A Letter From Superman To Lois Lane


                                          “Ah, not this shit again…”

Hello Lois, it’s Superman here, the real deal. No, this isn’t a fake letter from any of my various super-villains trying to trick you. This is the real fucking-A Superman writing this letter, so sit down and shut up while I get some annoying facts about you off my massive, “S”-emblazoned chest.

First of all, please stop trying to find out my secret identity. I mean, it’s just pathetic. You search all over Metropolis with your reporter “instincts” attempting to discover what I do on my off-hours. Meanwhile I’m the guy at the Daily Planet who just happens to be as tall and massive as Superman, and his EXACT TWIN except with a shitty haircut and shittier glasses, but you NEVER put two-and-two together. Somehow, to you (and the people of Metropolis, I might add) a pair of cheap spectacles from LensCrafters completely disguises me from my super-powered alter ego. I live in a city of morons led by the Queen Moron, which is you, Lois.


            “It’s a valid question, Lois. ANSWER ME.”

Also, please please PLEASE stop throwing yourself out windows to get my attention. What do I look like, a flying free-range escalator? I swear I’ve lowered you to the ground more often than the elevator at the Daily Planet. Don’t you know I’m BUSY? I could be off saving fucking CANADA from a fucking METEOR but NOOOOOOOOO, Lois just hurled herself out the window AGAIN. I’m sure all those millions of screaming Canadians won’t mind me popping over to the other side of the planet to save your individual selfish ASS, LOIS.


“I weep not for the lost Canadians, but for their sweet, sweet maple syrup. Kids everywhere are going to be eating bare pancakes because of you, Lois. Live with that knowledge. Live with it to the end of your DAYS.”

And if I’m not saving you from certain death by terminal velocity and stupidity, I’ve still got to rescue you from the bad guys because you “dashed off to cover a dangerous assignment”. Lois, please listen to me. This is the 21st century. Reporters DO NOT COVER DANGEROUS ASSIGNMENTS. Most (as in 99.9%) so-called “journalists” these days are fat, sweaty, and so cowardly that they drop their Hostess Cupcakes every time someone behind them farts. Maybe city reporters in the old days ran off to eavesdrop on the Mob, or gather factual research on the political crimes of Metropolis, but trust me, not anymore. The only reason a city reporter will leave his or her desk to cover an important event these days is because free beer and nachos may be served. But no, not YOU. Throwing all logic and self-preservation instincts out the window (get it?), anytime something real big and invariably life-threatening is about to go down in this fair city of ours, you’re the only reporter there on the scene. Which is commendable. But a massive nuisance for me because ONCE AGAIN I HAVE TO SAVE YOUR PRECIOUS DERRIERE.

THINK ABOUT IT, WOMAN! These days if Perry White told someone to go downtown because the 50-foot tall stampeding robot stomping orphans there would make a good story, that reporter would say, “Fuck you, Perry. Fuck YOU.” Even Jimmy Olsen. And that red-headed little bastard kisses so much ass his face is vertically bisected by a permanent brown stain.


“And on the eighth day God said, “Now let there be the most annoying life-form in the universe, and let it possess red hair and shitty fashion sense.”

But not you, oh no. You love almost getting killed just so you can talk to me for five seconds before I have to go save the fucking Canadians again. Lady, read my super-powered lips: I’M A BUSY MAN. STOP DISTRACTING ME BECAUSE IT KILLS PEOPLE. And, sometimes, kittens. Yes, Lois, that’s right. Your continual quest to involve your weak Earth ass in my life has delayed me many times from saving a kitten from a wood-chipper. I’m serious.


                         Meow meow why did you kill me Lois why meow meow

Sure, sometimes RARELY you are of actual help to me. Like that time when Lex Luthor put a chunk of kryptonite on my chest and I was so weak I couldn’t knock it away, but you could since you’re unaffected by the green-K. But I’ve given it some thought, and I’ve come to realize that anything you can do to help me can also be accomplished by an Orangutan with a massive brain injury.

So that’s what I’m going to do. I’m flying off to goddamn Malaysia now to befriend the first mentally challenged Orangutan I see and name him ‘Hairy Jimmy’. I’ll train him to do the very few things you do that assist me. I’m confident in the knowledge that I WON’T have to train my helmet-wearing Orangutan pal Hairy Jimmy NOT to throw himself out of windows or into the Niagara Falls, because that fact is pretty well fucking encoded in every lifeforms’ DNA except, apparently, one Lois Lane.


“Aw, knock it the FUCK off, CRAZY EARTH WOMAN! Haven’t you been LISTENING TO ME?!? Nobody try to stop her, OK? I’m serious here.”

And a half-witted Orangutan should confuse my super-villains enough to get the drop on them. I mean, can you see some henchman reporting to Luthor that, “Superman’s flying towards us, and he’s carrying a drooling Orangutan.” Now that shit would confuse the hell out of ol’ Lex. Jesus Christ, it’d even give Mr. Mxyzptlk pause, and he’s more bat-shit crazy than you, Lois. But even that midget bald-headed prick knows not to jump out a window around me. Try getting the hint there, Lois.

In closing, please take this letter very seriously, Miss Lane, or I’ll throw your whole family into the Sun. That’s right: your Mom and Dad and little brother William and Aunt Sally and Uncle George and your pet hamster and even your fucking GRANDMOTHER right into GODDAMN SUN! And I’ll make you watch from the Justice League satellite no matter how loud Batman yells at me.

Have a GREAT goddamn day and never, ever, EVER bother me AGAIN,


P.S. I’m serious here, this ain’t no game, Lois. I SWEAR if you throw yourself out one more window, or Niagara Falls, the Eiffel Tower, or whatever else is tall on this planet, all I’m bringing to the game is a box of fucking popcorn to watch you go SPLAT. Hopefully you’ll land on a baby carriage and make everyone hate you at your funeral. I promise to attend with my ape buddy, Hairy Jimmy. He’s the only one who truly understands me these days, since the Human race is so terminally FUCKED. I wish I’d stayed on Krypton…




A Few Very Personal Math Equations


This is the only type of math problem I really understand, and it had to be a meme…

Baby to Toddler Years:

EF = G, where:
Eating Food (EF) = Good (G).


CP = G, where:
Cute Puppies (CP) = Good (G).


EP = (-G), where:
Eating Puppies (EP) = Not Good (negative G)

Childhood Years:


Just one grim example of the incredibly safe toys I desired to own in my childhood. They’re not lawn darts, they’re flying lobotomies.

NT + (∞ x W) = P + NT, where:
My desire for a new toy (NT) + (infinity (∞) multiplied with whining (W) = parent purchasing new toy (NT).


E = MC², where:

E = Eating;
M = Me;
C² = Contents of Fridge.


BF + ST + LP = ∞ x FP, where:

BF = Bare Foot;
ST = Stepping On;
LP = Lego(tm) Building Brick;
FP = Pain


Know your enemy.

Teenager Years:

(BBQF + D) x (LM) = (BOOM + (-E) x pi) x (20), where:

BBQF = BBQ Fluid;
D = My Dad;
LM = Lit Match;
BOOM = Minor Explosion;
E = Eyebrows of all living creatures within 20-foot radius.


A = F – NM + H, where:

A = Alcohol;
F = Fun;
NM = Next Morning;
H = Hangover.


GET + S = BF x (pi*radius^2*length) + AF + IFE, where:

GET = Dad bellowing at me to GET him a beer;
S = Shaking the beer bottle;
BF = Erupting Column of Beer Foam;
AF = Annoyed Father;
IFE = My Innocent Facial Expression.


Googling “funny drinking” brings up lots of pictures of drunk people, and this image. I’m going with this image. You’re welcome.

Adult Years:

H = (-H), where:

H = Hair.


My Sleep Struggles Are Grim and Nasty


Every morning when I wake up my bed looks like I’ve been wrestling an octopus on it. An octopus that’s very, very good at wrestling, mind you. Like it’s the Hulk Hogan of WWE octopus cage matches.

I don’t know why my sleep is so often uneasy. I wake up every few hours and, no matter how late I get to bed, I pop irrevocably wide-eyed around six or seven in the morning. And, while I sleep, I toss and turn like a confused rotary lathe in a blender.

It doesn’t matter how well I make my bed; when I awaken my blankets are scattered all over my room. Same with my pillows. Even my form-fitted bed-sheet, tucked in all four corners, is usually about half-way up the mattress. What the hell am I doing during the night?

It used to be worse, actually. I used to sleep-walk. I haven’t had any episodes lately, thank God. Last thing my room-mate needs is me walking into his room at 4:32 AM muttering, “Leo, the blueberry muffins need our help. Tony Danza died for our sins. Luggage. Aquaman.” Yeah, I sleep-talk too, and I know what I say when I sleep is complete and utter nonsense (much like when I’m awake). I tape-recorded myself sleeping awhile back and, listening to the audio in morning, I just shook my head sadly and erased it. I sounded like a dictionary with ADHD.

I’ve had some strange mornings waking up to whatever I’ve done during the night. A few years back, one bright and cheery dawn, when I awoke one of my pillows was missing. I was alarmed; I’d heard too many times of dreams about eating giant marshmallows. Looking around my room proved no solution to the errant pillow.

Y’know where it was? In the bathtub. That’s right. For some bizarre reason during the night, my dream-brain must have reached the logical conclusion that one of my pillows would be more comfortable in the bathroom. Not only was it in the tub, the pillow was propped up like it was laying down for a nice relaxing imaginary soak. When I pulled aside the shower curtain it seemed the pillow was saying to me, “Do you MIND? I’m trying to BATHE HERE.”

I slept over at my friend Dave’s place once and he told me in the morning, “Dan, you were wandering around the hallway last night saying, ‘Dave! The doors are closing. The doors are closing! THE DOORS…. ARE CLOSING!!!‘ ”. Dave looked very unsettled over breakfast.

My somnolent thrashings probably have to do with the very strange dreams I experience at night. They usually start off normally, but then devolve into twisted vistas of deep strangeness. Normal people count sheep to fall asleep; I count sheep and, after I fall asleep, those sheep turn into giant slices of Swiss cheese, with eyes where the holes should be, and they’re singing “Dancing Queen” by ABBA.

There’s this phenomenon called “lucid dreaming” where your conscious brain remains awake while you sleep and you can live in your dreams like they’re real life. Well, to that I say, No Thank You. I have enough trouble dealing with the memories of my strange dreams in the mornings, last thing I need is to live them out in technicolor while my body is sleep-paralyzed and I can only scream in silent terror. I prefer real life and how it causes me to scream out loud in terror every single day, thank you very much.

Letter of Complaint to my Internet Service Provider


Dear Primus Canada,

Six weeks ago I ordered one of your high-speed Internet lines to be installed in my home. One of your friendly yet creepy technicians arrived in two days’ time and set up the internet cable feed with ease. Wonderful, I thought, until he told me I’d have to wait for the cable modem to arrive in the mail to actually use my new internet line. (As an aside, why don’t you supply cable modems to your technicians in the first place, so your customers don’t have to wait?)

I, with understandable disappointment, asked him when the cable modem would show up; the grinning technician (leaving with some haste, I might add, obviously looking forward to an evening of not working for Primus) stated that the crucial device would show up in a few days.

It’s been over SIX WEEKS NOW, Primus, and the thrice-damned cable modem has not reared its ugly box-shaped head. Or, should I say, thrice-plus-one damned modem since a) I’ve called your various and confusing help desks “run” by various and confused employees FOUR TIMES now and, b) I don’t know the word for what comes after “thrice”.

On top of calling you by phone, I’ve sent e-mails to your “organization” pleading for my cable modem. No response, of course. I suspect your e-mail manager is actually a skeleton in a shirt and tie sitting in front of a cobwebbed computer from 1996 still running Windows 95 and a half-finished Solitaire game.

Hell, I’ve even made a post on your Facebook Primus page, to which I will not link because I’m frankly tired of doing pointless things. I’ve had enough of useless endeavors after going to college and using valuable broadcast equipment to videotape gophers running across the 401 highway. Well, maybe not so pointless, since the gophers who were annihilated by the passing cold and uncaring Grim Reaper-like traffic have actually gotten further to acquiring a cable modem than I currently have from your corporation.

As I type this polite and respectful letter to you, oh gibbering primates of Primus, my cable modem line pleads silently to me to fulfill its function. It is as a grey and near-leafless tree branch in the depths of winter, cold and despairing for a summer that will never arrive while tiny snow termites gnaw away at the dying quick within it.

Despairing of ever entering the sweet round crevice of a sexy female coaxial plug, my cable modem line juts out with no purpose whatsoever, like the last penis on Earth.

It dangles out of my wall like the schlong of a castrated 19th century Castrato opera singer, shrieking out impossibly high-notes of want and desire while being completely useless.

I guess what I’m trying to say here, Primus, is WHERE IN THE SWEET NAME OF GOD AND ALL THAT IS HOLY IS MY PROMISED CABLE MODEM? Sorry for yelling but JESUS FUCK WHY PRIMUS WHY? Oh, sure, I’ve been getting your BILLS asking me for PAYMENT for your so-called “service”. Oh, YES INDEEDILY-FUCKING-DOODILY your requests for payment have had NO PROBLEM WHATSOEVER finding their demonic way into my mailbox like demonic E. coli-infected flatworms invading the lower colons of all hapless bastards who dare to swim in any beach located within ten miles of Ottawa.

Every action I attempt to communicate with you is met with, at best, empty promises and indifferent silence. I get a better response swearing at my cat, Steve, whom merely gazes up at me and wonders why the food-bringer is being so noisy at it for pissing on the newly upholstered ottoman.

Before I go, here’s a quick true story from my past just for you, my Primus pals, that I’ve never shared with anyone else. Back in the day when I enjoyed drinking vast amounts of alcohol as both a hobby and scientific study, after hitting the downtown bars with my buddy Steve one evening he drunkenly dared me to wave a large rubber penis at traffic. (To this day I’m not sure where he got hold of said imposing, nine-inch long marital aid – I suspect he had a pretty freaky girlfriend).

Outside his creepy apartment on Somerset Street, as I waved and shook that horrible rubber penis at the passing cars bearing startled and staring drivers and children, I reflected on the sheer pointlessness of my stupid act. But now I realize that this horrible deed I performed did actually have a point, since I would have had a better chance of someone walking up to me and say, “I see you’re waving a huge dildo at passing motorists, here’s a cable modem” than ever getting one from the daydreaming, ceiling-staring folk at PRIMUS.

Thank you for reading and considering this inquiry, Primus representatives. I hope this kind, caring letter finds you in good health as you’re all stuffing chocolate eclairs down your gaping throats while discussing last night’s episode of “Cheating Spouses” rather than, y’know, actually finding out what weird stranger’s mail slot my cable modem has been shoved into with enough Herculean force to remove it from this frame of reality.

Your Pal in Jesus,

‘Cause only He knows where my cable modem is,


Primus Account # 713********

Currently living in cable modem-less HELL.

Which Is Better? The Internet or A Beautiful Summer’s Day?


Just one of the dangers you’ll face by venturing outside.

An investigation into finalizing an individual’s personal choice between a world-wide computer network or getting one’s fat ass away from the computer and actually going outside.

Which is Better:

  • Summer’s Day: Around for only one season.
  • Internet: Around all year long.

Winner: The Internet.

  • Summer’s Day: Lots of pretty girls wearing next to nothing.
  • Internet: Lots of pretty girls wearing nothing.

Winner: The Internet.

  • Summer’s Day: You sunburn and develop skin cancer from solar rays.
  • Internet: Your skin is protected from ultraviolet radiation by your parent’s basement ceiling. Radiation from computer monitors has proven to be beneficial to human DNA. (Reference: somewhere on Wikipedia I think I read once.)

Winner: The Internet.

  • Summer’s Day: Traditional summer camp counselors scream at you to hike, swim, climb mountains, etc.
  • Internet: Computer camp counselors calmly teach you how to download free MP3’s, hack into your sister’s blog, “find” credit card numbers, etc.

Winner: The Internet.

  • Summer’s Day: Outdoor summer jobs such as landscaping, mowing lawns, and painting houses require a great deal of physical exertion.
  • Internet: Your indoor job of selling virtual items in online multiplayer games for real hard cash requires little or no physical exertion (beyond getting more Frito’s from the kitchen).

Winner: The Internet.

  • Summer’s Day: Eating food outdoors attracts annoying insects such as ants, bees, and mosquitoes.
  • Internet: Eating food indoors attracts the attention of your cat “Larry”, who merely stares at the burrito going into your mouth.

Winner: The Internet.

  • Summer’s Day: A lot of people drown at the beach.
  • Internet: Very few people have ever drowned on the Internet.

Winner: The Internet.

  • Summer’s Day: A lot of people are eaten by sharks at the beach.
  • Internet: Very few people are eaten by sharks on the Internet, and if they are, their YouTube fame is assured.

Winner: The Internet.

  • Summer’s Day: The flowers in bloom smell nice.
  • Internet: The pizza you order after nine uninterrupted hours of playing “Counter-Strike” online smells nicer.

Winner: The Internet.

  • Summer’s Day: No school during the summer months.
  • Internet: You post your homework in your blog for other people to complete via the “comments” section. You’ve done this since Grade 3.

Winner: The Internet.

  • Summer’s Day: Having an outdoor BBQ is fun.
  • Internet: Your computer has never emitted a thirty foot pillar of flame due to an impatient Uncle Louie and excess “BBQ starter” lighting fluid. And if your computer does burst into flame, blame the latest 50-gigabyte Windows 10 update, not Uncle Louie.

Winner: The Internet.

  • Summer’s Day: You get some quiet time by sending the kids to a two-week summer camp.
  • Internet: You get some quiet time when your kids get addicted to “World of Warcraft” for seven months.

Winner: The Internet.

  • Summer’s Day: You look cool paddling a canoe.
  • Internet: You look more cool getting WiFi on your laptop in a canoe.

Winner: The Internet.

  • Summer’s Day: Roasting marshmallows over an open campfire is fun.
  • Internet: Flaming strangers in chat rooms by insulting their mothers is more fun.

Winner: The Internet.

  • Summer’s Day: Throwing a Frisbee is an activity most people enjoy.
  • Internet: Throwing an America Online Free Trial CD against the wall with lethal velocity is an activity everyone enjoys.

Winner: The Internet.

  • Summer’s Day: If you are a woman, you might feel a little shy wearing a bikini on the beach.
  • Internet: If you are a woman, you don’t feel shy at all about posting pictures on the Net of your drunken, unconscious ex-boyfriend wearing a bikini with the words SLUT BUNNY in big black letters written with a permanent magic marker on his forehead.

Winner: The Internet.

  • Summer’s Day: When summer ends, winter arrives.
  • Internet: When your Internet access crashes, Life as you know it ends.

Winner: Still the The Internet! SCREW SUMMER.


SEARS Declares First Profits In Years


SEARS Declares First Profits In Decades Due To Prices Finally Being Reasonable During Grand Closing Sale.

A newly released statement from the home office of SEARS Canada today is causing ripples of surprise in the financial markets. Reporting their first profit in many years, SEARS executives have determined the cause stems from lowered prices on their merchandise during the current close-out sale. Such lowered prices are bringing SEARS merchandise into the realm of affordability to all Canadian consumers.

“It’s not a bad deal now,” says Mary Glanchford of Ottawa, Ontario, outside her local SEARS store. “Before this big sale, I could never buy anything from SEARS, they were just too expensive! Twenty-nine ninety-five for a Nickleback T-shirt? Who are they kidding?!? But now with their crap half-off in price, I can actually afford to buy from them.”

The statement from the head office continues: “We here at SEARS sincerely thank all Canadians for their patronage over the decades. While we are experiencing a surprise profit in our final days, all of our branches will still close due to mismanagement and a CEO with the foresight and economic acumen of a lightning struck Alberta Pine tree stump. Honestly, who would have thought reasonable prices would have saved our asses?”

(The above article is parody)



Photo by Scott Goodwill on Unsplash

I have just learned of “glamping”, or glamour camping. I am savagely annoyed at the concept. Glamping is wrong, wrong-er than Carrottop in a musical performance.

Does it really need to be said that the whole purpose of camping is to, well, rough it out in the woods? The reason we haul our fat city asses out of our houses and relinquish sweet amenities for the wonders of the forest is to get back in touch with nature, at least for a summer week-end or two. Bringing all your conveniences from home, to “glamour camp”, is not getting back to nature… it’s AIRING OUT YOUR LUXURIES!

Sorry, sorry, I won’t yell. I just get upset at the younger generation sometimes and their aberrant, almost perverted fads. Every year I understand more and hideously more why old people stand outside on their front lawns and yell at passing kids. I’m middle-aged now but believe you me, when I hit my sixties, I’m going to buy me a house with a big lawn beside a public school just so I can stand outside and scream my fool lungs out at you damn whippersnappers while waving a spatula.

Good lord, I just typed “whippersnappers”. I am getting old.

ANYWAYS. Back to “glamping”, Baby Jesus help all our souls. Listen to me: when you go camping, you ruin the experience of appreciating nature by surrounding yourself with a 16-person Persian-style silk tent, portable fireplace, inflatable hot tub, auto-cooking propane BBQ, floodlights, music laser system, squirrel defenestrater, Segways with all-terrain tires so you don’t have to walk, etc bloody ETC.

When I camp, I bring a tent, sleeping bag, water and food. I always remember to forget a flashlight. Because getting lost in the woods at night is very healthy: one or two or thirty-nine blasts of adrenaline to one’s straining heart while running and gibbering from terror in the monster-filled darkness among cranium-cracking obstacle trees is excellent cardio. It prepares you when things inevitably go all Blair Witch, another great experience you’ll probably miss by “glamour camping” and playing online games safe inside your fancy tent.

I hear some of these (ugh) “glampers” bring the most useless items with them. For example, cats. Why would you bring a cat camping? You ever try to get a cat out of a tree? You ever try to get a cat out of 2,317 trees? That’s what you’ll be doing when your cat freaks out at something in the woods, which it will, trust me. Cats jump seventeen feet in the air when the basement furnace turns on, you really think your feline is going to maintain a Prozac level of calm in a forest filled with wild, screaming animals? Nope.

JUST GO CAMPING AND ROUGH IT! We live in cities that have numbed our senses to the real world around us, and the most real world is out there is in the woods and wilds. Staying in a luxury cabin all weekend playing “World of Warcraft” and cramming Twinkies down your gaping throat while surrounded by the gorgeous beauty of the Great Outdoors is sad, wrong, and a horribly wasted opportunity to nourish your spirit from experiencing Nature.

Instead of spending your money on things that make camping easier, try bringing just what you need and leave the trappings of civilization behind you, even if just for a little while. Unplug from the machine and connect with the life around you in the forest. Stare up at the stars and remember your dreams. Life isn’t about glamour… it’s about helping yourself and others grow in joy and wisdom. And besides, if you do forget to bring enough food while in the woods, just sneak over to someone who’s glamour camping and steal their pot roast. Don’t worry, they’ll always have more.