I Can’t Believe You Stole My Copy of The Anarchist Cookbook

Here we are, two members of a so-called “civilized society,” joined not only as friends but as neighbors, with mutual respect for one another’s natural and civil rights. We live under the standard of this great country’s laws—which at their very heart are anarchic—and I, at least, expect others to do the same.

I guess this was naïve of me because, obviously, you don’t feel the same way.

I can’t believe you stole my copy of The Anarchist Cookbook.

Was it a desperate curiosity toward making mailbox-bombs that spurred you to violate our trust? Or perhaps you simply wanted to learn how to make an Infinity Transmitter, so you could monitor my late night calls to my girlfriend?

You make me sick.

I expressly had the book shipped to my home in order to avoid a mishap of this kind. Do you think those beady-eyed booksellers at Barnes & Noble would be able to resist reporting me to the Department of Homeland Security? They make $7.50 an hour, Joel. They would love the chance to send a venture capitalist like myself to Gitmo.

What you’ve committed was not only a sin against your neighbor, but is also mail fraud, a Class-A felony. But I can’t go to the police as I don’t recognize their authority over me. So just give it back, OK?

You leave me with quite a quandry: How will I perfect my phreaking skills, or make an auto-exhaust flamethrower—things that only a true anarchist like myself would understand—when my copy of the Cookbook is hidden somewhere in your home, protected by fiery booby-traps? Don’t you have any respect for private property, Joel?

I agree with H.L. Mencken when he said, “Every normal man must be tempted, at times, to spit on his hands, hoist the black flag, and begin slitting throats.” But you’ve taken it a step too far. I bought that book. It was mine. Mine, mine, mine.

Did you steal it to make me look like a fool in front of Tina? Or just to toy with my emotions? Or was it to get back at me for shitting in the top part of your toilet at your sister’s high school graduation party?

Whatever the reasons, what you’ve done is really mean.

And, seriously, give me back my book. Even with my Member Card, it still cost me about $35.

How You Might Be Annoying Me: Selected Examples

Sitting on the same side of the booth as me.

Reminding me, yet again, that freedom isn’t free.

Carrying around your miniature schnauzer in a front-loading papoose meant for a human baby.

Insisting that William Shakespeare wrote The Death of a Salesman, and then accepting that he, in fact, did not, but really did an excellent job on Crime and Punishment.

Setting your cell phone to play “Men in Black” when it rings and then not answering it during the movie Men in Black.

Refusing to believe that Alexander Hamilton was never a president.

Mouth-breathing while you chew your beef tips.

You wear a kilt. All the time. You’re from Texarkana.

Insisting on not wearing a watch because you don’t want to be “held a prisoner by the shackles of time” yet constantly asking me what time it is.

Not fucking me.

Plausible Rock ‘N’ Roll Conversations

1973. New York City. Led Zeppelin is about to go on stage to perform at Madison Square Garden. The footage shot will be included in their legendary concert film The Song Remains the Same.

ROBERT PLANT [knocking on dressing room door, sticking his head inside]: Hey, John, are you ready yet?

JOHN BONHAM: Almost. I’m just waiting for the wardrobe girls to finish my outfit.

ROBERT: What’s taking so long?

JOHN: They’re just putting the final touches on my vest of Mithril, so that I’m protected from the Nazgûl when we perform.

ROBERT: Oh, OK. [turns to leave, then suddenly sticks his head back in the dressing room] What did you say?

JOHN: I just want to be protected in case the Nazgûl attack during our performance. So I’m having wardrobe make me a vest of Mithril to repel their icy blades.

ROBERT: John . . . You know that I only sometimes use Lord of the Rings imagery in my lyrics, and that we’re probably not in any real danger of being attacked by the Nazgûl, right?

JOHN: That’s as may be, Robert, but I just don’t want to take any chances.

ROBERT: Fair enough. We’re on in five.

Several Words Whose Repeated Utterance May One Day Bring About the End of Existence

Cthulhu

Olestra

Shub Ishniggarab

Kundalini

Azag-Thoth

Armadale

Gooch

Nutbutter

Baby-Daddy

Bezrutho-Al

Gunt

The Sith Method: How the Dark Side of the Force Can Improve Your Life

Now that the world as been shown the glory of the Dark Side of the Force, I’ve been getting several questions from would-be Sith on how the Dark Side can improve their lives. I’d like to take this opportunity to address just a few of those questions.

First of all, you wear all black, all the time. It’s not only slimming but chic as well. Black is always in style and always will be. And if somebody cracks a joke about the Cure or vampires, you can slice them in two with your lightsaber. Which you get to have because you’re a Sith.

Instead of being just “Michael,” I’m now Darth Schiavo. And Mark is now known as Darth Rinaldi. Admittedly, it does make him sound like a dastardly magician, but let’s be honest: it’s a huge step up from “Mark.”

What else? You have free reign over as many stormtroopers as you want. And you can basically tell them to do anything. Like: “TK-421, I’m really horny. I need you to go to Kashyyk and bring me back some Wookiee trim.” And they’ll do it. Why? Because you’re a Sith Lord.

Any AT-AT is—pardon the pun—at your disposal. Need a TIE Fighter? Here you go, Darth Schiavo! Darth Rinaldi, I’m sorry your Star Destroyer isn’t as big as Darth Schiavo’s. That’s just the way things are. It’s nature; live with it.

Now, sometimes your stormtroopers get uppity, and since they’re clones and not really people, it’s O.K. to kill them. That’s right: they’re perfect for you to master your foul and malevolent powers upon by choking them telepathically or shooting their body full of Force lightning until they’re nothing but cinders.

Man, there are so many other reasons that being in touch with the Dark Side of the Force can improve your life, but I can’t think of them right now because I’m wholly consumed with an unnatural omnipotence that has literally changed the color of my eyes to a freakishly sick yellow.

I think I need to go lie down.


Darth Schiavo is currently the acting doorman of the American Sith Liberties Union (ASLU). He has presented a number of motivational Sith workshops, among them The Purpose Driven Sith: How to Do What the Dark Side Wants You To and How Much Telepathic Choking is Too Much Telepathic Choking?: A Telepathic Choking Primer. He is available for Sith parties and social functions. (Please note: there is a 20% surcharge for Sith bat/bar mitzvahs as Darth Schiavo is a raging anti-Semite).

The Wisdom of Captain Beefheart, With Commentary

Nowadays a woman has to haul off and hit a man to make him know she’s there. But not in the crotch, O.K.?

When I see mommy, I feel like a mummy. When I see daddy, I feel like a vampire. Mainly because my dad’s Dracula. But I think I’d probably feel that way even if he wasn’t.

The clouds are full of wine, not whiskey or rye. Unlike my liver.

The dust blows forward and the dust blows back. Can someone please shut the kitchen door?

A squid eating dough in a polyethylene bag is fast and bulbous. Riiiiiight.

You should know, by the kindness of a dog, the way a human should be. I am therefore going to begin shitting on carpets and eating my own vomit at some point during the week.

The man with the woman head. What the hell is that all about, anyway? That’s a little weird.

Later she came back, with a rumpled paper sack, which she told me would contain a surprise. Michael tried this trick on me once, and I still have not fully recovered.

Check these out, big eyed beans from Venus. Seriously, I bought them from that guy who lives in the park and makes his own “State of the Union” addresses to the squirrels.

Outrageous Claims I Have Made While Drunk (Excerpt)

Coupling is so much better than The Office.

Hells yeah, I can get you some high-grade plutonium by next Wednesday.

I don’t think it’s a coincidence that March, which is Women’s History Month, is also Mental Retardation Awareness Month.

That finger in the Wendy’s chili? That was all me, buddy.

I would have no problem getting Natalie Portman to date me once I met her.

All right, Dr. Doolittle. You think you’re man enough to teabag my girlfriend’s bull mastiff? Be my guest.

William Vollman is a poor writer and a coward. Correction: a fucking coward.

That’s right. I urinated in your sink. Why? Because I’m the mayor and I can do anything I want.

I’m not saying that all Liechtensteinians are dyslexic, but, you know.

Several Things That Soylent Green Is Not

Vegetable

Mineral

Soylent Red

Woodpulp

Non-human-derived foodstuff

Bowler hat

Peanut brittle

The jewel case from Iceburn’s 1993 release Hephaestus

All that bad

Oh, I’m Sorry—Did You Mistakenly Walk Into Our Well of Souls?

Excuse me, ma’am? Yes, I’m the maitre d’. Yes, the bathrooms are just over here to the left.

I’m sorry? Oh, yes, that’s our Well of Souls over there. Did you accidentally go inside thinking that it was a restroom? I’m terribly sorry for the mix-up, ma’am, but you’re not the first. I’m just glad that you made it out alive.

Now if you’ll just follow me over to the left . . . Are you alright ma’am? Did gazing into a parallel dimension filled with billions of screaming, anguished spirits shake you up a little? I know, it is a bit disturbing, isn’t it? Unfortunately, there’s not a thing we can do about it.

You see, when the owner and operator, Archibald Coxswain, purchased this building, he intended to make it into a four-star gourmet restaurant, a place where the city’s elite could come to enjoy painstakingly prepared Burmese-Cajun fusion cuisine, drink only the finest and rarest of liquors, and have the opportunity to rub elbows with other “beautiful people” in a safe and comfortable environment. As I’m sure you can see, ma’am, his dream has largely come to fruition.

However, there was one catch.

The asking price for the building was astoundingly low considering its prime location and all of the various accoutrements that accompany a converted neo-gothic prison. When Mr. Coxswain inquired about the almost unthinkably affordable cost, the seller—a shadowy man in a long black cloak—simply stated that the price would stand so long as Mr. Coxswain pledged to never tamper with the Well of Souls.

Well, naturally he agreed, and since that day we have had the inconvenience of occasionally losing customers when they unwittingly wander into the cavernous maw of the stentorian and frenzied ether.

As I said earlier, ma’am, I’m glad that you made it out alive. Just last week, a gentlemen looking to wash a red wine stain from his shirt unknowingly meandered into the Well of Souls, only to be dismembered and voraciously devoured by starving ghouls, his spirit’s voiceless moans joining the ever-growing chorus of the damned. I lost a really good tip!

Anyway: no worries, ma’am! Everything will be fine as long as you don’t enter that door encrusted with sinister runes that, admittedly, look a lot like restroom signs.

While we can’t do anything to reverse the terrible psychological and spiritual trauma that you will have until your dying day—and well into afterlife—we can offer you a free dessert.

Of your choice.

And we have Bananas Foster.

Relax: There’s No International Conspiracy

Lately there’s been a lot of “buzz” in both the fringe and mainstream medias—that we in no way control—about diabolical goings-on. Certain words and phrases keep cropping up: Rosicrucians. Freemasons. Bilderberg. Bohemian Grove. And the like. Of course it’s troubling, but I’m here to let you all know that you should just relax.

There’s no international conspiracy.

There is no attempt by a shadowy organization—whose name is so ancient and cryptic, it can’t even be pronounced by human tongues—to control every aspect of human existence on this planet, from the words you read to the food you eat to the thoughts you think.

It would also be foolish to believe that world leaders gather tri-annually at secluded resorts in Northern California, Switzerland, and an unnamed South Pacific Island to determine what countries should be invaded, their natural resources plundered, their peoples oppressed. They also do not consult each other about the world economy and how to obtain even more money and power from the lower classes by poisoning the world’s drinking water.

Hey, some people actually believe this is true! They’re a little weird if you ask me.

A lot of these same people also believe that Meditation Room at the United Nations is where the New World Order telepathically spies on people with their so-called “Black Helicopters” which are, in reality, the transmogrified souls of necromantic U.N. Agents who are without shape until they assume the form decreed by their theosophic masters.

There is also no truth to the rumor, purported in popular novel The Da Vinci Code, that Jesus and Mary Magdalene were husband and wife and that the Catholic Church is out to suppress this information by any means necessary, included employing assassins trained in the mystical ninja arts to “remove” any writer that gets too close to the truth of the story and publishes a bestselling novel about this theory.

And if you were wondering if the Skull & Bones fraternity at Yale University is a breeding ground for future presidents, senators, and businessmen who will continue this well-entrenched conspiracy, why, that’s just crazy talk.

Just to reiterate: no cabal of red-robed Illuminati controlling the world governments, no ultra-thin microchips imbedded into every $1 bill that monitors your purchases and gathers information about your personal habits that are then fed into a global database to make it easier to manipulate the economy as well as your belief structure.

And there’s definitely not a giant owl statue representing an unnameable ancient god in the very depths of the United States Capitol that requires, as tribute, a virgin sacrifice every four years.

So we can all just continue celebrating Caitlin’s fifth birthday by having some of this delicious ice cream cake from Cold Stone Creamery.

Mmm . . . that’s pretty tasty.

An Important Announcement From The Strange

During the next several months, The Strange will be undergoing some major changes. All for the better, we assure you. But because of these changes, we will only be posting our hilarious writings (“comedy bordering on poetry” as The Nation called us) on week days. That’s Monday through Friday. We might take Wednesdays off too; we’re not sure yet.

We just wanted to let you, our legions of devoted fans know this, so you’re not worried when you don’t see a new and side-splittingly ingenious piece up on Saturday or Sunday.

Now, you’re probably asking yourself, “What exactly are these changes?” Well, we’re not at liberty to divulge the specifics at this point. However, we can say, without hyperbole, that they will change the course of human history as we know it. If you ever stopped to wonder what it was like to be around when fire was discovered, or the wheel invented, or when there was a viable third political party, or when Led Zeppelin ruled the music charts—that’s what the changes are going to be like. Roughly.

They’re going to change our lives as well as yours. And for the better this time. Not like that damn Ab-Roller. Piece of crap that was.

So to all our fans in the United States and across the world, we’re still going to be here, just not on the weekends. And very soon we’ll be able to show all of you what wonders await you in this century and beyond.

But why don’t you take that extra time we’ve given you and spend it with the family, or take up a hobby, or make love to your significant other? Sometimes you can combine all those activities into one.

Although we don’t recommend that as you’ll probably be arrested. Fucking pervert.

Do You Want to Know What Frightens Me?

There are a lot of frightening things in this world.

My friend Julia is frightened of multi-national corporations, how they seem to be taking over every aspect of our lives, and how the government seems unable or unwilling to control them.

My cousin Elizabeth is frightened of global warming, the loss of our ozone layer, and the overall destruction of our environment.

Her 8-year-old son Eric is frightened of another terrorist attack on our country.

Now, these are just a few examples of some people I know personally. There are so many other people and so many other things to be frightened of.

Do you want to know what frightens me? I’ll tell you.

Wolves.

You ask me, “How can you be frightened of wolves when you don’t even live in an area with a large wolf population?”

Well, it’s easy: wolves are scary.

Wolves are wild animals with sharp teeth. They run very fast. They eat meat. I know they won’t attack humans unless provoked, but that doesn’t lessen my fear of them.

Let’s just say, for argument’s sake, that you’re attacked by a wolf. Even if you survive the vicious assault from a predator that travels in packs that cumulatively would outweigh most people—their dagger-like teeth sinking deeply into your supple flesh while their unearthly howls fill the ebon night—you would still have to contend with the fact that you might have rabies and would then have to endure a series of painful injections into your abdomen. And this is on top of healing from your wolf-attack wounds.

How does that not frighten you?

Now, whether or not this pack of wolves was feral or was raised specifically to hunt you down because of some wrong that you had done their crazed, multi-billionaire master is inconsequential. The issue at hand is this: there are such animals as wolves, they might attack me, and I am frightened of them.

Go ahead. Call my fear of wolves irrational. But when they’ve surrounded your house and are waiting for you to run out of food and fall into a weakened state so they can rush in and tear you apart, then you can tell me who’s irrational.

I’m not advocating the destruction of all wolves everywhere or even setting up wolf traps around my house to make sure they can’t hurt me. I’m not even saying we should create a serum that can be injected into wolves that makes them glow a bright green so we can see them coming from far away.

I’m just saying that wolves frighten me.

Oh, and, also genetically-engineered spiders the size of hatchbacks that are super-intelligent and have acidic webbing that can melt steel.

I’m Not Getting the Respect a Level 12 Half-Elf Paladin Deserves

Ahhh . . . to think, less than a year ago, I was Llyr the Emancipator, courageous defender of Morgwain and heir to the throne of my small but prosperous nation. I can even now remember my last free moments, smiting Orcs and valiantly utilizing my unique Elven ingenuity to deceive a friend-cum-enemy into destroying itself by way of my magical devices.

But, alas, for the next 25½ years I will be known as Prisoner #655321, and my domicile will no longer be the rolling, unspoiled hills of Morgwain, but rather the chain-link-and-concrete complex of the Northern Utah Correctional Facility in Weber County. What, pray tell, was my crime? Nothing short of upholding the sacred and divinely-ordained charge of the Paladin—protecting the world from the forces of evil, whatever face they may take on.

It all started near the abandoned train tracks in Cedar City, where a group of us LARPers (Live Action Role Players, for the uninitiated knuckledraggers out there) were deeply engaged in combat against the swarming minions of Mor-Thûl’ok. Magella Swordhammer, Davnan Shieldheart, and Oolahana Serpentshelm had been surrounded by the burly Orc Blackguards, and with heavy wound damage and a rapidly shrinking supply of mana, their meager Mage Shield was in grave danger of expiring.

I had used my Cloak of Invisibility to hide close by and was planning my next heroic move when, much to my dismay, I saw a strange glint in Davnan’s coal-black eyes. I wanted so badly to ignore it, but as a Paladin I am obliged to combat evil, even when that same evil has been responsible for saving my skin on several occasions.

I immediately cast a Discern Lies spell, which resulted in a mythic black fog—visible only to me—that surrounded Davnan’s head and broadsword. I instantly knew him to be a traitor to our cause (he was half-Orc, after all), and brandished my longbow, overcome by sadness but strengthened by my faith in the Supreme Being, Heironeous.

With my remaining mana, I cast a spell of Divine Favor, increasing the HP Damage of my attack, and let a single, glistening silver-tipped arrow fly directly into the sternum of my erstwhile comrade, Davnan Shieldheart.

Well, long story short, Magella and Oolahana freaked out and called the cops, Davnan (or Craig, as you Normals called him) died, and within the year I was convicted of first-degree murder.

And now, here I am: stripped of my armaments, my precious Cloak of Invisibility confiscated (a one-of-a-kind heirloom from my Uncle Razgooth, no less), and no longer feasting on roast Quillbeast and mead. Rather, I am forced to subsist on a humble pap made primarily of potato, string beans and what appears to have been, at some point, an earth-fowl.

Despite the injustice the law of this land has done me, I do what I can to stay sharp behind these walls. I use the Bless Water spell to make the holy elixir so I might still pour libations to Heironeous, and until One-Eyed Pete attacked me in the shower, I was doing pretty well with conjuring a Death Ward to protect me from assaults of his ilk. He must have cast Dispel Magic (or paid off the hacks), which would make him at least a Level 10. If only I had my grimoire, I could memorize Levitating Soap, Shank of Destiny, or even Anal Shockshield.

Anyway, I’ll need to level-up in order to try the Freedom of Movement spell—turns out Starwalk only works on hooved animals. It’s too bad they don’t have the Players Handbook in here, it would really help me out.

Plus my ass really, really hurts.

Welcome to Our Fraternal Organization

After these many weeks of psychological mind games and humiliating initiation rituals, it’s my great pleasure, as pledge-master of Alpha Omega, to welcome you to our glorious fraternal organization.

I know this is a dream come true for every single one of you. And even though this pledge class is the smallest we’ve had in many years, I believe it’s also one of the best. We culled the weak from the strong and were left with only the most noble and trustworthy. We are, all of us—new members and current Alpha Omegas—now bonded as brothers until our deaths, and we vow to venerate and help one another in anywhere, any time, and at any cost.

So, without further ado, here are your degrading nicknames.

Pete, your Alpha Omega nickname is Balls, due to your outstanding performance in the “Fill-A-Bagger.” I’ve seen a lot of pledges in my time go out in the first round. That sock full of quarters to the groin really hurts! But you made it all the way to the end, surviving not only the quarters, but the marbles, the chunks of concrete, and the cat-o’-nine-tails. Not bad, Brother Balls.

Tim, from now on your name is Short Bus because of your success in the “Top This” initiation. Convincing that girl with Down’s Syndrome that you were an astronaut? Man, that was fucking classic. Best I’ve seen in all my years in this fraternity. Did you ever find out how long she waited behind the field house for your “spaceship” to land? I know you probably won’t be able to go back to Wal-Mart for a while, but you’ll always have a home at Alpha Omega.

Greg, your new name is Nuts, for two reasons. One: because you came in second in the “Fill-A-Bagger.” And two: because you’ve literally got a huge pair of testicles. Those things are massive. Like a camel.

Scotty! You are now Brown Eye. ’Nuff said, eh?

Steve, because of your amazing ability to drink three bottles of grain alcohol without vomiting, your nickname is Heave. And now that you’re one of us, you’ll never have to worry about those pictures of you with Greg’s—sorry, Nuts’—heavy-hangers on your forehead being seen by anyone but your fellow Alpha Omegas, here and across the country.

And, last but not least, Johnny. You’re now known as Poo-Stick, for your daring bravery during the “Flagpole” ritual. Never in the history of Alpha Omega has anyone had a broom handle shoved that far up his ass without experiencing severe internal hemorrhaging. That you not only didn’t divulge to the authorities or hospital staff what caused the broom handle to find its way into your rectum, but also required astonishingly little medical attention is a testament to not only your devotion to your frat brothers, but also your—pardon the pun—“intestinal fortitude.”

Well, gentlemen, enjoy your new degrading nicknames! Welcome to Alpha Omega, and long may we be linked by brotherhood, honor, and sadomasochistic homoeroticism.

Things Upon Which You Might Not Want to Put Tabasco Sauce

Saltwater taffy

Infant son

The fender of a Trans-Am

Winning lottery tickets

Other hotter pepper-based condiments

An oversized platter of delicious DoubleStuf Oreos

Toilet seat

The underside of your right eyelid

Heretofore undiscovered original copy of the lost second book of Aristotle’s Poetics

Horse shit

Intermittent Reviews of The Strange From Young Literary Notables

“I’ve never known roadside love like this before.”

Merrill Feitell, author of Here Beneath Low-Flying Planes, winner of the 2004 Iowa Short Fiction Award. She cavorts at http://www.merrillfeitell.com/.