blog.)

It wasn't long before Behemoth found himself by a tub of clothes, looking for anything he could salvage.

Behemoth and the Clothes, happy together in the living room.

As he dug through the box/tub thingamajig, he found a pair of shorts.

"I remember these!" He said, "I wore these every day last summer!"

The saddest part about his exclamation is that (at that time he was VERY young) he may very well have wore them every single day last summer. :\ Either that or the fact that he was surprised he remembered a garment from a mere nine months ago. How bad WAS his memory?

Sorry... I'm digressing again...

The important thing is that Behemoth found his shorts.

He danced off to the bathroom to try them on, and see if they still fit.

Okay, I lie. He didn't "dance" off to the bathroom. Even then he was too cool to "dance off to the bathroom."

I think it's one of the immutable laws of nature that no one can simultaneously be cool and "dance off to the bathroom." Though, one can be a geek and "skip to their loo," which I do on a fairly frequent basis.

Anyway. I continued searching for good clothes.

Wow! I LOVE these things!

After a decent amount of time, I forgot about Behemoth, and didn't realize that he had never come back from the bathroom.

Non-returnance (it's a neology, run with it) from the bathroom bodes only for evil.

Shortly thereafter I heard a small voice from the direction of the lavatory.

"Rafe... hey, Rafe!"

"Yeah?" I answered.

"You remember those shorts?"

"Yeah."

"Well..." He paused. He gulped, "Well, I got them On."

I blinked a couple of times.

"You don't know how sorry I am for you right now."

Talk about TIGHTY whities... only the shorts weren't white... but you get the idea.

"Rafe, can you get me scissors or something, I just gotta get these off."

"Yes! I shall assist ye, my too big little brother!"

I darted off. I got scissors. I darted back.

Remarkably, Jamaal was there.

"Um, Rafe... what are you doing?" She asked.

"I'm running with scissors to save behemoth from his shorts!" I shouted.

"What?" She took a sip of her soda.


*Sigh* I sighed. I quickly explained the horrible situation in which Behemoth had found himself.


"Okay," She looked concerned, "Just make sure he's careful what he cuts..."


"Oh, yeah..."

I think we suddenly shared a mutual horrible thought.

Our horrible thought.

Thankfully, for everyone involved, he did NOT cut anything important.

The shorts became garbajo, Behemoth became a big, cool, deep-voiced man, and all the girls love him. (I'm actually kind of jealous...)

Anywho... that's... that.

Go do some evil!

Ciao!

~Rafe

In Which I Play a Zombie, Get Eye Molested, and Read a Classic **UPDATED** **TWICE**

In an as of yet unnamed epic **Now called "Zombie Tuesday"** (that may or may not be released to YouTube) I play the coolest freaking zombie EVER!

The producer, who will be known as Queenie, is a fickle beast, and the star of the show. If she decides it's not the stupidest piece of crap ever put on film, and decides not to cut me wholly from the show, I may be able to let you peoplez see it.

It's gonna be awesome. Here's some promotional pics I drew:

The coolest zombie you'll ever "meat."

The killer of the coolest zombie you'll ever "meat."

I don't know the name of the show, **when I wrote this** or I would have put it on the promo pics somewhere.

Anyway, how did this come about? How did the amazing Master Rafe become entoiled with amateur filmmakers of YouTube repute, and cast as, of all things, the coolest zombie you're ever going to meet?

Basically they interrupted my movie time and said "Come out here and help us." And so... I went. At first they told me that I was going to play a dead body that Queenie was going to throw at the zombie. I questioned the feasibility of throwing me anywhere, and they assured me, because of my epically skinny skinniness, they would have no trouble throwing me. Still, when I reached the set, they said I had been recast.

"You're going to be a zombie now. We need you to be dead and then get up." Said the director, who you may remember as the villainous honker, Evic.

Still enjoys honking.

Oops... I made it a mistake. The Third Woman on the set was unacknowledged. Despite her addition to the film, my blog, and the general awesomeness that became Zombie Tuesday, I forgot her. In my defense, I was playing dead most of the time she was in the garage with me. Still, below is a pic of the third woman, who shall be known as "Jamaal," in honor of her unhealthy obsession with the KC running back. I'm sure she'll appear again in my blogs. She seems to run into me (while waving her arm in a chopping motion) quite often. I don't think it's a friendly greeting.

I looked around the set for a moment. I spied a pool table.

I like pool.

"Can I be dead on the pool table?" I asked.
"Sure." She answered.

So I died on the pool table.

I would DIE for pool! >:O

I lay there for quite some time.
Even longer than necessary actually.

You see, they didn't just have me lie there, get up, chase Queenie and go home. I had to lie there in a hot garage with no AC or fans and be dead while a whole different scene was played out. At the END of the scene I got up and chased Queenie.

At one point they asked if I was okay. I said "I'm sweating into my eyes, and it stings."

The next thing I knew Queenie was vigorously rubbing my eyeballs with a paper towel.

AUGH!!! I screamed, "Now I've been eye molested!"

Finally it came my turn to attack her.

By this time I was hot, tired (from lying there) and in pain. I thought what the hey? I'm gonna get my day in the sun. I took a "sit up, chase her, die" scene and turned it into, "sit up, taste your own blood, chase her around the pool table, get stabbed with a pool cue, break the cue off in my stomach, continue chasing, get knocked over the head, shot through the mouth, die, get up again, chase some more, get caught in a door, try to eat my own arm, smash my own head in the door" scene.

To put it lightly, I ad libbed a bit.

Both the director and producer kept laughing and kept shooting.

Evic said they'd probably keep it all in there. We'll see. It was fun, anyway. **It's epically in there!!!**

I'll tell you when (if) it gets on YouTube.

Pride and Prejudice

In related news (related via the work of Seth Grahame-Smith) I am reading Pride and Prejudice, by Jane Austen. I have to say I was surprised with the brilliance and readability of her prose. I found it much akin to that of Agatha Christie's. -_- I believe I will finish it.

Ciao!

And, as always, Go do some evil!

~Rafe

Quick--Run With Me, Friend, Towards the Danger!

Many of you who are MST3K fans will know that the title of this post is a quote from "Cave Dwellers." Any of you who know what MST3K IS will know that it was a very funny quip.
But we're not here to talk about MST3K, and for someone who's not here to discuss MST3K, I sure am discussing MST3K a lot.

Moving on...

Once upon a time there was a friend of mine who, though she thought she was a princess, was more akin to a wicked witch named Satchel. :) Even though she probably doesn't practice witchcraft, we'll STILL call her Satchel.

Satchel, as it were, had three boys who we will call, from oldest to youngest, Jose, Jimp, and Lex. (These three boys are destined to be my minions... as soon as they're old enough to understand what it is minions do.)

One day after church (where she was pretending to be holy) Satchel was leading her three boys home. They live fairly close to church, so they walk. (I don't live far from church either, and I would walk but for the fact that I'm lazy.)

The scene was one of peace and tranquility. It looked like this:

"Hmm... Hmm... Hmm... I'mma just walking home..."

Then, because my sister, Evic, is (almost) as evil as I am, she drove up real close behind the happy little family (we were in the church's parking lot) and did what any God fearing American would do.

She honked the horn.

Satchel looked back at us and smiled a pleasant, "hello" type of smile.

This was not Jimp's reaction.

Jimp flipped.

After taking one look at the looming death car behind him, the scene of peace and tranquility became anything but.

It became this:



You gotta love Jimp's reflexes though. I don't think a pouncing lioness could have caught the little guy. As he waddled away at record breaking speeds, I could almost hear his thoughts.

"Must... escape... car... QUICKLY! Run into the oncoming TRAFFIC!" <--(This is what the title's referring to... in case you missed it.)
Run to the road to escape cars? Gotta love children's logic.

Luckily for everyone involved, mothers are faster than pouncing lionesses, and Satchel reached Jimp before the traffic did. Then she shot Evic a look of "Gee, thanks for trying to kill my son."

Then she smiled again...

And it was this last smile that made me question her "I'm a saint" ploy.

Would a saint smile after their son nearly became the main dish at roadkill cafe?

Who knows?


Here's something I think I meant to post a long time ago:

Flashes in the Dark Ages
(Did I post this one already?):
Before Thomas Edison invented the light bulb, great ideas manifested themselves as gas-burning lamps. This was dangerous due to the many dullards who could start the thinking process, but not quite ignite the gas that emanated from above their heads. It's true. Many would-be great innovators lost their heads in massive fireballs in those days because of an overabundance of mere idiots. (In most cases the idiots were blown away too, so it all came out in the wash.) Because of the relatively frequent nature of this phenomenon, this era of history is often referred to as the "Flashes in the Dark Ages."

It's not as funny after the Jimp and Satchel story...

...oh well...

Ciao!

And, as always, go do some evil!

~Rafe

Rafe and Mae and the Franken-Fan **UPDATED**

Mae may not wish to be acknowledged by her real name; Mae may not wish it known that she fraternizes with me at all. So, know that "Mae" is not Mae's real name. And, although I do know a Mae--though Mae would be that Mae's middle name--I do not want you to assume that Mae may actually be Mae's real name. It is not. It is a pseudonym. (Which, coincidentally, is today's word of the day.)

Pseudonym: v. to alter or embellish the truth so as not to be associated with Rafe.

We may now begin.

Mae and I had been discussing cluttered desks, homework, and the Pope (whom she would probably not clean for) when--somehow--we got on the topic of cleaning fans. (Because we have fascinating conversations.) To be clear, we were not discussing fans that do the cleaning, but the cleaning of fans. Apparently she was entertained by this.

Now, I know what you're all thinking: "Did he use 'whom' correctly?" I believe I did. However, if I didn't... shut up.

Some of you are probably also wondering how one goes about making cleaning fans an entertaining topic of conversation. I assure you, it is no easy task. One must begin preparing for the conversation literally weeks in advance.

Sinful Fan.

Here's how it goes:

Rafe is bored and suffering from insomnia.
Rafe stares hard at fan.
Fan is dirty.
Fan should not be dirty.
Rafe gets bright idea.
"I shall clean Fan!" Rafe thinks.
Rafe tries.
Rafe fails.
Epically.
Fan is dirty on the inside.
(Like sin, only made up more of dust and grime than moral corruption.)
Rafe cannot reach Fan's equivalent of moral corruption.

--At this point my notes say "Write message to C.W."--In case anyone was worried. I have sent the message.

Rafe gets another bright idea.
"I will disassemble Fan!"
Rafe goes on epic search for screwdriver.
Rafe fails at epic search for screwdriver.
Rafe finds pocket knife with screwdriver.
Pocket knife fails.
Rafe curses the Swiss and all they stand for.
Rafe, while giving up, accidentally spies screwdriver atop the  pantry.
Rafe goes "WTF? Who put that up there?"
Rafe uses it anyway.
Rafe disassembles fan.
Rafe tries to clean fan.
Rafe (can you guess?) fails.
Rafe needs pressure steamer.
Rafe needs to not be doing this on his desk in his bedroom if he is to use a pressure steamer to clean Fan.
Rafe sighs.
*Sigh*
Rafe goes to bed, leaving disassembled dirty fan on his desk.

Many weeks pass.

Rafe talks to Mae about his fan.
Mae is (for whatever reason) entertained.
Rafe goes home and, suffering from insomnia again (possibly due to two lattes drunk late in the evening) Rafe reassembles fan.
Rafe wonders "Why are there all these pieces left over? Oh well... they probably weren't important anyway..."
Rafe plugs in Fan... then screams "It--It's alive! It's ALIVE!" <--I totally left that out before. THE WHOLE FRANKEN-FAN BIT!!!
Rafe never cleaned fan.
Rafe is failure.
The next day Rafe finds pressure steamer.
FML.

You see? It all makes sense now... to someone. I hope. Somewhere...

This next portion is entitle: CRYING IS FOR LOSERS

Well I've always said I was evil, but few seem to believe me. Tell me, could anything BUT an evil mind even think up such an outrageous idea? Read on, and thank God that this is only a (very sick) joke...

This is what a sadistic mind comes up with when it's half asleep... don't judge... well, okay, you can judge... but don't hurt me...

This TV show is called "A$$holes" "Mean for the Money" or "Light Child Abuse"

Four adults and one child are competing for cash and other prizes.

The four adults take turns saying horrible things to the child, the first to make the child cry wins. If the child can stand a set time limit without crying, (s)he wins the money.

There are themes (where what the adults say has to revolve around a central idea) comeback prizes (where the child gets money for witty comebacks) and even adult v. adult bonus rounds where the studio audience decides who said the nastier things. We even have bonus shows where high scoring children come back to face off against each other.

Of course, after two successful seasons, despite immense popularity (among sadists, masochists, and schadenfreude specialists) the show was cancelled due to massive complaints concerning (not cruelty, but) cheating.

Apparently some of the adults were sneaking in tear gas in small sprayers to cause the children to cry prematurely; parents, on the other hand, were often having their child's tear ducts surgically removed.

After determining that anyone who would submit to this show was some kind of moron, yet believing that even volunteers for suffering needed to be protected, a new organization was founded to prevent such shows from airing again: the SPCI or the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Idiots.

I hope you enjoyed, maybe, whatever.

Happy Birthday MR! (You know who you are... if you're not stupid.)

Ciao!

And, as always, Go do some evil!

~Master Rafe

"God doesn't really need to punish us. We're so very busy punishing ourselves." ~from The Moving Finger, by Agatha Christie.