Dr. Walter Simpson Stanley, better known to the world these days as the Credible Hulk, is arguably one of the lesser known super-humans, or "parahumans" to use the current media buzzword, wandering the world today. Though less known than his "parasibling," Dr. Bruce Banner, Dr. Stanley is nonetheless a remarkable individual in his own right.
Dr. Stanley, like Dr. Banner, worked for the federal government at a lab in New Mexico. Unlike Dr. Banner, Dr. Stanley was not given to either pointlessly dangerous stunts, or to grandstanding.
Also unlike Banner, Stanley was not a jerk. Though known to the wider world for his exploits both solo and as a member of the super Team, the Avengers, Dr. Banner was best known amongst his scientific colleagues for his mean-spirited practical jokes, and his tendency to lecture others on the importance of his own work, or the superiority of his own morality. Indeed, after he treated Dr. Stanley's nachos with gamma radiation (in a work place prank that some believe to be the origin of the Credible Hulk's somewhat mediocre powers), Banner then lectured his co-workers about the importance of keeping non-project personnel of off the test range, when it was his own negligence that had led to someone wandering onto it and almost getting dosed with Gamma Rays to begin with.
By contrast, Dr. Stanley was, and remains, known for being hard-working, stable, intelligent, competent, and if one dares to say it, he is known for being credible.
Like his bigger, bulkier former co-worker, the key to activating the Credible Hulk is anger. However, the Credible Hulk has a more muted response to anger. Certainly, he bulks up, but he does not become 15-feet tall, as Dr. Banner is known to brag about himself. No, the Credible Hulk gains height and weight noticeably, but just enough to make regular-fitting clothing uncomfortable - he has taken to wearing sweat pants, exercise clothes, and even a few articles of particularly butch maternity wear in order to avoid getting sudden-growth rashes from more non-elastic clothing.
The Credible Hulk is certainly stronger than non-hulked Dr. Stanley, but he doesn't go about flinging tanks or breaking through brick walls. His strength is more along the lines of a bush-league luchadore - not insubstantial, but hardly inhuman. Indeed, the most damage that the Credible Hulk has ever done due to not known his own strength was causing muscle strain in his wrist and bruising the tip of his left index finger after tapping the Air Canada counter irritably after the aforementioned airline managed to lose his luggage and make him miss his connecting flight to Los Angeles.
Similarly, while the Credible Hulk has a lower intellect and poorer impulse control than Dr. Stanley, he is not the mindless beast of destruction that Dr. Banner becomes. Rather, the Credible Hulk operates on about the same level as a frat boy half way through his second beer of the night. A definite change, but if you didn't know Dr. Stanley, you wouldn't notice.
The most striking change is skin color. The Credible Hulk has vaguely greenish skin. Not bright green, or sickly green, but a just-noticeable olive. His skin tone is less reminiscent of the Jolly Green Giant than of a Star Trek pilot episode Mr. Spock.
Still, unlike certain other Gamma Ray victims, Dr. Stanley continues to be a productive member of society. He still goes to work, to the same laboratory at which he has been employed for the last 20 years - though it did take the threat of an ADA lawsuit to get management to allow him to wear his less formal clothing to the workplace - and his co-workers have had to stop playing pranks on him - while amusing at first, the novelty of seeing their boss grow and inch, become swarthy, and bitch at them like a hyperactive drunken juvenile did wear thin and begin to cut into productivity and associated pay bonuses.
In the end, arguably, it is Dr. Stanley, and not the increasingly less reliable Dr. Banner, who deserves our respect and praise.
Note: This entry was inspired by one of my youngest sisters. She was around five years (when I say younger sister, I mean around 20 years younger) old when the Ang Lee Incredible Hulk movie came out, and was quite taken with the character. She received a pair of Incredible Hulk Smash Hands for Christmas, but being five, she had a hard time saying "incredible" and instead referred to the character as the "Credible Hulk" - which led to one of my sisters who is about the same age as me and I joking about how, unlike his unreliable cousin, the Credible Hulk is a down-to-Earth, believable guy.
Showing posts with label Fictional Essays. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Fictional Essays. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Railriders - a Menace to the Public Good
There is a segment of the population that is ever growing, recruiting from our youth to fill their ranks to swelling. They have long had a media presence that portrays them as lovable, free-wheeling, and even admirable, hiding the unsavory truth of their filthy lifestyle. Although there is one true name by which they should be known, they have adopted many different euphemisms to make themselves sound more appealing. They often portray themselves as victims, living life as they see fit only to be "oppressed" by those of us with a strong enough sense of morality to call them for what they are and try to stop them.
I am speaking, of course and obviously, about hobos.
They may go by many other, more "P.C." terms - gentleman of the road, boxcar men, and many others - hobos are known to all of us, but most people deny their true nature in favor of the popular depictions.
In order to expose the vile hobo to the light of day, let's look at the song that might be considered the hobo "national anthem" - Big Rock Candy Mountains
We see here that the hobo is addressing a group of boys, that is youths or children, hoping to lure them into the hobo lifestyle. He, of course, doesn't tell them of the true hobo lifestyle, no. Instead, he tells them that the lifestyle is literally about sweet things like candy.
One has to wonder if hobos eat so many beans in the hopes of replacing their nonexistent moral fiber with dietary fiber.
The handouts grow on bushes. You see here that the hobo clearly desires a socialist system in which he receives handouts rather than working.
First the hobo calls down disparagement on the police, those fine and upstanding enforcers of law. And this song first gained prominence during prohibition, when the police not only enforced man's law, but also God's law.
And here we see that the hobo hates such time-honored traditions as sobriety, there is further disparagement of authority figures who might force the hobo to be a moral individual, and the hobo shows his distaste for sanitary conditions, wishing to not change socks and paddle a canoe around the food supply.
Again, what is so disturbing is that the hobo is telling this tale to children so that he might lure them into his degenerate lifestyle.
And the hobo shows his complete disregard for morality, desiring to be allowed immediately out of jail without ever being forced to pay for his filthy lifestyle, his desire to allow his hands to be idle (and hence the playground of the devil), and to violently overthrow those who support the social order of which he wants no part.
Savage.
And, of course, he anticipates that the children to whom he is speaking will follow his example and join him "this coming fall" - these words are neither accidental nor a simple allusion to a season of the year, the hobo knows that his path is one of moral decay, and he hopes to lead the children along it.
Of course, this disturbing recruitment is not limited to songs or chance meetings on the railroad tracks. It has also infiltrated our mass media, and the media elites are using every tool at their disposal to forward the hobo agenda. Whether it's Disney, that den of iniquity, and their animated "classic" Boxcar Willy to Buddy Ebsen's dark and disturbing turn on The Andy Griffith Show, the image of the hobo as a happy and carefree character has caused far too many of our youth to choose life as hobos.
The simple fact is this: hobos are immoral beings, disgusting in the eyes of man and abominations in the eyes of God. If everyone followed the hobo's path our society would be in shambles, therefore nobody should be allowed to follow it. The advancing hobo agenda must be stopped. I suggest three simple steps:
1. We must petition, pester, and if necessary, use force to make the immoral media elites stop portraying the hobo as a happy or positive character. We must change the false image of the hobo from this:
*
to a more accurate portrayal, such as this photo taken of a hobo at a train yard:
**
2. We, citizens concerned about decency, must surround train yards at every opportunity to prevent hobos from leaving their trains and attempting to recruit our children. We must be clear through our actions, however, that we do not hate the hobos, we just hate hoboism, and this means that we desire to beat the hobos as a show of our concern for them and for our children.
3. We must support legislation aimed at preventing the spread of hoboism such as Proposition 83b(c).321(k), which outlaws train yards within the state of California.
Only in this way can we hope to stem the rising tide of hoboism and save our families and communities.
I sincerely hope nobody has to read this line to realize that this is a joke and satire. I mean no ill-will towards hobos anywhere, and if any hobos are reading this I will say only STOP FOOLING AROUND ON THE INTERNET AND GET BACK ON THE FUCKING TRAIN!
*image from http://www.freewebs.com/willacetheclown/othercharacters.htm
**image from the Doctor Who episode The Deadly Assassin
I am speaking, of course and obviously, about hobos.
They may go by many other, more "P.C." terms - gentleman of the road, boxcar men, and many others - hobos are known to all of us, but most people deny their true nature in favor of the popular depictions.
In order to expose the vile hobo to the light of day, let's look at the song that might be considered the hobo "national anthem" - Big Rock Candy Mountains
One evening as the sun went down and the jungle fire was burning
Down the track came a hobo hiking and he said boys I'm not turning
I'm headin for a land that's far away beside the crystal fountains
So come with me we'll go and see the Big Rock Candy Mountains
We see here that the hobo is addressing a group of boys, that is youths or children, hoping to lure them into the hobo lifestyle. He, of course, doesn't tell them of the true hobo lifestyle, no. Instead, he tells them that the lifestyle is literally about sweet things like candy.
One has to wonder if hobos eat so many beans in the hopes of replacing their nonexistent moral fiber with dietary fiber.
In the Big Rock Candy Mountains there's a land that's fair and bright
Where the handouts grow on bushes and you sleep out every night
Where the boxcars are all empty and the sun shines every day
On the birds and the bees and the cigarette trees
Where the lemonade springs where the bluebird sings
In the Big Rock Candy Mountains
The handouts grow on bushes. You see here that the hobo clearly desires a socialist system in which he receives handouts rather than working.
In the Big Rock Candy Mountains all the cops have wooden legs
And the bulldogs all have rubber teeth and the hens lay soft boiled eggs
The farmer's trees are full of fruit and the barns are full of hay
Oh, I'm bound to go where there ain't no snow
Where the rain don't fall and the wind don't blow
In the Big Rock Candy Mountains
First the hobo calls down disparagement on the police, those fine and upstanding enforcers of law. And this song first gained prominence during prohibition, when the police not only enforced man's law, but also God's law.
In the Big Rock Candy Mountains you never change your socks
And the little streams of alcohol come a-trickling down the rocks
The brakemen have to tip their hats and the railroad bulls are blind
There's a lake of stew and of whiskey too
You can paddle all around 'em in a big canoe
In the Big Rock Candy Mountains
And here we see that the hobo hates such time-honored traditions as sobriety, there is further disparagement of authority figures who might force the hobo to be a moral individual, and the hobo shows his distaste for sanitary conditions, wishing to not change socks and paddle a canoe around the food supply.
Again, what is so disturbing is that the hobo is telling this tale to children so that he might lure them into his degenerate lifestyle.
In the Big Rock Candy Mountains the jails are made of tin
And you can walk right out again as soon as you are in
There ain't no short handled shovels, no axes saws or picks
I'm a goin to stay where you sleep all day
Where they hung the jerk that invented work
In the Big Rock Candy Mountains
I'll see you all this coming fall in the Big Rock Candy Mountains
And the hobo shows his complete disregard for morality, desiring to be allowed immediately out of jail without ever being forced to pay for his filthy lifestyle, his desire to allow his hands to be idle (and hence the playground of the devil), and to violently overthrow those who support the social order of which he wants no part.
Savage.
And, of course, he anticipates that the children to whom he is speaking will follow his example and join him "this coming fall" - these words are neither accidental nor a simple allusion to a season of the year, the hobo knows that his path is one of moral decay, and he hopes to lead the children along it.
Of course, this disturbing recruitment is not limited to songs or chance meetings on the railroad tracks. It has also infiltrated our mass media, and the media elites are using every tool at their disposal to forward the hobo agenda. Whether it's Disney, that den of iniquity, and their animated "classic" Boxcar Willy to Buddy Ebsen's dark and disturbing turn on The Andy Griffith Show, the image of the hobo as a happy and carefree character has caused far too many of our youth to choose life as hobos.
The simple fact is this: hobos are immoral beings, disgusting in the eyes of man and abominations in the eyes of God. If everyone followed the hobo's path our society would be in shambles, therefore nobody should be allowed to follow it. The advancing hobo agenda must be stopped. I suggest three simple steps:
1. We must petition, pester, and if necessary, use force to make the immoral media elites stop portraying the hobo as a happy or positive character. We must change the false image of the hobo from this:
*to a more accurate portrayal, such as this photo taken of a hobo at a train yard:
**2. We, citizens concerned about decency, must surround train yards at every opportunity to prevent hobos from leaving their trains and attempting to recruit our children. We must be clear through our actions, however, that we do not hate the hobos, we just hate hoboism, and this means that we desire to beat the hobos as a show of our concern for them and for our children.
3. We must support legislation aimed at preventing the spread of hoboism such as Proposition 83b(c).321(k), which outlaws train yards within the state of California.
Only in this way can we hope to stem the rising tide of hoboism and save our families and communities.
I sincerely hope nobody has to read this line to realize that this is a joke and satire. I mean no ill-will towards hobos anywhere, and if any hobos are reading this I will say only STOP FOOLING AROUND ON THE INTERNET AND GET BACK ON THE FUCKING TRAIN!
*image from http://www.freewebs.com/willacetheclown/othercharacters.htm
**image from the Doctor Who episode The Deadly Assassin
Sunday, May 4, 2008
NASA Woes and How to Fix Them
Man, NASA must be having a hard time lately. First, Battlestar Gallactica announces its final season. Second, they have some presidential-appointed staffer lying in official reports to back the party line. Next, WOTC produces a fourth edition of Dungeons and Dragons shortly after producing a third, forcing money out of the pockets of NASA's engineers (no doubt forcing many of them to take out second mortgages in order to be able to afford the fully re-vamped Dragonlance Cycle). Then they face the problem of having to recruit folks without any promise of being able to send them into space.
But, things seem to be turning around. I found the attached email during an all-night hacking session. Man, it's amazing the code you can crack when you're hopped up on Mountain Dew and Pixie Sticks.
Anyway, it looks like NASA has some new leadership, at least in their Human Resources department. Perhaps things are looking up.
*****************************************
2-18-07
18:30 - Pacific
From: Herbert Grunion Melville III <homedawg@nasa.gov>
To: NASA Human Resources - listserv
Re: New Recruits
Yo!
Y'all be tellin' da' new recruits dat dey have a chance at going up in da' shuttle n'shit. Fools! I oughta' Charles Bronson upside all y'all bitch heads, muthafuckas!
Da' shuttle is gonna' be all put up n'moffballs n'shit come 2010, an' dis new bunch o'astro-NOT's ain't gon' be ready ta' fly till 2011! An' you bitches be all tellin' recruits dat' dey' gon' be flying in da' shuttle what ain't gon' be flyin' when da' training be finished? Workin' wit' yo' fools be HELL! I don' be wearin' glasses cause' I'm near-sighted, I be wearin' dem cause I be near-blinded-wit'-rage-sighted!
Yo' bes' know who ya' be fuckin' wit! I's not from some quiet neighborhood in some sweet little part o' New York, o' Los Angeles, o' Oakland o' some otha' nice place like dat'! I be from the mean streets o' Bedford, Massachewsits! Where I come from, life be cheap, an' da' croquet mallet dispense justice on yo' muthafuckin' head! Bes' yo' keep dat in mind nex' time y'all be tellin' lies to da recruits, n'case I hav' to bust a cap in you foo' ass!
Cause when da' recruits fin' out dey' not gon' be flying on no funky-fly supa'man space shuttle, who dey come whinin' to? H.G. "Mad-Dog" Melville da muthafuckin' third, that who!
If'n yo' gon' be a recruita' for da' GODAMN NASA, yo' bes' check yo'self fo' yo' wreck yo'self! It ain' 'bout da' free flights an' da' chicks all wantin' ta' freak yo' jock when dey hear you work for NASA, an' it ain't 'bout da' fly eats 'dat da' commisary all be cookin' up. Bein' a NASA recruiter be 'bout honor! If'n you can't 'member that, yo' might find yo'self suffocatin' under ma' pocket protecta' o' justice.
Word is life.
Peace out.
-HG MD
But, things seem to be turning around. I found the attached email during an all-night hacking session. Man, it's amazing the code you can crack when you're hopped up on Mountain Dew and Pixie Sticks.
Anyway, it looks like NASA has some new leadership, at least in their Human Resources department. Perhaps things are looking up.
*****************************************
2-18-07
18:30 - Pacific
From: Herbert Grunion Melville III <homedawg@nasa.gov>
To: NASA Human Resources - listserv
Re: New Recruits
Yo!
Y'all be tellin' da' new recruits dat dey have a chance at going up in da' shuttle n'shit. Fools! I oughta' Charles Bronson upside all y'all bitch heads, muthafuckas!
Da' shuttle is gonna' be all put up n'moffballs n'shit come 2010, an' dis new bunch o'astro-NOT's ain't gon' be ready ta' fly till 2011! An' you bitches be all tellin' recruits dat' dey' gon' be flying in da' shuttle what ain't gon' be flyin' when da' training be finished? Workin' wit' yo' fools be HELL! I don' be wearin' glasses cause' I'm near-sighted, I be wearin' dem cause I be near-blinded-wit'-rage-sighted!
Yo' bes' know who ya' be fuckin' wit! I's not from some quiet neighborhood in some sweet little part o' New York, o' Los Angeles, o' Oakland o' some otha' nice place like dat'! I be from the mean streets o' Bedford, Massachewsits! Where I come from, life be cheap, an' da' croquet mallet dispense justice on yo' muthafuckin' head! Bes' yo' keep dat in mind nex' time y'all be tellin' lies to da recruits, n'case I hav' to bust a cap in you foo' ass!
Cause when da' recruits fin' out dey' not gon' be flying on no funky-fly supa'man space shuttle, who dey come whinin' to? H.G. "Mad-Dog" Melville da muthafuckin' third, that who!
If'n yo' gon' be a recruita' for da' GODAMN NASA, yo' bes' check yo'self fo' yo' wreck yo'self! It ain' 'bout da' free flights an' da' chicks all wantin' ta' freak yo' jock when dey hear you work for NASA, an' it ain't 'bout da' fly eats 'dat da' commisary all be cookin' up. Bein' a NASA recruiter be 'bout honor! If'n you can't 'member that, yo' might find yo'self suffocatin' under ma' pocket protecta' o' justice.
Word is life.
Peace out.
-HG MD
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
The Sacred Mountain
So, I have been sent to Lancaster to perform archaeological survey surrounding access roads for some power lines that Southern California Edison wants to upgrade. Lancaster, as you may know, is in the California Desert, and is surrounded by mountains. The mountains to the north contain uranium, and, in point of fact, the town to the north is notorious for Cancer clusters as a result. The mountains to the south contain quartz and rhyolite and, as a result, are not carcinogenic.
Well, I was walking along the road, up one of these wondrous non-carcinogenic mountains, listening to the field tech on the other side of the road prattle on about all things purple (no, I don't understand her fixation with purple, either), when I heard a voice coming from a scrub oak next to me. It said "Ouch"
"Pardon," I asked the scrub oak, "did you say ouch?"
"Yes." The plant's answer was decisive.
"Why?"
"Because you stepped on my foot!"
I looked down to see that my rather large foot, encased in a rather large boot, was stepping on a human foot clad only in a ratty, old pair of Birkenstocks. Yep, I had found a mountain hermit.
I seperated the branches of the scrub oak to get a look at the hermit's facial hair. The facial hair of mountain hermits is distinctive to each species, and if I was going to report this to the biologist, I would first have to determine whether this was an endangered species or not. Poking my head in, I could see the long hair at the chin, surrounded by somewhat shorter hair, typical of the former goatee of the Western Post-Yuppie Pseudo-Hippie (scientific designation Homo sapien obnoxious), an invasive species that competes with habitat and displaces the native Californian burned out hippie hermit.
"Sorry about that," I said as I pulled my foot off of his. I guessed that the wildlife biologist would have to put out some bait and capture this one in order to ship it off to either Los Angeles or New York, depending on where its plumage indicated that its source of origin was.
"So?" The hermit looked at me expectantly.
"So?" I replied, with my usual wittiness and panache.
"Why are you here?" He asked, looking a bit annoyed.
"Me? Oh, I'm an archaeologist. I'm doing surveys for the utilities company."
"No, that is why you think you're here, but you are really here to learn something. Something profound." He looked very pleased with himself.
"Uhh, no, I'm here to do archaeological surveys. Here's my business card, you see that it says 'archaeologist' on it? Well, that's me, the archaeologist."
"But are you not also a seeker of wisdom?"
"Not when last I checked." I said, adjusting my backpack to better reach my tazer should the need arise.
"Have you not come to this place, the sacred mountain, to find a master whose teachings you can follow?"
"No. I'm just here for work."
"Have you not come so that I can impart my wisdom to you?" He seemed to be almost pleading. I felt sorry for the guy, and could see that letting him down would break his heart. Of course, being the way I am, that didn't stop me.
"No." I answered. I had puled out my cellphone and was scrolling for the wildlife biologist's phone number.
"Can't I impart just a little wisdom to you?"
"I'm really not in the market."
"How about your friend?" He indicated the field tech.
"Oh, I don't think she can handle any more wisdom. She just finished reading 'The Secret', you see."
"Oh." He looked disheartened.
"Well, I'd better go now, we're behind schedule and need to make up time." I lied, of course.
"Well, may the road you go down..."
"No." I said, holding my hand up, "No wisdom, no sayings, no parables, and no homilies."
He then slipped back into the vegetation, and I could actually hear him slump as he vanished from my sight. I hit the "call" button.
"Hey, it's Armstrong, the archaeologist. Yeah, we've got another of the hermits up here. No, no, this one's non-native. Yeah? Gas now? Well, whatever you think is best. I'll text the UTM coordinates over to you."
I checked my GPS, fed the coordinates into the text message, flipped the phone closed, and walked away.
Well, I was walking along the road, up one of these wondrous non-carcinogenic mountains, listening to the field tech on the other side of the road prattle on about all things purple (no, I don't understand her fixation with purple, either), when I heard a voice coming from a scrub oak next to me. It said "Ouch"
"Pardon," I asked the scrub oak, "did you say ouch?"
"Yes." The plant's answer was decisive.
"Why?"
"Because you stepped on my foot!"
I looked down to see that my rather large foot, encased in a rather large boot, was stepping on a human foot clad only in a ratty, old pair of Birkenstocks. Yep, I had found a mountain hermit.
I seperated the branches of the scrub oak to get a look at the hermit's facial hair. The facial hair of mountain hermits is distinctive to each species, and if I was going to report this to the biologist, I would first have to determine whether this was an endangered species or not. Poking my head in, I could see the long hair at the chin, surrounded by somewhat shorter hair, typical of the former goatee of the Western Post-Yuppie Pseudo-Hippie (scientific designation Homo sapien obnoxious), an invasive species that competes with habitat and displaces the native Californian burned out hippie hermit.
"Sorry about that," I said as I pulled my foot off of his. I guessed that the wildlife biologist would have to put out some bait and capture this one in order to ship it off to either Los Angeles or New York, depending on where its plumage indicated that its source of origin was.
"So?" The hermit looked at me expectantly.
"So?" I replied, with my usual wittiness and panache.
"Why are you here?" He asked, looking a bit annoyed.
"Me? Oh, I'm an archaeologist. I'm doing surveys for the utilities company."
"No, that is why you think you're here, but you are really here to learn something. Something profound." He looked very pleased with himself.
"Uhh, no, I'm here to do archaeological surveys. Here's my business card, you see that it says 'archaeologist' on it? Well, that's me, the archaeologist."
"But are you not also a seeker of wisdom?"
"Not when last I checked." I said, adjusting my backpack to better reach my tazer should the need arise.
"Have you not come to this place, the sacred mountain, to find a master whose teachings you can follow?"
"No. I'm just here for work."
"Have you not come so that I can impart my wisdom to you?" He seemed to be almost pleading. I felt sorry for the guy, and could see that letting him down would break his heart. Of course, being the way I am, that didn't stop me.
"No." I answered. I had puled out my cellphone and was scrolling for the wildlife biologist's phone number.
"Can't I impart just a little wisdom to you?"
"I'm really not in the market."
"How about your friend?" He indicated the field tech.
"Oh, I don't think she can handle any more wisdom. She just finished reading 'The Secret', you see."
"Oh." He looked disheartened.
"Well, I'd better go now, we're behind schedule and need to make up time." I lied, of course.
"Well, may the road you go down..."
"No." I said, holding my hand up, "No wisdom, no sayings, no parables, and no homilies."
He then slipped back into the vegetation, and I could actually hear him slump as he vanished from my sight. I hit the "call" button.
"Hey, it's Armstrong, the archaeologist. Yeah, we've got another of the hermits up here. No, no, this one's non-native. Yeah? Gas now? Well, whatever you think is best. I'll text the UTM coordinates over to you."
I checked my GPS, fed the coordinates into the text message, flipped the phone closed, and walked away.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
A True American Hero
Who amongst us can forget the stunning, if brief, career of one Horace J. Pillpopper, truly an inspiration to us all.
Mr. Pillpopper, as we all know, began life in Weed, California. What most people don't know is that he was originally named Michael Phillips, but that his mother changed her son's name after consultation with an astrologer convinced her that the name Michael Phillips was inauspicious and would result in her son either dying during auto-erotic asphyxiation, or else becoming an accountant. Wanting to prevent her son from a future of accountancy, Mrs. Phillips changed her son's name to Horace J. Pillpopper; a name that the astrologer convinced her would lead the boy to a glorious future of success both on and off of the horse-racing gambling circuit. The wisdom of this astrologer is clear in her call for Mr. Pillpopper to have a middle initial but no middle name. After all, the middle initial allows him to state his name (or have others state it) with great gravitas, but not require his mother to go to the effort of fabricating a full name. In all, the astrologer showed great wisdom and an efficiency that would have made Henry Ford proud.
In Weed, Mr. Pillpopper learned the value of mastering the blank stare and the ability to drool on command. These abilities served him well every time he was brought to court on jury manipulation charges, as he could immediately make himself appear to be a stumbling idiot, and would quickly be released to his comfortable cell in the sanitarium where he would hatch his further schemes.
Leaving Weed, and his comfortable cell, behind, Mr. Pillpopper joined Barnum Luca's Great and Traveling Circus, where Mr. Pillpopper briefly performed in the Freak Show as "The World's Tallest Man" – a stint made brief by the fact that Mr. Pillpopper was only 5'7". However, the circus did bring Horace J. Pillpopper to the next stop in his illustrious career – the thriving metropolis of Riverbank, California.
In Riverbank, Mr. Pillpopper opened his now world-famous dance studio and meth lab. Though quite successful, or perhaps because of its success, the City Council of Riverbank shut the dance studio and meth lab down for providing illegal dancing in the town of Riverbank, and for not having the mandatory two-way mirror installed in the women's restroom in order that members of the city council might ensure the morality of all activities within that room.
Though Mr. Pillpopper was subsequently arrested, charged, and convicted of "Subverting the Will of the Town Masters" and sentences to execution by hanging, an activist judge legislated from the bench and freed him, claiming that the punishment was excessive for the crime, and the crimes for which Mr. Pillpopper had been convicted were really rather silly, anyway. The City Council announced their intent to take the case all the way to the Supreme Court, but was distracted when a toaster with shiny buttons was placed on a table in the council chambers.
Not one to be kept down, Mr. Pillpopper wrote about his experience in his auto-biography, "Raindrops Keep Falling on my Huffalump." It was later charged that the book was largely fictional, even leading to Bill O'Reilly apologizing for endorsing it, the first apology that Mr. O'Reilly had ever issued in his life. However, this did not prevent the book from making the best seller's list, and Mr. Pillpopper refused to acknowledge any wrongdoing.
As more evidence came out proving that many of the claims in Mr. Pillpopper's book were false (including his claim that he was the first man to walk on the moon, that Jesse Owens was actually French, that he had found irrefutable proof of weapons of mass destruction in Iraq, and that Mr. Pillpopper had, in fact, discovered America), Mr. Pillpopper became increasingly adamant in claiming that all information in the book was true and accurate. Such a stance in the face of seemingly overwhelming reality increased public respect for Mr. Pillpopper, who became viewed as a decisive straight-shooter who stands his ground. Indeed, many began to believe that the claims that Mr. Pillpopper's book was largely fiction was simply a ploy by the "reality-obsessed Factanistas" to discredit a true American Hero. Needless to say, his book sales soared, and he became very popular on the public speaking circuit.
Ironically, given the astrologer's advice about his name, Mr. Pillpopper did die of auto-erotic asphyxiation – just not his own. Mr. Pillpopper was walking in Downtown Ceres when the rubber tubing that an auto-erotic asphixiator was using to cut off oxygen broke and flew through the window. Mr. Pillpopper stepped on it and slipped, causing him to fall down a manhole cover into the sewers, where an alligator made quick work of him.
So, let us remember Mr. Horace J Pillpopper, entrepreneur, author, public speaker, and American Hero.
Mr. Pillpopper, as we all know, began life in Weed, California. What most people don't know is that he was originally named Michael Phillips, but that his mother changed her son's name after consultation with an astrologer convinced her that the name Michael Phillips was inauspicious and would result in her son either dying during auto-erotic asphyxiation, or else becoming an accountant. Wanting to prevent her son from a future of accountancy, Mrs. Phillips changed her son's name to Horace J. Pillpopper; a name that the astrologer convinced her would lead the boy to a glorious future of success both on and off of the horse-racing gambling circuit. The wisdom of this astrologer is clear in her call for Mr. Pillpopper to have a middle initial but no middle name. After all, the middle initial allows him to state his name (or have others state it) with great gravitas, but not require his mother to go to the effort of fabricating a full name. In all, the astrologer showed great wisdom and an efficiency that would have made Henry Ford proud.
In Weed, Mr. Pillpopper learned the value of mastering the blank stare and the ability to drool on command. These abilities served him well every time he was brought to court on jury manipulation charges, as he could immediately make himself appear to be a stumbling idiot, and would quickly be released to his comfortable cell in the sanitarium where he would hatch his further schemes.
Leaving Weed, and his comfortable cell, behind, Mr. Pillpopper joined Barnum Luca's Great and Traveling Circus, where Mr. Pillpopper briefly performed in the Freak Show as "The World's Tallest Man" – a stint made brief by the fact that Mr. Pillpopper was only 5'7". However, the circus did bring Horace J. Pillpopper to the next stop in his illustrious career – the thriving metropolis of Riverbank, California.
In Riverbank, Mr. Pillpopper opened his now world-famous dance studio and meth lab. Though quite successful, or perhaps because of its success, the City Council of Riverbank shut the dance studio and meth lab down for providing illegal dancing in the town of Riverbank, and for not having the mandatory two-way mirror installed in the women's restroom in order that members of the city council might ensure the morality of all activities within that room.
Though Mr. Pillpopper was subsequently arrested, charged, and convicted of "Subverting the Will of the Town Masters" and sentences to execution by hanging, an activist judge legislated from the bench and freed him, claiming that the punishment was excessive for the crime, and the crimes for which Mr. Pillpopper had been convicted were really rather silly, anyway. The City Council announced their intent to take the case all the way to the Supreme Court, but was distracted when a toaster with shiny buttons was placed on a table in the council chambers.
Not one to be kept down, Mr. Pillpopper wrote about his experience in his auto-biography, "Raindrops Keep Falling on my Huffalump." It was later charged that the book was largely fictional, even leading to Bill O'Reilly apologizing for endorsing it, the first apology that Mr. O'Reilly had ever issued in his life. However, this did not prevent the book from making the best seller's list, and Mr. Pillpopper refused to acknowledge any wrongdoing.
As more evidence came out proving that many of the claims in Mr. Pillpopper's book were false (including his claim that he was the first man to walk on the moon, that Jesse Owens was actually French, that he had found irrefutable proof of weapons of mass destruction in Iraq, and that Mr. Pillpopper had, in fact, discovered America), Mr. Pillpopper became increasingly adamant in claiming that all information in the book was true and accurate. Such a stance in the face of seemingly overwhelming reality increased public respect for Mr. Pillpopper, who became viewed as a decisive straight-shooter who stands his ground. Indeed, many began to believe that the claims that Mr. Pillpopper's book was largely fiction was simply a ploy by the "reality-obsessed Factanistas" to discredit a true American Hero. Needless to say, his book sales soared, and he became very popular on the public speaking circuit.
Ironically, given the astrologer's advice about his name, Mr. Pillpopper did die of auto-erotic asphyxiation – just not his own. Mr. Pillpopper was walking in Downtown Ceres when the rubber tubing that an auto-erotic asphixiator was using to cut off oxygen broke and flew through the window. Mr. Pillpopper stepped on it and slipped, causing him to fall down a manhole cover into the sewers, where an alligator made quick work of him.
So, let us remember Mr. Horace J Pillpopper, entrepreneur, author, public speaker, and American Hero.
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