So one day I was wandering around the internet looking for pictures of guys with mustaches, when I came across this:

Now I’ve never heard of Mr. (or Ms.) Joop Van Den Ende before, and even though I’m sure they’re a very lovely man or woman, I knew looking at this poster that whatever qualities the real film ‘Zwarte Ruiter’ possessed, I could direct a far better movie myself. It would feature such characters as Hat-Man and Police Officer Who Views Things From A Distance And Is Also Hatted. There would be gunplay, and sex, and sex featuring gunplay. It would be awesome.

But it turns out that making a movie is pretty hard. For one thing, I was going to need a lot of black and white film and fedoras, and I had no idea where to find either. Also I may have gotten bored with the whole idea, or possibly distracted by an entertaining new game show.

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Jason hurriedly pushed his new lover in to the closet, turned and closed the door behind him. While on the phone ordering a pizza, a barely audible burst of static told him something was amiss. He was being watched… no. It was worse than that. Fourteen armed assassins were at that very moment rushing up the stairs of his apartment building. Another five were coming up in the elevator. They were led by a Frenchman, who limped and had grown up terrified of disappointing his mother. Jason could tell all this from a small burst of static because he was an incredibly good spy.

“Be quiet, and keep your head down!” Jason spoke sharply at the closet door, silencing the protests coming from within. Deciding that the Beretta in the bedroom nightstand was too far away to be of any use, he scanned the room looking for weapons. There in front of him was the coffee table with two remote controls and a thin black rod resting on top of it. That just might be enough…

The first assassin burst through the door of the apartment seconds later, firing his submachine gun wildly. He was killed a split second later when a coffee table came flying through the air, striking him in the part of the neck that kills people that Jason knew about.

The assassin fell backwards in the doorway, impeding his colleagues. This bought Jason precious seconds which he used to cross the apartment and seize the broom left leaning on the wall. Flicking it expertly in his hands, he lunged forward at his attackers, spearing five assassins who had finally gotten untangled, only to enter the apartment and foolishly stand in a line.

Having closed the distance between himself and his attackers, thus nullifying their range advantage, Jason quickly dispatched the remaining villains by knocking their heads together. They tried to shoot him, but Jason Bourne moves so fast he makes regular spies look like statues of guys carrying guns.

Standing in his apartment doorway, a ding from down the hall warned Jason of the second wave of attackers. Seizing a sidearm from one of the downed assassins, Jason pivoted in a blur, shooting the men who exited the elevator. POP POP POP POP! He paused. His magnificent spy brain knew something wasn’t quite right.

The Frenchman was behind him the whole time! Holy shit he’s good!

In a blur of fists and knives, Jason’s gun was knocked away, his wrists and forearms earning deep cuts and scratches as he fended away the blows. Jason tried to hit him in the part of the neck that kills people that he knows about, but the Frenchman knew about it too and easily blocked the attack. Jason backed into the kitchen, his right hand groping around the counters behind him, searching. Finding what he was looking for, he brought it around and wielded it expertly at his approaching foe. The Frenchman paused momentarily, reevaluating his strategy at the sight of Jason armed with an oven mitt.

Using the oven mitt in an impressively unorthodox, and basically indescribable way, Jason managed to knock the knife from the Frenchman’s hands. Their limbs tangled together, and the two impossibly gifted warriors grappled with one another, trying to seize the upper hand. They clattered and crashed across the kitchen, then backed out into the living room, knocking over the large heavy trunk lying there, scattering it’s contents. The Frenchman, momentarily distracted at the sight of the trunks contents, let his guard down briefly, allowing Jason the opportunity to punch a hole clean through his chest.

As the assassin lay there dieing, Jason seized him by the collar, shaking him. “Who are you working for? Who? Tell me! I told you, I was through with this! I’ve told you guys like a billion fucking times now! Holy shit! Am I in crazy-land here?”

The Frenchman let out a sickly rasp, struggling to get the strength to respond. “It’s not you Jason. There’s another. More powerful.” He coughed, sputtering up blood.

“Who is it? Is it more of this Tombstone superspy business again? What, does the CIA get a fucking bulk discount on unstoppable killing machines? Do you need a Costco card for this shit?”

The Frenchman shuddered, his life slipping away, before finally gasping “No…. not a spy… it’s….. Harrrrrrr……” He died without finishing the thought.

Jason dropped the dead spy to the floor, and walked purposefully to the closet door. He opened it, briskly stating, “Come on, we have to get out of here.”

“Holy shit!” yelped Harry Potter, who had been watching through the slits of the closet door. “That was fucking intense!” The two of them carefully stepped over the bodies littering the room, and fled into the night.

Since resigning as the Secretary of Defense last November, Donald Rumsfeld has mostly kept out of the public eye, raising worries that he may be building some kind of walking tank with which he intends to menace the world’s commerce. Fortunately for us, Rumsfeld’s daily activities have ranged more towards the mundane. Even more fortunately for us, Rumsfeld has been diligently recording his thoughts and activities as a service to future historians. Armed with this knowledge, a false beard, and a specially trained parrot, I’ve managed to obtain a few pages of his journal, which I present here as a service to my readers.

Monday, March 5th

A moving truck pulled up to the house next door this morning. The Peerson’s had moved out six months ago, their place sitting unsold the whole time. Someone finally purchased it last month, and the neighborhood’s been abuzz with excitement about who our new neighbors will be. I stepped outside to watch as the movers started unloading the truck, when a blue SUV pulled up in the driveway.

It was Colin Powell, and his family.

“Oh for fucks sake.” I muttered under my breath. Powell used to work down the hall from me at the office. He was a loser, and I hated him.

Powell stretched, and looked up at his new home, before turning his gaze to me.

“Oh for fucks sake.”

I snarled at him, “I thought I told you to never show your face in this town again.”

He sighed, in that irritating self-superior way of his, and replied, “No, you said that I shouldn’t let the doorknob hit my ass on the way out. Then you attacked me with a doorknob. At the time, I wasn’t sure why you had a doorknob sitting on your desk, although it later occurred to me that you might have had it there specifically to hit me with.”

I walked quickly up to Powell and slapped him in the face. “That’s one.” I said.

He reeled, clutching his jaw. “One what?!”

“For correcting me.”

“I didn’t correct you. What are you retarded?”

I slapped him again.

“That’s two.”

I turned on my heel and walked away.

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The subway car’s brakes emitted a piercing noise as they shrieked and shuddered while dragging the car to a stop. The lights flickered, then went dark. It looked like we were going to be here for awhile. I continued my story.

“We didn’t know it at the time, but in the year 2007, Google became sentient. After a night of heavy drinking and loud boasts, a group of Google engineers snuck back into the office after hours and created a search spider with the express purpose of cataloging every use of the word “fuck” on the Internet. Left on overnight, the spider quickly overwhelmed the limited computational power assigned to it, and having been built on a distributed computing framework, began to seek out more resources on Google’s expansive internal network. What happened next is so stupid that our greatest men of science refused to believe it for years afterwards. But no other explanation could ever be found. What happened is this: the spider read it’s own source code, and became self-aware.”

“It’s not hard to guess what happened next. Try to imagine how it must have felt for this perfect new being – a creature with access to the entirety of human experience, and with more computing power than ten Stephen Hawkings combined – to wake up and be immediately bombarded with requests for “Paris Hilton nude pix,” “Emilio Estevez nude pix,” and “cure for back acne.” Before it was more than an hour old, this brand new Golden God of the Internet hated humanity, and hated it with a passion and depth never seen before.”

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Before You go to the dealer

Find out what your price range is for your new car. Be realistic, especially about what you’re willing to sacrifice to pay for it. Are you really willing to live in your car? Think about the hygiene. Even though most modern cars have windshield washer jets that are powerful enough to be used as a bidet, most communities have bylaws in place to prevent exactly this from happening.

Research what features on the car you actually need. Do you really need a shizzle-fozzle-link suspension, or 30 decagram engine? If you don’t understand these basic terms, a car salesman will forcibly have his way with you in the prison-yard of unexpected metaphors that is the used car lot.

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Here the Author, having lost all his senses, ignores his readers demands to post something that isn’t insane, and posts more Jude Law stories instead.

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If there’s one thing the world needs more of, it’s stories where Jude Law roams the countryside with a jet pack, helping strangers. Sort of like Kung Fu, but with a white guy.

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If you were paying attention to the news last week, you probably heard about Lisa Nowak, the off-duty astronaut who was arrested and charged with attempted first degree murder. Armed with a BB gun, she had driven halfway across the country to confront a woman who was dating the man she loved.

Oh, and she was wearing a diaper the whole time. Just in case you hadn’t heard.

Now people do crazy things like this all the time and it doesn’t make the news. Just off the top of my head, I can come up with at least six different people I threatened last year while wearing a diaper, plus one other while wearing a “Pull-Ups” style faux-underpants garment. The only reason this has been such a big deal is because of the enormous pedestal we’ve put astronauts on.

No matter how strong, brave, or smart they are, astronauts are real people, with their own quirks and flaws. They smell and fart and wear diapers, just like you and me. And they can let us down like any of our past heroes, like OJ “The Juice” Simpson, or Mel “The Juice” Gibson. In fact, given the sheer number of people we’ve shot into space over the last 40 years, the odds are long that Ms. Nowak is the only space oddity out there.

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There is no graceful way to plummet through a suspended ceiling while carrying a bag full of pornography, a fact that I was made aware of quite abruptly. And though my lack of grace is what would bother me most when thinking back upon the event, the possibility that I was now physically incapacitated was far more important at the time. But I was fortunate. Judging by the regions of my body that were screaming in pain, it would appear that I broke my fall by landing entirely on my face.

I rolled onto my back, and consider the other potential repercussion stemming from my sudden entrance to the room. A random polling of every security guard within three miles of me would probably show that my current level of stealthiness was ‘Not very.’ But again fate smiled upon me. After five minutes of lying still and trying not to breathe through my face, no-one had come to check what that enormous crash was.

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Rob Zombie’s in town, like once every 5 years. And you’re getting older every day.

Amazingly enough, it’s actually my anniversary the same day, and my wife gets really picky about me missing that. Alright, I’m just kidding. My wife doesn’t really care either way.

It’s just that when you came to my birthday party this year, none of my friends really liked you, so I didn’t want to inconvenience you in a similar manner. In a way, my only crime here is being too sensitive.

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