To Answer Stupid Questions and Bid a Fond Farewell

It’s a well-known fact that I have an encyclopedic knowledge of painfully useless crap (for example, SPAM is made from ground pork shoulder, not porcine rectal tumors and gelatinized chicken sperm as some people have suggested). My capacity for asinine information and brilliant problem-solving abilities are so well known that I sometimes get random e-mails from people, asking me stupid questions. Since I’m really busy preparing to move across the state for a job and have no time to write something new, I figured I would share a few stupid questions I’ve received, along with my cordial responses. One thing I don’t know, however, is why all these slack-jawed, mouth-breathing retards keep e-mailing me their questions when they could just as easily look this shit up for themselves online. I don’t want to enable people to continue being lazy, but it’s just my nature to help others.

Dude, what’s the deal with Chairman Kaga from Iron Chef? Is he, like, a real guy, or just acting and shit?

Jack M. Duly

Yes, Chairman Kaga is a real guy. He became a Japanese celebrity when his Elton John impersonation and lipsynced musical act was featured on the variety show Super Lucky Happy Fun Time Smiling Sparkling Go-Go Bonanza. This moderate amount of fame led Kaga to become the ultra-cool spokesperson for the “Bedazzler” in Japan. His amazing, sparkly outfits helped increase the Bedazzler’s sales in Tokyo by 3000%. Seeking further artistic freedom, he resigned as spokesperson and was replaced by an effeminate bulimic man in a raccoon costume. This gave Kaga the time to become Japan’s number one Liberace impersonator, which is how he made the bulk of his massive fortune.

At the height of his success, he was so wealthy he had a home custom built for him on the top of Mt. Fuji. This home is legendary for having its own bank (dubbed “Rotta Money Kaga Roomaru Bring-Bring Banku Desu” by the media in Japan). This life of solitude and insufficient flamboyance prompted Kaga to build Kitchen Stadium and start the magnificent television show, Iron Chef. The rest, as the cliché goes, is history.

Unfortunately, when Iron Chef ended in Japan, it was due to Kaga’s liver--rich and bloated after 300-plus episodes of eating fancy food on the show--being mistaken for the theme ingredient and cooked into a three-course French meal by Iron Chef Sakai on the final unaired episode of the show, not diminished ratings.

Kaga’s legacy has been carried on by his nephew on Iron Chef America. On this new version of the show, Kaga’s nephew (who is only one-sixteenth Japanese and previously stared in the big-budget Hollywood hit movie, Double Dragon) honors his uncle by eating a bunch of rich food and backflipping around like a ninja squirrel on amphetamines.

Mr. Mordread Lycanthrope,

Someone told me one time that alcohol played an important part of history. You seem to drink a lot, so is that true? The history thing I mean. Thanks.

Skippy Putnam

Well, first of all, alcohol has played an important role in my personal history. Ever since my dad got a sexy nurse to put Manischewitz wine on my freshly circumcised baby pecker, alcohol has been my guide on the road to badass. When I was teething, my mother put bourbon in my bottle to shut me up—that’s when I grew my first chest hair. I learned how to drink heavily in junior high, and by my first year of high school, I was guzzling American whiskey and beating up the football team. In fact, if it weren’t for alcohol, I never would have gotten drunk enough to kick my drunken father’s ass. (Editor’s Note: This happened shortly before Morb’s father burned the house down trying to sear his cheating wife’s lady lunchmeat [see: vagina] shut with a superheated machete blade.)

Secondly, people around the world have been drinking various kinds of booze for thousands of years. It goes without saying that the consumption of alcohol has changed history countless times. For example, the Great Pyramid was supposed to be a cube, but the architect got all messed up on Nile Bill’s Wild-Crocodile Brew and screwed up the blueprints; this led to the creation of one of mankind’s greatest architectural achievements.

Alcohol has always been at least partially responsible for men standing up, throwing caution to the wind, and accomplishing great things. I believe it was George Washington who, after polishing off his sixth mug of ale, said, “Buuuurrrrrpppp! Hey, guys! England’s being a dick, let’s kick his ass!” He then sketched out a crude drawing of his butt and sent it to the king of England, starting the American War of Independence.

If my neighbor Scooter hadn’t gotten so drunk on cigarette-butt-filtered Jacuzzi gin, he never would have tried to blow out the fire his meth lab started when it exploded (R.I.P. Scooter). And if it weren’t for alcohol, Bill Fool never would have attempted to take a piss on Lars Ulrich from Metallica at a bar in Houston. Anyway, that’s the short answer. If you want a more in-depth response, send a case of Evan Williams Kentucky Whiskey to my cave, and pray that I don’t get drunk and try to kick your ass for asking questions in a lispy, nancy-boy voice.

Hey asshole! I think ur the guy that fucked up my car. Was it you? What the hell u fuckin prick?

Name Withheld

It wasn’t me, dude. Why would I run around in the middle of the night, wearing a ninja costume with a superman cape, kicking in people’s windshields, and leaving animal carcasses piled up in the passenger seats? That’s just not something I would do. I also wouldn’t drop my lucky Hello Kitty cigarette lighter in your backseat when I wasn’t throwing up in one of your cup holders. Incidentally, I’d be willing to take any Hello Kitty cigarette lighters you may have found on your property.

Hiya Morb,

My parents are making me see a shrink because I keep teabagging the cat. I’m nervous about it. What happens to you when you see a shrink?

Love,
Timmy Sanchez VIII

Basically, you have to lay on a couch like a gay Roman while some jackass in a tweed vest draws pictures of you naked on his legal pad. I had a psychology class in college, and, yes, that’s all shrinks actually do.

Hey, Morb, tell him that psychologists and psychiatrists can help you face your problems. Tell him that they’re just there to help you in any way they can, without judging you.

Shut the fuck up, Magnanimous Misanthrope, you wuss.

But, Morb, Timmy has reached out to you. The least you could do is reassure him a little.

I’m not here to make timid little perverts feel better about getting brainraped by educated perverts because their parents are tired of paying to abort the housecat’s human/feline-hybrids. And what the hell are you even doing here? I thought Murderous Misanthrope cut your guts out with a butterfly knife.

He did, and it really hurt. But Miraculous Misanthrope brought me back.

That holier-than-thou douchebag brought you back again? Jeez, I will be so thrilled when I figure out a way to get rid of all you idiots.

Hi y’all

I done everything I could to get attention. I shaved my head, had some kids, did some stupid shit with those kids, flashed my vadge a few times, et al y’all. No one cares any more tho. What can I do to get people to pay attention to me forever y’all?

xxxooo
B.S.

I tell you the same goddamn thing every time you send me this question.

There you have it, folks. I may not be as wise as King Solomon or Al Bundy, but I think I did alright answering those questions anyway.

As I mentioned earlier, I’m in the process of relocating in order to take a sweet new job. Since I have to start the job before I'm able to find a place to live, I’ll be staying in a motel for a few weeks. It’s not the fanciest motel, but they’re giving me a really good deal because I’m the first person ever to stay there without paying by the hour. That reminds me, I better cover that room in, like, three layers of plastic tarp. I’ll probably be blogging even less than usual, but I’ll be back once I’m living in a place with an internet connection instead of a heart-shaped bed and matching Spanish Fly dispenser.

Also, since I’ve lived in San Diego all my life, moving 500 miles away makes me feel a little sentimental (until I remember how much I hate every person in this town). Throughout history, people have commemorated such journeys by breaking champagne bottles on ships and reciting poetry that someone else wrote. I don’t care much for poetry, and the boat I bought from a crackhead for three dollars caught on fire the other night. I will now end this, the final post from my hometown, with a completely unrelated, translated haiku by the totally awesome Japanese poet Basho.

O bush warblers!

Now you’ve shit all over

my rice cake on the porch