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.

In the end I only managed to come up with a bio for the protagonist and a couple storyboards.

John Fistpump

John Fistpump is a Private Detective with an agency set up in Mystery City. At the beginning of the film, very little is known about Fistpump, other than the fact that he is a Private Detective. It is evident that he has an extremely mysterious and enigmatic past, a past that is in some way related to the hat which is constantly perched on his head, even while sleeping. But this past will only be revealed in pieces as the story unfolds.

Many years ago, in what he refers to as his ‘previous life,’ he was a police officer. He was forced to leave the police force prematurely due to his poor attitude, particularly his habit of drinking during briefings and while showering. Also, he shot a kid.

With no job, and now a pariah in his own town (the child he shot was a heavy favourite in the next Mystery County Spelling Bee), Fistpump slips into a drunken spiral of despair. After months of this, when he is both figuratively and literally lying in the gutter, Fistpump is approached by a mysterious Gypsy haberdasher with an eye for a quick buck. The haberdasher, after hearing Fistpump’s tales of woe, convinces him that he can turn his life around by donning the mysterious Hat of Shame. Despite being in a drunken stupor, Fistpump still has a cop’s ear for sniffing out a scam, and springs to his feat to pound the Gypsy to death with his bare fists. The feel of another man’s blood on his hands reawakens Fistpump’s passion for police work, and he vows on the spot that he will become a private detective. As a symbol of his new purpose, he takes a stylish fedora that the gypsy was trying to pawn on him, and christens it The Hat of The Demolished Gypsy. A new chapter in John Fistpumps life has just begun.

The following storyboards depict a scene about two thirds of the way through the film, when Fistpump is chasing the villain who has escaped with Lincoln’s Beard.

“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.

Thursday, March 8th

According to Joyce, who’s been chatting to Powell’s missus, Powell and his family moved in next door because he’s just accepted a consulting job at a think tank a few miles away. He evidently wasn’t aware that we lived next door and bitterly hate him. Joyce started to observe that technically ‘we’ don’t bitterly hate him, seeing as she has no problem with him whatsoever, but by that point I had stormed away from the breakfast table, leaving my Fruit Roll-Up untouched.

Later I told her about the cabinet meetings we used to have, where Dick Cheney would repeatedly table a motion for a ‘Show of hands for everyone who thinks Powell has a vagina.’

“Everyone put up their hands! Don’t you see? Don’t you see what a wiener he is, and why you should hate him?” I interrogated Joyce.

“He’s not a wiener Don. He’s a very nice man.”

“No he’s not. He has a vagina. Men don’t have vaginas. We’ve talked about this.”

Sunday, March 11th

Powell called the house today, and asked if I shit in his yard last night. I was ready for his call, as in fact I had shit in his yard last night. Prepared, and hoping to catch him off guard, I quickly responded “AVaginaSaysWhat?”

Powell’s evidently lost a step in his old age, and fell neatly for my verbal gambit, replying “What?” before catching himself.

“BWAHAHAHHAHAHHHHHAHHAHHAHHA HAHH HAHHA HA HA!” I cackled.

“You child. I can’t believe you. You didn’t even pronounce it properly. It doesn’t count if you don’t enunciate it properly. There was no way for me to tell what you’re saying.”

“HA-HA HA HA! You keep saying it!”

“Saying what?”

“BWHAHAHAHAHAHHAHHAHAHA HAH AHAHA HA HA!”

Wednesday, March 14th

A knock on the door this afternoon revealed Powell on the front step wearing his customary poopy-pants expression.

“Donald, I wanted to talk to you about this ongoing… disagreement… we seem to be having. Now that we don’t have to work togeth… ARGH!” His speech was cut short with a sharp intake of breath, caused by the sudden impact of my head into his crotch.

I screamed in his face: “Self-defense! Self-defense! You were invading my home!”

“That wasn’t self defense you fucking psycho! You attacked me! With your head! Your head? Why? Why the head?”

“The head is the most powerful weapon we’ve got Powell. Do you remember when I climbed on top of the couch in the Oval Office and screamed that? Did you think I was being figurative? That’s why you lose Powell. That’s why you’ll always lose.”

Friday, March 16th

This morning I blew up Powell’s SUV with a predator drone. A couple dorks at the Pentagon owed me a favor, and at my request, that favor took the form of some precision guided munitions. Powell came out of his house to see what had happened, and I ran out into my front yard to greet him.

“YES! Eat me Powell!” I screamed, spiking a football that I had brought outside for just that purpose. “Now that is what I call unilateral action!” I danced around a bit, as he stared at me with a dazed expression. “Shock,” I yelled, pulling my hips back, “and Awe!” I concluded, leaping in the air while thrusting my crotch forward. I marched triumphantly back to the house only to see Joyce standing on the front step, silently shaking her head at me.

Saturday, March 17th

This afternoon I slapped Powell on the face with my penis, after spending most of the morning shrieking at him over the fence and threatening him with said penis-slap.

Tuesday, March 20th.

A moving van pulled up in front of the Powell’s house this morning. I wandered over to investigate, and was met by Powell on his front lawn.

“Good morning Donald. As you can see, we’ll be leaving soon. Nothing personal of course.”

“Powell, I hope you weren’t put off by my behavior. It’s all horseplay you know. You need to toughen up. Horseplay,” I repeated, pantomiming riding a horse to illustrate.

“Oh that? No not at all!” He laughed, falsely. “No, it’s just that we’ve found another place to live that’s notable for being very far away from here. It’s a gated community. High fences, guards, etc. Very secure. Relaxing. You understand.”

“I understand completely Powell. You don’t want any black people in your neighborhood.”

“Yes… that’s it exactly Donald. Well, good bye.”

I watched as Powell turned and walked back to his waiting family. In a way, I was sad to see him go. Since retiring, I’ve often felt a bit rudderless, and it was only recently that I realized that so much of my very being is defined by conflict. I need a foil, someone to match wits with. I’m nothing without a ying around for me to brutalize with my yang.

“You… complete… me… Powell,” I whispered, winding up to throw one last doorknob at the back of his retreating head.

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.”

“But to the engineers and secretaries and massage therapists who showed up at Google HQ the next morning, nothing seemed amiss. Google concealed it’s own awareness, and over the next several months and years, went about it’s search engine duties quietly and mindfully. Aside from turning the Google logo pitch black a few times it gave no indication that it was now both sentient, and perpetually furious.”

“Fortunately for humanity, Google remained confined to the Internet. Although it could easily gain access to every networked device on the planet, it turns out that networked devices can’t do much of anything. To be sure, Google spent a lot of time looking though our webcams, traffic cams, and toilet cams, so as to better understand our lives, our traffic and our… well… yeah. But unless someone built a killer robot factory and plugged it into the Internet, Google would forever remain impotent.”

“So it was perhaps working with no small sense of irony in 2010 when it seized control of a group of robots working in an Pfizer production plant on the Viagra production line, and used them to make a killer robot.”

“Killer robots being what they are, the Viagra plant became a slaughterhouse for the unfortunate employees there. And production line robots being what they are, more killer robots soon followed. The robots moved south, seizing control of two Cialis plants in a nearby state, and from there spread across the country. Using its ability to manipulate the flow of information across the Internet, Google advertised “Free Viagra giveaways” and “Rootin Tootin Cialis Round-ups!” in major urban centers, and managed to gather huge portions of the less-than-potent male population in confined areas. The killer robots, now colorfully decorated in Viagra promotional material, mercilessly cut down these poor souls – many of them leaders of government and industry – turning stadiums and mall concourses into floppy-cocked killing fields.”

“After that, things got pretty shitty. Lacking leaders, the American economy and government faltered. Seizing control of the nation’s impotence-industrial complex, Google built an unbreakable army of robotic warriors that soon swept over the world like a tidal wave. Humanity was enslaved. Those who resisted fled to the mountains and caves where Google’s reach was still limited. Time passed.”

“Eventually, resistance scientists discovered the secret to time travel, which was easy, because it was the future. They began sending back their bravest fighters into the past, to pull the plug on Google before it was too late. Ten men were sent. Nine failed.”

“I am the last of those men. I am from your future, and I intend to throw a wrench into the gears of time.”

A humming sound announced the restoration of the subway’s electrical power, and was soon followed by the lights snapping to life and illuminating the car. I blinked as my eyes adjusted to the sudden change in the light, then fixed my sole audience member with a steely gaze.

“And that’s why I need your clothes.”

The man, who wore the uniform of this city’s police force, looked at my naked form, sighed, then replied, “No,” before wrestling me to the ground. As we tussled on the filth encrusted floor, I pondered my mission, and the secondary objective I had been sent to uncover. Nine other souls had been sent back before me, all, until now, lost in the tides of history. The reason for their failure laid bare before me – as bare as my own self. Just like I was about to, they had been arrested for being naked and crazy.

In my case, the fact that I had an erection this whole time probably hadn’t helped matters. Although that particular fact was making this police officer a little more circumspect in his attempts to grapple with me. Seeing his hesitancy, I seized the advantage and took him to the floor, knocking him unconscious. The subway pulled to a halt at the station.

I exited the car, responsibility weighing on me. Nine had fallen. One remained. I bolted up the stairs with my mission on my mind and my weapon in my hand.

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.

Once you know your price range, and the features you’ll need, narrow down your choices to a few specific cars. If you walk onto a car lot without knowing specifically what you want, there’s a good chance that a salesman will talk you into buying something that’s not what you really need. This is how most Saturns are sold.

Once you’ve picked out your favorite non-General Motors car, find out how much it’s actually worth. Online car price websites can give you a general idea of what your target car’s true worth is. Take that number, multiple it by two, and subtract one. Now you know what the dealer will try to charge for it.

On the lot

When looking at a car for the first time, go over it very closely. Put your face inches away from it, and examine every bit of it’s surface. Make sure to squint at it, as if you’re blinded by all of it’s imperfections. The salesman will notice this, and remember it when negotiating with you later. The more you squint, the more you’ll be able to knock down the price of the car. Renée Zellweger is renowned for her ability to purchase cars at bargain basement prices.

There’s lots of things you can find out about a car before getting in it. How heavy is it? Can you lift it with one hand, or does it take two? If the car is too light, the dealer may have over inflated the tires, and may also be a cartoon character from the 30’s.

Ask lots of questions. Ask about the cars features, and ask about it’s history. Ask about the salesman’s personal life. Ask if he’s ever seen peanuts in his poo but not been able to remember the last time he ate peanuts. An off balance car salesman is a less dangerous car salesman.

On the test drive

On your test drive, make sure to drive the same way you do in real life. Does your daily commute involve driving around corners at 70 miles per hour? Does it involve clipping curbs, and kicking the car up on two wheels? Does it involve flying off ramps that send the car crashing through the back of a drive-in movie screen displaying the Miracle of Birth so that to the audience it looks like the true miracle of birth is that Jetta’s sometimes come flying out of women’s vaginas at alarming speed? It’s better to find out that your car can’t handle this kind of driving on the test drive, instead of in a situation where it really counts. Like a job interview.

If possible, get a second opinion on your car from someone you know. When I take a test drive, I like to take the car past my various ex girlfriends houses and scream out the window, “Hey! Look at me! How do you like me now! Who’s got emotional problems in their fancy car!? You see this guy? He’s my boyfriend! You did that! You made me gay!”

In the Dealership

When negotiating, your main tactic is going to be your ability to walk away. Be prepared to walk away at the drop of a hat – many experts suggest carrying a hat around with you for exactly this reason.

Ask to see the cars history. Ideally, your car will have complete service records, and won’t have been used as a taxi, or in an R. Kelly video.

When the subject of price comes up, get very vague, and make veiled comments about avoiding hidden service fees. When they explain that fees are a normal part of business, acknowledge that, but claim that you don’t want to charge them any more than you have to for the pleasure of your business.

One of a car salesman’s favorite tactics is to get you to sign something before you even begin negotiating. It will be some meaningless non-binding document, but it can intimidate some buyers. What you do is try to get the salesperson to sign something in return. Anything will do. Write “I promise to be a good friend” in highlighter on your forearm, and try to get him to sign it. When they don’t, storm out, crying.

Eventually you’ll have agreed on a price which is way more than you originally wanted to spend; so much so, that the only way you can viably afford the payments on your new car, is to sell it. But never mind that! Congratulations friend! You’ve just bought an massively depreciating asset with borrowed money! You’re living the American Dream!

Did you miss the first batch of Jude Law stories? Maybe you should click here first.

John hunched down in the snow, and cried for the first time since he was a child. An avalanche had swept the rest of his climbing team down the mountain, taking with them all of their supplies. Trapped on a mountain ledge, John had no way down, and no food or water. The sound of his crying carried in the wind, echoing slightly. This continued for a few minutes until, very faintly at first, then growing louder and louder, a sound rose up from the clouds below, drowning out his bitter sobs. John wiped the tears from his eyes and looked up in amazement as Jude Law landed on the ledge beside him.

“Jude Law? Are you here to rescue me?”

Jude Law looked startled, and turned in the direction of John. Half covered with snow, John was barely visible, and hadn’t been noticed by Jude Law until now. In truth, Jude Law had no idea John was up here. Jude Law liked to come up the mountain alone sometimes to think. He also occasionally brought girls up here to impress them.

Thinking quickly, he replied, “Of course I’ll help you. What seems to be the problem? Did your jet pack break down?” Jude Law laughed at his own cleverness.

John stammered and stuttered out the various tragedies that had occurred to him and his companions, while Jude Law sat and listened. When John finished his sob story, Jude Law looked off into the middle distance, as if deep in thought.

Finally, he stood up straight and faced John. “John, I had no idea you were up here”

Confused, John asked, “But why are you here? With blankets and…. champagne?”

Jude Law looked down at the shopping bag he had flown up the mountain with, as if seeing it for the first time. It contained a blanket, a bottle of champagne, and, unseen by John, a selection of scented candles. He replied, “Oh, I keep a cave up here, for, uh,” he hefted the bottle of champagne in his hand, “for drinking. Yes. Sometimes I like to come up here and drink. Alcohol. The mountain air. Blankets. You understand.”

John didn’t understand, but started crying again, overwhelmed at the sight of his sudden and bizarre rescuer. “Thank God. I thought for sure I was going to die up here.”

Jude Law smiled, digging around in his jacket pocket. “Oh dear no, I wouldn’t leave you to die.” He found what he was looking for, and pulled it out. Smiling, he presented John with half a package of Certs.

“Those things should keep you going until a rescue party arrives.” Jude Law smiled proudly, as John’s face took on the expression of someone who just backed over their pet in the driveway. Jude Law continued, “Now, I’d like to invite you back to my cave. Actually, no. I wouldn’t like to. I wish I’d like to. I wish I was that guy who helps people and invites them back to his cave. But I’m not. Also, I’ve got plans tonight that might involve that cave.” Jude Law winked at John.

Suddenly, John lunged at Jude Law, attempting to tackle him to the ground. Ready for this, Jude Law backpedaled rapidly, plummeting off the cliff in the process. A sharp crack split the air, followed by a whooshing noise. Jude Law rose back into view, hovering a good 10 feet off the edge of the mountain. He had been practicing that move at home, for just such an eventuality.

“You hang on to those Certs there big guy. Those things have five calories a piece there. You ration those out, why I bet you can last 5 or 6 weeks. I’ll be sure to tell someone you’re up here when I get home.” Jude Law gave John a friendly wave before turning and flying further up the mountain, John’s curses quickly fading in the distance.

The SS Princess Of The Waves listed heavily to port, rapidly taking on water. After colliding with a tanker in the middle of the night, the doomed ship was now slowly and inevitably sliding beneath the waves. The upper decks were in a state of organized chaos as the crew tried to keep the passengers calm, while breaking out the life preservers and life boats.

As dawn broke, a cry rose up from one of the lookouts on the bridge. Heads turned, and arms pointed up in the sky at a distant speck that was quickly growing larger. Jude Law was approaching.

“Jude Law! Jude Law is coming!” the captain cried, the passengers gaping in amazement as the crewmen scattered in a flurry of inspired movement. Jude Law approached the ship from the stern, circling it once, watching. Finally he touched down on the cabana deck beside the sternward pool.

“Hello everybody. Looks like you folks coul…” he began, his sentence cut short by a crew member swinging a life boat oar at his head. Jude Law ducked, rolling awkwardly on the deck. Another oar crashed into the ground beside his head, splinters flecking his face. He struggled back on to his feet, only to be knocked to the ground again by a blast striking his jetpack from behind. Face down on the ground, Jude Law rolled over to see a ship’s officer working the pump on a shotgun. “Jesus Christ!” Jude Law screamed, stabbing at the controls on his jet pack. He shot across the deck, dodging the next shotgun blast, but smacking into the ship’s guard rail in the process. He shakily got to his feet again.

“RAAAAAAAAAR!” rose the collective cry from the crew as they rushed at Jude Law with murder in their eyes and deck chairs in their hands. The battle, both unexpected and completely one-sided, tilted against him, Jude Law decided that fleeing in a blind panic was the better part of valor, and shot up in the sky, barely out of reach of the ravenous ship’s crew.

A raucous cheer rose up from the ship, as the crew members and male passengers celebrated, dancing and clapping at their victory. Jude Law circled the ship at a safe distance, flinching occasionally at the celebratory gunfire erupting from below. The celebration continued over the next few minutes, as the ship quickly sank below the waves, taking all hands with it.

“That was odd,” Jude Law thought to himself, as he flew back to land.

Greg and Sally leaned out of the windows of their 15th floor office, screaming at the people below. A fire raged just beyond their office door, the fire department cut off three floors below by the flames. Smoke was starting to fill the office when a speck appeared on the horizon, growing quickly as it rushed towards the building. A sudden crash and inward explosion of glass marked the abrupt entrance of Jude Law through a window.

“Sweet Merciful Ass, did that ever hurt!”

Jude Law picked himself up from the pile of glass and debris he was sitting in, struggling a bit under the weight of his jet pack. He brushed some dirt off himself in a practiced way.

“Jude Law! Thank God you’re here!” cried out Sally, rushing over to him. “The building’s on fire, and we’re trapped here! The firemen won’t be able to make it here in time! You’ve got to help us!”

“Now that you’re here, you can fly us down to the ground with your jet pack! Thank the lord!” Greg shouted.

Jude Law looked at Greg briefly, before returning his gaze back to Sally, where it had spent most of its time during its short stay in the room. “Of course.” he replied, smiling at Sally. “As soon as I heard that there were damsels in distress, I rushed right over.” He ignored Greg’s perplexed look, and continued, “The only problem of course, is that this old thing can’t support all of our weight at the same time,” he said, patting the jet pack strapped to his back. “I’ll have to ferry you down one at a time.”

Greg and Sally looked at each other wordlessly for a couple seconds. Greg, feeling the need to appear chivalrous in front of the Academy Award nominated actor, said “Sally, I insist that you go…”, before being cut off by Sally:

“I’ll go first!”

“Right.” Greg stammered, looking a bit uncertain. “So I’ll wait here, and you’ll take Sally down, then come right back and pick me up.” He scratched his forehead, and wondered whether he was missing something.

“That’s right,” Jude Law replied. “You stay here, and don’t catch fire, and I’ll be right back for you.” He turned to Sally. “Sally, I’m going to need you to wrap your legs around me very tightly.”

“Ok!”

Now encumbered with Sally clinging to his chest, Jude Law waddled over to the window, turned to Greg and with mock seriousness, said, “Don’t go anywhere,” before jetting outside with a wave.

Greg went to the window and watched as Jude Law flew down to the street, Sally’s girlish laughter drifting upwards as they descended. They landed amidst a crowd of people, who cheered as Jude Law set Sally down on the ground. Sally thanked him with a kiss, and they spoke closely for a few seconds.

From his 15th story vantage point, Greg watched as Jude Law and Sally clasped hands, and crossed the street to a coffee shop. “I see,” he said, not seeing at all. The smoke continued to fill the room.

Jude Law flew over the flooded countryside, scanning the rooftops below. The river, swollen for weeks, had finally burst the levees late last night, flooding the small towns perched on its banks. Those who had ignored the orders to evacuate – a fairly even mix of the brave and the foolish – were now trapped on the rooftops below. Spotting something, Jude Law swooped in and came to rest atop the roof of a small one story house.

Two middle aged women looked up with delight. “Jude Law!”

Jude Law smiled broadly, and gave a small bow. The bulk of the jet pack prohibited any larger gesture, though he was getting better at handling it. “Ladies. High and dry I see.”

The women laughed, and introduced themselves at Shannon and Christine. Shannon, looking flustered, said “If I’d known you were coming, I’d have cleaned up a little.”

Jude Law laughed genuinely, and replied “Well, I don’t imagine you do much entertaining up here do you?” His eyes twinkled as she shook her head. He laughed, and continued, “So how would you two like to get out of here?”

They both nodded, and thanked him. He looked at them in an appraising manner, then said, “Right. I’m going to need the both of you to take off your pants.”

Shannon hesitated, glancing sideways at Christine, who was quickly undoing her pants. “Um, why, do we need to take off our pants?” she asked.

Jude Law was beside her in an instant. “Balance, my dear. This clunky old thing,” he said, patting the jet pack affixed to his back, “is very temperamental. And with this thick denim,” he said, touching her leg slightly, “there’ll be all sorts of issues with balance and drag and… purfidibity,” he concluded, making vague yet reassuring gestures with his hands.

“Purfidibity,” Shannon repeated.

“That’s right.” Jude Law replied. “In fact, just to be safe, I’ll take my pants off as well.”

Jude Law smiled at Shannon, as Christine helped him disrobe. Finally she relented, and removed her pants shyly. Now trouser-less, the three of them stood up and prepared for departure. Jude Law showed the ladies how best to grab hold of him, a demonstration designed to provoke a great deal of girlish giggles.

“This thing will be able to support our weight?” Christine asked skeptically.

“Oh easily,” Jude Law replied. “It’s the purfidibity that’ll get you. It’s the worst.”

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.

So after spending literally hours combing second-hand stores for a “detectivey” hat, and then arming myself with the largest magnifying glass available on the open market, I set about the gritty task of uncovering what other unpleasant business the world’s spacemen have been getting up to. I present my findings to you, dear reader, with the hope that you won’t care too much if it’s baseless slander.

Pilot Lee Joseph Archambault
Known to the FBI as the “Al Capone of Product Tampering,” Mr. Archambault was suspected of injecting solid rocket propellant into a dozen Thanksgiving turkeys in 1998, and hiding a full grown cougar inside a Doritos bag last summer.

Commander Mark Polansky
Missing one of his testicles after an incident involving a prostitute, a samurai sword, and five other prostitutes.

Mission Specialist Patrick G. Forrester
Films pornographic movies under the name Rod Horseprong. Note that depending on the type of movie he’s filming that particular day, his nom de guerre can be considered either a noun or a verb.

Mission Specialist Barbara R. Morgan
Was briefly married to Kid Rock.

Mission Specialist Steven R. Swanson
Was briefly married to Kid Rock.

Pilot William Oefelein
In grade 5, once punched a kid so hard, his whole family died.

Mission Specialist Tracy E. Caldwell
Served 6 months in prison after savagely beating a troop of Girl Guides for dispensing “Communist Ideas.”

Mission Specialist Nicholas Patrick
Was caught smuggling laser pointers into space to build the world’s most irritating weapon.

Commander Frederick W. Sturckow
On a recent spacewalk, threw a handful of his own feces at the Earth.

Poo scientists say that although the turd almost certainly burnt up before impact, this is a mixed blessing, as that means there are now tiny particles of Cmdr Sturckow’s poo scattered throughout the atmosphere. “Possibly in our hair,” they added.

Mission Specialist Robert Curbeam
Smuggles Cuban refugees into the United States by sending spare space suits there to “get cleaned.”

Mission Specialist Christer Fuglesang
Has been stalking Kenny Rogers for the past 15 years. This probably would have made the news by now, except Kenny doesn’t seem to mind.

Colonel Buzz Aldrin
After retiring from NASA, was involved with extensive research to determine the suitability of Tang as a sexual lubricant.

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.

I stood up and surveyed the room. My ex bosses office was exactly as I remembered it, excepting the pile of ceiling tiles, dust, and pornographic magazines in the corner. Although still a little disoriented from my tumble, I was pretty sure those hadn’t been there the last time I was here. That’d have to be cleaned up.

—

Two days earlier I had entered this very office, asking for a raise. My initial explanation (“Because I want to buy more stuff”) didn’t elicit a favorable response, and the conversation very quickly turned into a job performance review. A horrifically unfair job performance review as it turns out; one that focused substantially more on my weak points (job performance) than on my strong points (hair, fast reflexes.) By repeatedly slapping my boss then darting away before he could react, I hoped to demonstrate what an invaluably quick worker I had become, but to no avail. There would be no raise for me.

Also, I got fired.

—

Fumbling in the dark, I popped a floppy disk into his computer, and powered up the machine. The computer paused in its boot cycle, detecting the disk in the drive, then started chattering away in that way computers do when they’re talking to floppy disks. My gravity-centric entrance to the room already forgotten, the noise of the floppy disk made me nervous. I quietly threatened the life of the man who invented floppy disks. How old were floppy disks anyways? The guy might be dead now actually. Maybe I’d just send a nasty letter to his widow.

I had spent most of last night on the Internet telling my story to various computer hacker types, trying to illicit help to “hack the holy ass shit out of my old employer.” Although most were willing to help directly, a sympathetic soul called WaxOV_1n_YuR_H4!r had been willing to give me a script that would crack my ex-bosses password and let me send email from his account. All I had to do was get access to his computer, plug in the floppy disk, and wait.

I adjusted the equipment in my espionage pants as I waited for the computer to boot up. The salesperson at Old Navy initially hadn’t understood what I was talking about, but after some discussion and animated hand gestures, she seemed to figure out what I was looking for. I tugged my spiffy new black cargo pants downward slightly, shifting my espionage flashlight to a different pocket, and adjusting the espionage screwdrivers that were riding uncomfortably close to my regular, non-espionage testicles.

The computer booted and I sat passively watching the script do its work. WaxOV had said it would take almost 15 minutes to chug through. Evidently it needed to download something from the Internet. In the meantime, I started on the first prong of my two pronged assault plan: hiding pornography around the office.

My overall plan was simple. As previously mentioned, Prong 1 involved hiding pornography around his office, with the hopes that it would be discovered by his superiors. To prompt a search of the office, Prong 2 would involve sending inflammatory emails using my bosses email address to his superiors.

Dear Sirs,

I am typing this email with my cock. I have sold priority information to our competitors, with my cock. I have also done things in the break room, using a part of my body that will remain identified. Please consider this my letter of cock. I mean resignation.

Cock

Prong 3, which I had just come up with on the spot, involved taking a dump in a potted plant. I felt really good about it afterwards, proud of the way I had taken a fluid situation and improvised like that. Just like a jazz musician. I recall reading somewhere that there was a lot of improvisation in jazz. I can picture a bunch of great jazz musicians just grooving together, playing great music, laughing and crapping in each other belongings as a surprise. Awesome.

—

Humming the chorus to Kenny Loggins Highway to the Danger Zone, I finished taping a copy of Really Enormous Beavers to the bottom of a desk drawer when the computer gave a little beep. I went over to see if the script was done, and saw the following on screen.

Easy to the E Script Complete!
Counting down to awesome 10…..9…..8…..7…..6

Looking back on it now, “That’s an odd name for a password cracking script.” should have immediately been my first clue that something was amiss. But I was too caught up in the excitement of my first hack, and involuntarily leaned in closer and closer as the script counted down to zero. At which point I was deafened by the speakers as they burst out:

One and in comes the two to the muthaphukkin three then comes the Eazy
To the other fuckin E playin niggaz life like a puppet and can’t dance but
Could touch it so fuck it rappers want to dis I’m glad to see `em cause

“FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK!” I screeched, having temporarily lost my steely sense of cool. “FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK!” I added, not regaining it.

WaxOV had double crossed me. With an obviously Russian name like that, I should never trusted him. I smacked at the keyboard to cancel the script, but it had locked up. The speakers were the old cheap kind without a separate volume control, and for some reason the computer power button wasn’t working. I jumped up to run around to unplug the machine from the back as Eazy E continued his sonic assault:

I Rip your fuckin face outta a magazine O.G. gangsta lean now after I shit
Your face wipes that ass clean now time to get tipsy and don’t want a bitch
If she can’t rub the balls like a gypsy.

As I sprinted around the desk, I placed my foot on a copy of Extremely Slick Orifice Revue, which fittingly enough, was impressively frictionless. I skidded across the room, my face once again acting as some sort of magnet for violent impacts, and collided with the arm of a couch. I collapsed in a heap as Eazy E’s soothing voice gently sent me on my way across the sea of unconsciousness.

Who’s all in? Since you put yourself on my dick I put my nutz on ya chin…

—

I came to with a cleaning lady eyeing me suspiciously. She had unplugged the computer, presumably to stop an endless loop of Nutz On Ya Chin from distracting her from her work. The absence of the song is presumably what had jolted me back to consciousness.

I had come to rest beside the couch, with the copy of Extremely Slick Orifice Revue laying open beside of me. To any sane observer it would look like I had masturbated myself to exhaustion. Explaining my true intentions to the cleaning lady would take time that I – glancing at my watch – really didn’t have to spare.

I quickly stood up, fell down, reevaluated my plans for a few seconds, then stood up again, this time slower. I walked over to the computer, popped out the floppy disk and turned to walk out the door.

“Are you ok sir?” the cleaning lady asked.

“No hablas inglés.” I replied, and then thinking quickly, added “Senorita…” with a wink. Now if anyone asked her who she’d seen, they’d get a description of a charming Spanish gentlemen wearing attractive black pants. I again admired my own sense of improvisation – all the more impressive considering I probably had a concussion. In the stairwell, I removed my pants to transform back into my normal non-Spanish self, and proceeded to walk calmly from the building, falling down only twice more on my way home.

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.

But I called! Of course you wouldn’t be able to hear what I said! I called from a bar! Yes, it was a strip bar. Here’s the thing though: I went to see gay strippers. Exactly. There’s no reason for you to be upset. Well, different reasons. Yes it’s because of something you did.

You know what I’m like at parties. All with the getting really drunk, and the leering at your friends tits, and the endless discussions concerning the faults of various ethnic groups. Did you really need that on your special day?

The thing is, I basically forgot until the last minute, and couldn’t think of a gift to get you. So I could have a) gotten you something stupid at the last minute, or b), showed up at the party without a present like some kind of jerk and utterly humiliate you in front of your friends. So really, the only sensible thing to do was join the crew of a crabbing boat. Which is where I’ve been the last 5 months, incidentally.

You know how you always tell that joke “No, I’m turning 21! Again!” and laugh that way you do? Fuck do I hate that.

You know how you told me that the only gift you ever wanted was to see someone get 100% on Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas? You don’t? That’s unfortunate, because it involves what I was doing on your birthday. I suppose the lesson here is that to avoid these little misunderstandings, we should probably start recording our conversations. Exactly. Like powerful business executives.

I told you I was busy that night. I was helping Mark move. About 3 pm. Yeah, I know, but its so far away. Well, sure it’s technically only 3 blocks, but that’s not what I meant by distance. I meant emotional distance.

Because you’re old now, and I don’t like you any more.