The Legend of the Spider of Death (AKA "Can you find the iguana?")

Are you a sufferer of arachnophobia?

I am.

It sucks more than a vacuum cleaner.

And that’s a lot.

One night I was in my room, sitting in bed, and enjoying writing a story about someone or something or whatever. Pen in hand, tea by my side, paper in front of me… *ah* …the only thing that could have made it better is if the tea was soda and the pen was candy… and the paper a movie starring Eddie Izzard, Ed Helms and Will Smith. Let’s throw Keisha Castle-Hughes and Karen Gillan in there for balance.

(Of course I would still wanting to be writing said movie, and would need at least a $100,000,001.82 budget. I’m not picky.)

This film would be entitled: “Snow White Powder and the Seven Dealers” it would win all kinds of awards (including “Coolest Writer”) and make me famous.

Me getting famous:

While I was trying to get famous, I innocently glanced at the floor.

*Was that movement?*

I glanced again (this time not so innocently)…

*GASP!* IT WAS MOVEMENT!

It was a spider…

…of death.

But it wasn’t just ANY spider of death. This was, I shit you not, the biggest, baddest, baby-eatin’est son of an eight-legged, creepy, crawly, she-devil I have EVER seen in my entire life.

Then it began running towards me.

Now, let me take a moment to say that I know I suffer from arachnophobia. I know that what I actually saw was probably something like this:

But that knowledge doesn’t help me.

It doesn’t help me one bit.

What I SAW, What I remember seeing, what has been seared with a hot-iron into my memory FOREVER looked like this:

I was terrified.

I was Petrified.

Mortified.

Stupefied.

By a spider.

That was charging me.

I jumped up.

And I screamed.

Like a girl.

And it ran under my bed.

At the sound of my heart exploding, Behemoth, my brother—who was asleep in his bed across the room, woke up… ish.

He (kind of) opened his eyes and (sort of) looked to see why I was screaming like a banshee.

Of course, by this point, I was merely hyperventilating.

So he did this:

And then he went back to sleep.

I was (for all intents and purposes) alone in my room with a giant, man-eating demon sent straight from the bowels of HELL to torment me for my SINS!

There was a spider in there too.

Okay, I kid…

…the spider WAS the demon.

Somehow (I don’t remember exactly how) I escaped the bedroom with my life.

I was determined(ish) to defeat this atrocity of creation, and reclaim my right as the ONLY ONE who could hide under my bed.

But I needed to find something to aid me in my quest.

I went looking for a flashlight.

I couldn’t find the bloody flashlight.

Damn.

I stumbled on an electric lantern.

After I got up again, I took it into my room and tried to peer under the bed. This is difficult to do when you refuse to get closer than ten feet from the bed in question. (I wasn’t going to stick my face down there for it to feast on!) Luckily my bed is raised a bit high off the ground, and none of my blankets were hanging down. So I could see decently well as I looked for the beast below.

I didn’t find it.

The next day my mother brought a flashlight in from the truck.

FML

I still couldn’t find it.

Actually, I never found it.

To this day a demon-possessed spider dwells in my room… and I sleep on the couch.

Did you find the iguana?

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.