Video Game Characters: Life Beyond ‘Game Over’
I invite Link into the room. He quietly closes the door, and sheepishly prances towards the table, while staring down at the floor. Then, he places the keys to his pink Vespa on the table, as I invite him to sit down and begin. No, this isn’t the beginning of a gay porno. Link and many other video game characters have agreed to divulge the ups and downs of life after infamy. The prosperous and the painful, all to be documented here, as an exclusive. We all remember Link as the heroic avenger in ‘Legend Of Zelda’. 
Link courageously battled his way through multiple gauntlets, collected Rupees, and ultimately defeated the evil Gannon. After obtaining the mystical triforce, and saving the Princess, life took multiple twists and turns for Link. 
“That silly bitch got kidnapped every other week.” he recalls with a prominent lisp and limp wristed expression. “Finally, we settled down to start a family…We never actually had sexual intercourse. The sex education in Hyrule was just awful. I was under the impression she’s be impregnated by a firm handshake or a pleasant stork. Then, she’d poop out a child.” He later confided to me by referring to Zelda’s vagina as, “A cavernous abyss, which smelled like a garbage bag full of dead fish on the sidewalk during a hot summers day.” Finally, Zelda was impregnated. At this point, in the interview Link begins to softly weep. He struggles to explain the story which unfolded in Hyrule Hospital. 
“When the doctor said it was a boy, I was so excited” How so?, I ask “I went into song- Surprise, surprise, puppy surprise. How many puppies are there inside?” That excitement turned into life altering bitterness after Link laid eyes on his son. “Wasn’t mine.” he directly stated. “I told her she was a frickin’ whore! I saved that stubble cooched whore from Gannon too many times for her to turn around and let King Hippo blow his load inside her yeast infected box.” Link would move out of Hyrule, and into San Francisco. Fascinated by hipster culture, Link began to frequently see live concerts. “I listen to Passion Pit, Panic At The Disco, Menomena, Fall Out Boy and other stuff that dykes and fags enjoy…I wanted to be part of the scene.” In the middle of Lilith Fair, Link got into a verbal spat with a group of lesbians. 
“They did. They stole it. I’ve had this fabulous haircut since 1987. That’s when I decided that all women were icky, and I wanted nothing more to do with their pap smears, girl vaginas and scented douches.” Link became a gay rights advocate, and was romantically linked to Don Flaminco for a number of years. These days, Link is the manager of a downtown Dairy Queen in San Francisco. 
“It’s faaaabulous!” He exclaims while placing his hand on his hip, and looking off into the distance. “I AM the Dairy Queen. I hope Princess Zelda rots in hell” after receiving the news she’d yet again been kidnapped by Gannon. “I hope he fucks that stupid bitch was a gasoline soaked cactus.” Suffice to say, there aren’t enough Rupees in the world to initiate another rescue mission. ““I already have the triforce. I wake up every morning with my skidmarks smeared on the front on another sexy man’s underwear. What else could Link the Tink ever ask for?” The story of Mega Man is a depressing one.
After battling the demented Dr. Wily a number of times, Mega Man finally realized what he was missing in his life. True love. Unfortunately, the laws of love do not coincide with the laws of sexual consent. A journal found by police in a South American hotel read. “I just….I don’t know. Noboby knows what it’s like when a robot boner rages out of control. I’d wake up in the middle of the night, with my sheets damp with motor oil and hydro fluid. Doused in my own shame.” This sexual confusion eventually lead to a forbidden love. After watching the TV show ‘Small Wonder’, Mega Man became infatuated with the young, adolescent robot girl, Vicky.
They met, and immediately fell into a forbidden love for the ages. 
The journal goes on to read, “She was so aesthetically pleasing. Call it whatever you will, but I call it true love.” Unfortunately, the state of California called it Amber Alert. Mega Man abducted Vicky, then falsified documents creating a legal marriage. After 3 weeks of a Bonny & Clyde inspired adventure evading authorities, Vicky broke it off with Mega Man. Mega Man continued his life on the run, encountering a whole new plethora of bosses. 
The final exert in Mega Man’s journal read- “I need another girlfriend about as bad as America needs another Red Hot Chili Peppers song about California.” Both of their whereabouts are unknown at this time…
My next interview was with a small, three legged red alien. His name was Toe Jam, and you may remember him from ‘Toe Jam & Earl’.
These two natives from the planet Funkotron, crashed their space ship, and struggled to find the scattered components necessary to fly home. Toe Jam slowly walked in, with a defined urban swagger. I greeted him, and he sat down. “What happened with Earl?”, I enquire. At that point in time, Toe Jam hocked a loogie and spat on the floor, animating disgust towards his former friend. “That motherfucker is dead to me, dawg.” Toe Jam goes on to explain the specific deviancy which lead to their separation. 
“Sheeeeeeeit, after we got back to Funkotron, that fat bitch got into some freaky shit.” Toe Jam continued to describe Earl’s crazy sex parties involving underaged teenagers. “I’m a thug. But I ain’t into that shit, yo. I dipped outta Funkotron, and moved to the west coast to meet up with my homies.” Toe Jam was then introduced as the newest artist with Death Row Records. 
Toe Jam released his major label debut in 1994, featuring the single “My Third Leg Ain’t My Dick” The single did not receive much mainstream airplay, but was praised widely among members of The Bloods. Toe Jam left Death Row Records with the blessing of good friend Suge Knight, to pursue other projects. After being out of the public eye for over 10 years, Toe Jam resurfaced breakdancing at a shopping mall. 
Unfortunately, a small child had gotten away from her negligent, useless parents and Toe Jam accidentally kicked the baby in the face. “Fuck that punk bitch baby! That whore got dealt with.” The video became a youtube sensation, and Toe Jam was thrusted back into the mainstream. In a nasty incident, Toe Jam auditioned for American Idol. Having snuck a weapon into the audition, he fired twice directly into the face of Paula Abdul. 
“Turned out to be no big thing”, Toe Jam explained. “They just built a robot out of popsicle sticks and wax. Nobody even fucking noticed.” No charges were filed, and viewers seemed much more fond of the robotic Paula, anyway. Earl’s story is much more disturbing. He wasn’t able to be reached for comment, nor is he up for parole for another 9 years. However, police records were obtained explaining his descent into a sick perverted underworld. After Toe Jam left, Earl opened up a bicycle shop. Two boys, Arnold and his friend Dudley frequently visited. Without understanding Earl’s perverse intentions, the boys allowed Earl to serve them wine, watch x-rated cartoons, and eat delicious pies. 
Finally, Arnold told his father, Mr. Drummond and he alerted the police. Subsequently, the police raided Earl’s Bicycle Shop, finding a bevy of child pornography hidden away in the back room. They also found a rusted van around the side of the shop. The contents of the van included Skittles, Pokemon cards, Fruit Roll-Ups, and a torn and tattered pair of Alvin & The Chipmunks footy pajamas. Earl stood trial, and was sent to a maximum security intergalactic sex offender prison. 
Earl was reported to tell a prison guard, “I like my sexual partners like I like my donuts- Day old and glazed.” These knuckleheads should have listened to Wilford Brimley’s diabetes supply advice. 
You could probably beat them in a foot race. You could also be a huge dick, and buy them socks for Christmas. Little Mac was the 17 year old, 100 pound boxing phenomenon featured in ‘Mike Tyson’s Punchout’. 
Starting from Glass Joe and going all the way to Mike Tyson, Little Mac quickly found himself on top of the world. “A lot of the credit belongs to Doc. Everytime I was beat up, he’d rub my shoulders and my health vastly improved. Then, he’d steal my bike and wouldn’t give it back until I bought him a grape soda and some fried chicken. They were intense work outs.” Of course, he’s referring to Doc Lewis, Mac’s longtime manager. “When Doc left, I just wasn’t the same.”, Mac recalls. 
Doc went on to a successful acting career. He was most well known in his portrayal of Carl Winslow from the TV sitcom ‘Family Matters’. 
Shortly after his departure, Mac lost his championship title to an upstart young brawler from the early 90’s named Norman Poophouse. “That guy was an animal. He came to the ring wearing slap bracelets, light-up sneakers and a fanny pack. I took him for granted.” 
Little Mac was knocked out in round 2. “It was fun while it lasted. But, my retirement gave me the leisure time necessary to collect Star Wars paraphernalia, and buy myself a race car bed.” Mac’s reign as champion was short, but sweet. Little Mac, now 36 years old still resides in his parents house. 
“Move out? Are you kidding me?!” Mac exclaims. “My mom cuts the crust off my grilled cheese sandwiches, and I drive a Chrysler Lebarron! With a tape player! I’m a team leader at Target, and I drink water from a Brita purifier. Life is pretty gosh darned good.” Other fighters from the circuit managed to find notoriety after boxing. 
Super Macho Man, the tanned bodybuilder known for his dancing boobs was arrested in a Jewel/Osco supermarket. In the midst of a steroid fueled rage, he assaulted a downs syndrome ridden employee with a box of Count Chocula. Eventually he was tasered and taken into custody, charged with assault. 
In an embarrassing twist, his nipples exploded with breast milk during the apprehension. Police found anabolic steroids, testosterone, horse tranquilizers, and a box of stolen enemas in his vehicle. His probation ends within the year, and reports claim he intends on having intercourse with your mother. Yes, your mother. Another fighter, Soda Popinski found moderate success as a host on Russian CNN, broadcasted specifically towards Soviet nationalists.
His notoriously racist commentary has made him popular amongst religious fanatics, Neo-Nazis, Soviets, and alcoholics. 
When asked his opinion about religion and premarital sex, Soda claimed “God doesn’t mind a little anal.” These remarks lead to an increase in Russian girls walking bowl legged down the hallways, and a decrease in national bean prices. His characteristic bottle of soda on-air, has become his trademark. He also builds miniature penguins from cat feces, and hurls them at his executive producer to key the end of the show. My next interview was with a man named Axel Stone. Axel arrived 2 hours late, eating a box of Burger King cheesy tots. He smacked me on the shoulder, then spun the chair around, sitting down in a manner similar to how Zack Morris would sit at The Max. He’d lost most of his hair, and grown a goatee. The man did not age well. Axel, Blaze and Adam fought the forces of Mr. X, in order to bring peace and justice back to the city. They were featured in the game ‘Streets Of Rage’.
After defeating Mr. X, Axel and Blaze engaged in a 2 year courtship before finally tying the knot.
So, what happened with Blaze?, I ask. “Oh man”, he initially responds. “All went downhill after we got fucking hitched, broseph.” Police records show multiple domestic dispute complaints. The final incident occurring during the pregnancy of their second child. “I was all fucked up, dude. Allll fucked up. Weed, peyote, booze, pills. And that damn broad was going on and on about her stupid fucking water breaking or some dumb shit….So I tried to roundhouse kick her face off.” 
This final straw lead to a separation between Axel and Blaze. Also fueling Axel’s deep descent into hard narcotics. “Man, I’d do anything for a fix, bro.” Axel reminisces. “I bare knuckle uppercutted an old fucking slut buying cake decorations in a craft store. Just for some heroin, and a Charleston Chew.” Axel recalls hitting rock bottom, shortly after. 
“I always thought Zangief was some bear fucking, fruit loop.” This perception was amplified during a drug binge outside a Pizza Hut in central Idaho. “That motherfucker sold me 2 grams of heroin. In exchange I had to lube up a mitten and give him a handjob.” Axel had officially hit rock bottom. “I went to rehab. I see my kids twice a month, and I went back to fucking college! I’m a Goddamn gym teacher at a middle school. Dodgeball Thursdays, I don’t have students, I have targets.” 
Axel Stone was promptly fired days after our interview was made public. At which point he told his boss “Reverse the Sassmouth Express back into Silent Station.” As for Blaze, she became an exotic dancer at a club named The Hairy Triforce. After Axel, she met up with an old enemy of the Streets Of Rage posse. Donovan-
Blaze and Donovan are still married to this day, and planning to start a family of their own. Blaze denied our request for an interview, but did respond to a question regarding Axel. 
“Being married to that guy was more irritating than having to listen to Gilbert Gottfried fuck Fran Drescher in her unlubricated butthole.” The final tale is a sad story of tragedy. ‘Super Mario Brothers’ featured painfully stereotypical Italians, Mario and Luigi
. 
Their goal was to rescue the Princess from the clutches of serial rapist, Bowser. They collected coins, ate mushrooms, threw fireballs, and traveled discreetly through pipes. After finally defeating Bowser, the trio of Mario, Luigi and the Princess lived in virtual utopia within the welcoming confines of Princess Peach’s castle. One fateful day, Princess announced that she was with child. Everyone simply assumed her and Mario had finally conceived. 
The controversy surrounding the pregnancy unlocked Pandora’s box. Box, not being used as a euphemism for Peach’s moldy, half eaten Hot Pocket-esq vag-jayjay. After the child’s birth, Maury Povich was consulted in order to perform a DNA test. A gaggle of prospective fathers were featured on the show. Yoshi, Goomba, Koopa Troopa, Toad, Boo, A Boy & His Blob, E. Honda, Mario and Luigi all supplied their DNA for testing. 
The mystery of Princess’s child was enough to cause a split between the brothers. Luigi moved out of the castle, and back in with his mother. In doing so, he vowed never to speak to Mario again. After abusing the old woman physically and verbally, she had no other option but to kick Luigi out. 
It was a very quiet Mother’s Day. This final betrayal from his family directly caused Luigi to slide into a deep depression. He began posting emo poetry on xanga, and cried furiously while he masturbated with his penis to suicidegirls. After becoming heavily involved with the goth/emo counter-culture, Luigi formed a band alongside Simon Beaumont, Earthworm Jim, Paperboy and Sonya Blade. 
They called themselves The Kinetic Dildo, playing a dark, depressing brand of synth/glam rock with a gothic twist. The androgynous band was inspired by Bauhaus, Placebo, and The Cure. The primary differences being, that The Kinetic Dildo sucked really bad. After briefly opening up for Deadsy, the band hit a rough patch. Paperboy later leaked to the press that Luigi had become a megalomaniacal monster. Paperboy also disclosed his own personal regiment of drawing a face on his penis before bed, and singing Papa Roach singles with it. Sonya Blade left the band to create a performance art piece based on the Nightmare Before Christmas. Shortly after, Earthworm Jim was found dead in an apparent auto-erotic asphyxiation. The band went on indefinite hiatus, and Luigi disappeared completely, not heard from since. Mario went down a much different path. A world wide celebrity, Mario opted to run for public office. His celebrity status and passionate political speeches were the groundwork for an ambitious career. After a term as Senator from Illinois, Mario officially announced his decision to run for President of The United States of America. His platform of change during an economic recession was viewed as welcome alteration in regime. His supporters included people with absolutely no realistic political knowledge combined with those with even less ability to analyze economic patterns. 
Mario was soon selected as the Democratic nominee for President. He later went on to win the election in November, and become America’s first filthy, pasta eating, greaseball, calzone fornicating Italian President. During his Presidency, Mario encountered a great deal of economic, political and international pressure. His Presidency was clouded in controversy. Hurricane Katrina devistated New Orleans, and during a live televised benefit concert, one of Mario’s harshest critics spoke up, much to the chagrin of Mike Myers. 
This effictively began a fued between President Mario and Sonic The Hedgehog. 
Mario disregarded the feud in the press, but Sonic continued to speak out against President Mario’s character and international relations. Sonic the Hedgehog had openly questioned the President’s integrity in a series of quasi-artistic rap songs, and mainstream interviews. Controversy forced Mario to assemble his Cabinet and explain new policies in a State of the Union address. Vice President Guile, Secretary of State Peppy Hare, and Secretary of Defense Kirby were all instrumental in creating a rapport between the President and middle class America. 
The American public began to understand the difficult decisions encountered between fiscal policy and homeland security. In a day which will live on in infamy, Mario and friends went to Ford’s Theatre to see an opera. At 3 minutes during the second intermission, Sonic the Hedgehog climbed into Mario’s balcony seat. 
Sonic delivered one shot, point blank into Mario’s skull. The President succumbed to death shortly after, and Sonic The Hedgehog had successfully assassinated the acting President Of The United States. A plot to assassinate Vice President Guile was foiled, and a manhunt began to capture Sonic. Sonic leapt down to the stage, instantly breaking his leg. The normally speedy hedgehog known for holding up to 99 golden rings, though he had no pockets has been hindered. He escaped the initial pursuit, before leading police on a low-speed chase in his white Ford Bronco. His intent to visit his girlfriend, and use the computer. After arriving, and with police preparing to move in, Sonic sent out a myspace bulletin, because he was a gigantic faggot. 
After sending this bulletin on myspace, Sonic the Hedgehog went up to his Seattle attic, met with his girlfriend Courtney Love, wrote a faggy depressive haiku, and finally committed suicide. 
I’m already well aware that I didn’t mention everyone. Too bad. However, I have included a final breifing a few other characters that deserved some degree of update. 
Oh, boo-hoo. Yoshi sucked, anyways. Also, to all of you must be wondering, “Who the hell is Norman Poophouse?!” The answer is simple- He’s like Jesus, but if you tried to crucify him, he’d punch your mother in her stupid, flabby tits. Norman likes kittens, long walks on the beach, cocaine, and Pogs. He hates police officers, Jnco’s, and the way Danny DeVito waddles. He was conceived in a tool shed, loves Rush, and his mother has a happy trail. 
How To Evade Jury Duty
Nothing in the world makes me cringe more than the long walk back from the mailbox. This specific walk in particular, while staring at the “Jury Summons” envelope with my name on it. I still remember angrily squeezing the envelope so tight that the paper warped from the moisture of my hands. “Fuck”, I exclaim while slamming it down in the kitchen counter. My cat jumping at the sound, giving me a look as if to say “Chill out, doucher.” Further inspection of the notice prompts even more anger. It informs me, that I’m due at the courthouse in Hammond, Indiana by 8 AM. At the time, I was working the midnight shift for the railroad. 8PM-8AM. Meaning, that I actually have to leave work early and go straight to the courthouse. I come to terms with the situation, and proceed to conjure up a scheme. I’m bitter towards the judicial system. I’d punch Judge Judy in the face if given the opportunity. Instead, they provide me with a survey to fill out. I’m pissed off, and not taking a cerebral approach to avoiding this. I find a big red crayon, and begin the operation to display myself as a complete inbred bumblefuck. 
It was actually cathartic. I assume that they can’t select me if I voice complete and utter distain for the government. A small amount of confidence builds, and I start to believe that I might just fingerpop the system. Finally, the day comes. The night at work wasn’t particularly a busy one. I spent most of the night in a forklift, stacking 53 foot chassis in a filthy gravel lot. 6 AM comes along, and it’s time to escape. I should go home, shower, shave and put on some queer sweater and attempt to convey the slightest degree of responsibility. No, that’s okay. I decide to go as is, projecting my displeasure of this out of date concept in selecting jurors. Similar to some sort of loser strike. The initial bitterness has returned on a morning where I’d much rather go home, catch some sleep and watch the Cubs game when I awake. I use this to rationalize going to a government building reeking of axel grease, diesel fuel, cigarettes and an amalgamation of body odor and stale deodorant. 
I mentally replay my strategy. I decide to put the cherry on top of the sundae, when I roll around in the gravel pit. I smear dirt and grease on my face, as if I’m an Indian chief leading my people into battle. In a rhetorical way, I feel that I am. 
I walk in the building amongst a slew of dirty looks. I feel like a homeless man at a Hollywood benefit dinner. At this point, I’ve also concluded that I will speak in an over-the-top Southern accent. I discover the Confederate flag bandana I barrowed from the legitimately inbred fellow at work. “This will come in handy.” I decide. 
I arrive in the room, all too reminiscent of high school. Scattered with little desks, a TV in the corner and the podium at the head of the room. I sit down and pass out instantly, ignoring the good-natured conversation from people around me trying to make the best of a bad situation. After 2 hours of waiting, some fat whore with a moustache shows us the shittiest video ever produced throughout the history of the cosmos. This video depicts jury duty as a ‘fun’ and ‘interesting’ process. I giggle incessantly throughout the cheesy interviews and 1990’s Saved By The Bell-esq graphics. I catch a dirty look from nearly every direction during this. “Shh!” Someone says towards me. I turn around and calmly state, “Be quiet, adults are speaking.” After another 2 hours go by, we finally get shuttled into the courtroom. I’m virtually asleep, next to a younger girl and an older sex-offender looking dude named Vlad. He looks like his daughter should be named ‘Amber’ after the alert that marked her conception. 
I couldn’t recall what the girl actually looked like, so my lovely girlfriend Sara will stand in for the sake of art. Consciousness during the process comes and goes until I finally hear my name called. I may or may not have walked to the jury box with a morning erection. Don’t judge. I sit down, rub my hands together, and put the Confederate flag bandana on. I see angry faces glaring at me. The room is a melting pot of whites, blacks and Mexicans. I search frantically for a ‘Git R Done’ t-shirt or some flannel, in hopes an actually hillbilly would support me. The slightest bit of embarrassment actually arises.
A reminder, I used a heavy Southern accent during the questioning. The best way I can describe it would be like Boomhower from ‘King Of The Hill’ or ‘The Squidbillies’. The attorney asks me what my name is. “A-Rack Fawster.” Where do you live, and for how long? “Uh, dang ole’ Crohn Point, Ind-Jana. Nan-teen yurs, I reckon.” 
Have you ever been convicted of a felony? “…..Er……Nuh-Uh!…..” What newspapers of magazines do you subscribe to? “Well…Ah reckon, Ah get the NRA Weekly, High Times, Spurts Illu-stray-ted, Tahme.” Time? Time Magazine? “Yeah, Tahme. Aaaand. Oh yeah, that dang ole’ Playboy.”
The guy next to me, Vlad laughs. His laughter audibly projects through my microphone. I pull the mic closer to me, nearly putting it into my mouth for effect. “This feller knows wut ah’m talkin’ ‘bout.” I reach my hand in the air for a high five, but he shakes his head to indicate no. I visually survey the courtroom. The attorney is laughing. The jury box is filled with people’s faces buried in their hands. I scan through the smirks, hear giggling, and see people shaking their heads in rejection. I feel awesome. At this point, I feel that I’ve convinced the judge and attorney’s that I’m a complete hillbilly. I mentally picture them profiling me driving a ridiculously sized Ford truck. Complete with naked chick mud flaps and novelty ballsack dangling from the trailer hitch. Confederate flag waving in the breeze, with “RUSTY” decaled in duct tape across my windshield. Listening to “Freebird” loudly on blown speakers and screaming “THE SOUTH WILL RISE AGAIN!” at under aged high school students, while pointing at my genitals. I’d been conceived at my own family reunion, under a picnic table. Brown jugs of moonshine labeled ‘XXX’ scattered across the floor of my trailer. Kool-Aid stains on my favorite wife-beater. Wearing dolphin swim-trunks amongst my outfit including a scruffy beard, and unwashed hair hidden by a Dale Earnhardt Jr. hat. An unhealthy obsession with Ted Nugent, corn dogs, and a yard with a sandbox and swing set, even though I don’t have any kids. Then I make direct eye contact with the judge. Suddenly, he’s a lot more intimidating than I’d initially perceived. I remember mentally referring to him as Judge Fivehead, due to his freak of nature gigantic forehead. I remember seeing the bright lights of the court, and the bailiff’s reflection in his shiny dome. He reminded me of Henry Rollins, with a gigantic neck and those perennially pissed off eyebrows. One of those dudes who punches a hole in the wall with his left hand, while jerking off with the right.
He silences the courtroom, and calls the counsel over. TV static consumes the courtroom as they converse. The judge begins waving his arms around emphatically. Suddenly, the static used to drown out the court ends. A few brief whispers escape, after the noise distortion ceases. I love it when that happens. 
Judge Fivehead looks at me. Narrows his eyes, and curls his lip. “Mr. Foster, please come here.” I stand up, and shuffle past the jury box. The TV static comes back over the courts speaker system. I’m walking slowly, as he gestures at me with his pointer finger. “I believe you are intentionally trying to evade jury duty.” “Nuh-uh!!!!” I say, as I slam my hand down on bench. Judge Fivehead begins to sweat. He starts screaming and flailing his arms around like a monkey about to hurl it’s own feces. “IT IS YOUR DUTY AS AN INDIANA RESIDENT TO BE TRUTHFU-” “Yew listen here, Judge!”, I interrupt him. “Ah am an ‘Merican! If that thur colored Huxtable sold some cocaine, ah want heem t’ go to jail just as bad as yew dew! Ah tell you hwut.” 
I feel my face flush. I realize that the jig is up. Judge Fivehead goes off on a 2 minute tangent in front of the entire court. Tells me that I’m what’s wrong with the country, and that I should be ashamed. Tells me about how it’s my duty as a citizen, and that I owe my country. I honestly tone him out, and envision his reaction had I gone with the plan I’d originally orchestrated. 
A KKK Grand Dragon with a handful of synthetic toddler dicks, and the freshly severed head of Tila Tequila. THAT would have been out of line. (Other than the decapitation of Tila Tequila. That seems perfectly reasonable.) 
A top-hat, monocle, Hitler moustache, sporting a novelty cat t-shirt and a jar of my own urine. Holding a plethora of deviant porno movies, with a balloon and a cockatiel named Osama Bin Jesus on my shoulder. THAT would have been out of line. Judge Fivehead clearly states that another outburst will result in being held in contempt, and placed under immediate arrest. A little self realization occurs, and I envision myself being used as currency in jail. 
I imagine myself being sold to a Suge Knight look-alike for a pack of Newports, a spork, and a weeks worth of fruit cups from the cafeteria. No thanks, I conclude. I can’t afford the “Exit Only” tattoo on each respective butt cheek necessary to survive in prison. “ONE MORE WORD, FOSTER! ONE MORE WORD.” Judge Fivehead reiterates. I put my hands in my pockets, and shamefully walk back to my seat, with my head hanging in excessive shame. I’m more terrified than if I were about to receive a vasectomy from Michael J. Fox.
I whisper to the girl next to me, before the TV static comes to an end over the courtroom. She looks at me with the utmost rejection. Another reason Sara fit this part so well. The attorneys meet with the judge, and finally the judge tells me that I’m excused. He says this while slamming his fist down in a very animated manner. This almost makes me laugh. Judge Fivehead glares at me as I leave the courtroom. I can see the moisture on his shiny skull. A single bead of sweat runs down his temple. The vein in his necks builds and pulsates. I’m fairly confident that he beat the shit out of his wife upon his arrival home. 
Topping off the domestic assault with a flying elbow drop from the top of the couch. A prominent “OH YEAH!” bellowed through the air as an homage to the Macho Man Randy Savage. In conclusion, you don’t have to serve in a jury. Claim that you disagree with the judicial system, you don’t trust police, and that God’s justice upon death is more than enough. There’s no need to pretend to be racist. They see it so much, and it’s just not believable in this day in age. It’s 2009, why would anyone actually be racist, sexist, or homophobic?! It simply doesn’t make any sense. That being said, I saw this etched into the bathroom tile at Moores Bar in Greencastle, Indiana. 
Crying Burns Calories.
In my early twenties, I was subjected to the horrors of working in retail. I worked at Hobby Lobby. For those of you who don’t know, this is a craft store frequently visited by old cake decorating sluts, red-hat society skanks, and stoned college kids looking for glitter and model glue. Many times, people would approach me on the salesfloor. We were required to wear blue work vests with “Hobby Lobby” in bold white lettering, clearly stitched on the front. These people say “Excuse me” as I follow their eyes staring down, directly at my goofy nametag. “Do you work here?” Seriously? Really, now? No, I don’t work here. I’m wearing this tacky blue Hobby Lobby vest alongside this Hobby Lobby name-tag as a pathetic attempt to meet chicks. Do out of work referees just hang out inside of Foot Lockers? There must be some logic behind such confusion. Circumstances such as these were a dime a dozen. All in all, I was good at biting my tongue and took pride in my awful job. 
One evening, while getting ready to close the store I heard giggling traveling up and down adjacent aisles. The giggling is androgynous in nature. Not too high, not too deep. But they’re definitely stomping around. I was fairly confident that a convoy of linebackers had been somewhere in the general vicinity. 
Suddenly, I come across what I believe to be a manatee in low-rise jeans, and the ever so enigmatic Bigfoot devouring a slide of pizza. I try and sweep past them without being pulled into orbit. “Excuse me”, I politely say. 
I stand there waiting for them to move, while they look me dead in the eyes. “Sorry to bother you, just need to sneak through here.” 
“Are you here to sweep us off our feet?” I shake my head in rejection, while involuntarily getting an eyeful. The Bigfoot was literally wearing Apple Bottom Jeans. And the boots with the fur. Seriously, I’m not kidding. Her black tank top reminded me of a lunar eclipse, while her arm-fat jiggled all the way down to her felonious muffin-toppage while sweating and struggling to eat a slice of pizza. (Which she spit all over the place during her oh-so smooth pick-up line.) The manatee wasn’t quite as big. However the difference between 350 and 300 can be made up quickly. This one was wearing bleached, low rise jeans, with a white, glittery “Angel” t-shirt. The astounding aspect of this specimen, was the fact that she managed to cameltoe the shit out of a pair of jeans. Not to mention, her fupa was nearly bumping into me, like an umpire and an angry manager disputing a call at first base. 
I actually question whether or not my friends had recruited a couple fat chicks to play a joke on me. While giggling, the manatee repeats her friends question: “Are you here to sweep us off our feet?” Without thought, I respond: “No, I’d need a much larger broom” 
Suddenly, Bigfoot sprints back to the forest. Leaving behind a trail of tears and sweat. She kicks the broom on her way past me. Between the wind resistance, the momentum of the broomstick, and sheer fright, I drop to the ground like a sack of potatoes. “Oh God, don’t eat me I’m a real human person!” I silently pray before I hit the unforgiving floor. Before having the chance to make it back to my feet, I see the manatee standing over me. She’s staring at me like she’s about to pick me up over her head and spin me around like a pizza. “You made my friend cry!!!” she screams in a voice not unlike James Earl Jones. “Crying burns calories”, I reply. Yet again, without thought. Go figure. 
She shakes her head back and forth. She steps towards me. I flashback to my childhood memories, and relize she’s obtained the power of Hulkamania. I’m about to meet my demise.
When the Hulksters coming down and it hurts inside? Screw that shit, I’m getting the fuck out of here. I stand up, create a strategic obstacle course of debris. She begins to give chase. I’m not prepared for Peter vs. Goliath round 2. 
A football helmet, a broomstick, and a garbage can lid wouldn’t have been enough. So, I do the only thing applicable at that specific time. I ran like hell. I was spinning tackles, stiff-arming customers, jumping over shopping carts. I was not about to lose a fight to something that would only be on Maury next week, explaining how none of the 12 men onstage were the baby’s daddy. Of course, she told the manager. I explained how her fupa had caused all the ruckus, and that I’d saved an insurance claim. After telling my friends, they’d told me to stand and fight. That I’d been a pussy for running away. I began training the next week. Lifting weights, boxing, running. Things will be different next time, manatee. I know your weakness. 
The Real Life Human Torch!
n the past, my friends have described me as a weirdo. When I say ‘past’, I really mean…Well, to this day. Not so much in a creepy, black trenchcoat mafia kind of way, but more along the lines of a Star Wars obsessed creep who blushes and stutters in the presence of the opposite sex. Back when I was a young adult, I moved out. I was young, rebellious and dating a girl on a college campus with a bit of inherited money. This allowed me to pursue my career as a musician, and essentially obtain a sugar momma before I was even old enough to buy a beer. The house was adorable. A quaint yellow house that had seen better days. However, emitting an undefined charm perhaps produced by the magic of being the first place I’ve ever lived in away from home. She was a nice girl, and her intentions couldn’t have been any better. One day, I’d finished up with band practice early. I rushed home to sit down on her computer and post on hipster message boards, ranting and raving about Coheed & Cambria, Minus The Bear and Poison The Well, which were the prominant bands of discussion at the time. 
I hear a soft sobbing approaching the door. It bursts open, and the wind blows my hair into my eyes. She’s screaming as if she’s being raped with a rotating cactus, lubed with rubbing alcohol.
Her arms flailing around like a whirlin’ dervish while tears decorate the walls like a salty sprinkler. I reluctantly remove myself from the internet, and inquire about the water works. Sniffling and sobbing between words I could barely understand, she explaied that mere hours ago, her grandmother doused herself in gasoline, and set herself ablaze.
“…Really?” I ask in disbelief. In a matter similar to Eek The Cat. “Yuh-Yuh-Yeah…Sh-Sh-She burned to death.” 
Now, you’ll understand why I’m weird. According to my socialogical research, people in my situation are supposed to show compassion and console the distrought individual. A hug, a pat on the back, even a cheesy reference pertaining to going to a better place. First, I question the whole ordeal. Why would someone kill themselves in such a slow, methodic and painful manner? What a freaking stupid way to die. If I planned on suicide, a fiery blaze would be somewhere on the list, below drowining in rancid mayonaise and choking on my own dick. 
It gets much worse from here. In my youth, I had trouble holding back verbally speaking what images and thoughts which went through my head. I stand up cheefully, and proudly recall-
“The Human Torch WAS the coolest member of the Fantastic Four.” 
The akward pause was interupted by the sound of her jaw hitting the floor. I guess comic book references in a time of mourning aren’t cool. It was a day of personal discovery! This was sort of ironic, based on her reaction. Unknown to me, pissed off women have the phsyical ability to morph into the Tazmanian Devil when angry. 
Our cute little home is annihilated as she spins around, hurling anything within reach about the living room. Two thoughts come to mind at this point- 1. The Cubs could use another good arm in their bullpen. 2. You mess up the living room, you clean up the living room. Whore. This amuses me. The situation dictates that I do not laugh…I realize this. But ever so slightly, EVER SO SLIGHTLY my mouth curls in an upward manner. Because everyone knows The Thing was way cooler than the Human Torch. Of course she notices. I’m far too unlucky to get away with that. 
Suddenly, this turns into a bar fight. A broken bottle and a death-stare lead me to believe that I’ll be picking pieces of glass from my scrotum until the ambulance shows up. I begin to panic, and conjure up a mental estimation of the closest doors and windows I may use as an escape from before she gets stabby. She steps towards me. Once. Probably for nothing more than to force me into an apology. I panic and pee a just a little. I realize that I’d better pull a rabbit out of my hat. 
All this does, is buy me a brief moment in shock value, allowing me to escape with my own penis not hot-glued to my forehead. After sleeping on the couch for a week, everything was resolved when I finally apologized. Shortly after, someone knocks on the door early in the morning waking us up. She yawns and stretches, then looks at me and says “Bee are bee.” I pause, and consider the practicalityof this. “Be right back” is only 3 syllables. As is “bee are bee.” No time nor effort is saved in this useless internet based abbreviation. There’s no logical use for such in a real life capacity. This results in me packing up my stuff and moving back home. I would have rather lived in my parents basement than endure internet lingo in real life. Many years later, I feel the exact same way.
How About A Handshake?
I was seeing this chick for a little while. She ends up asking me, “Hey, I need you to pick me up from ball-room dance practice. Be there at 6.”
“Okay.”
I show up. At 5:45. Because I’m punctual like that. Waiting,waiting, waiting. Damn, I really need to pee. But I’m in the parking lot of this fancy shmancy place that I obviously don’t belong. So, I just can’t wonder around and pee in a shrub. I’m patient. I’ll wait…5 minutes. 10 minutes. 25 minutes. Oh God, the patience was fictional. But the urinary rage built up in my weiner is all too real. “Snap out of it Foster!”, I tell myself. It’s time for action! Not piss induced whining of a yeast infected degree! Red team, go!
So, I search the parking lot. There are people in cars, but no one looking directly at me. “Sweet.” I find an empty 24 oz Speedway cup of coffee wedged between my passenger seat and emergency break. After realizing that my life has been reduced to urinating in an old coffee cup in the parking lot of a dance hall, I briefly feel as if my life hadn’t turned out the way I’d planned. Then, I realize: Wait, I’m Eric Foster. I’m never going to be a musician ever again. For the most part, I’m pretty washed up. This really IS the chronological order of how things are supposed to unfold from here So, I begin to pee in the cup. Warning: The actual size of my penis may or may not be exaggerated by numerous feet/inches. 
Either way, everything is going as planned. Just have to pee in the cup. Not a complicated procedure. Suddenly, everything goes South. Not ‘stars and bars’ forever, kind of South. Intercourse in a tool shed after smoking poorly cultivated marijuana at a Charlie Daniels cover band concert at the County Fair kind of South. I don’t know exactly HOW or WHAT a human male needs to drink in order to urinate over 24 ounces….But, somehow I found a way… There are dudes reading this, right? You guys know about ‘the pinch’. The pinch’ has been used by men since the stone age. Everytime we need to pee, and can’t. We just grab the dink, and give it the ole’ pinch-a-roo. As common of a practice as that was, I tried it. However, I was disappointed to discover that apparantly, my D was suddenly immune to the pinch. 
This resulted in a powerful blast of urine projected onto: a) My steering wheel. (Which is helpful in guiding my vehicle to it’s destinations) b) My stereo (Which provides me with funky jams, beats, and/or rythems) c) My hand (Of VITAL importance. Seriously, vital.) Like a garden hose on full blast, waving around the lawn. But, I’m tenacious as well as resourceful. I also like eating at Wendy’s. Thus, in my center counsil of my car, I had some napkins. Napkins of salvation, if you will… 
So, I quickly, wipe down everything. “Oh God, she’ll be here soon!”, I say to myself with a handful of wang, and another handful of saturated, piss drenched napkins used to wipe up the liquid humiliation which will result in years and years of involentary abstinence. I see people exiting. So, I put little Mario back in the castle as quickly as I can, and stuff the napkins right back in the center counsil alongside a pack of Newports, and some At The Drive-In CD’s. The coffee cup full of pee goes out the window, in the bed of someone’s black Dodge Ram. Surprise! You win the raffle, you truck driving faggot! Thinking quickly, I grab the Axe body spray (like I had it holstered on my belt) and hose down the wheel, stereo, and whatever else I could before she opened the door.
(I love this picture, because it looks like I’m picking up a prostitute.) “HELLO! HOW ARE YOU, THIS FINE EVENING?!” I shout, as if she’s deaf, retarded, and just consumed a condom full of heroin. “Okay!”, she responds. “Thanks for picking me up….It smells good in here!” I mentally pump my arm like Kirk Gibson rounding second base in the 1988 World Series. “Thanks, I put a new air freshener in here.” “I like it.” Suddenly, I feel more more clever than I really am. I take her back to my place. We watch some movies, drink some booze, yada yada. The next morning, we hop in the ole’ Mustang. After a preliminary sniff, I remain confident in getting away with the perfect crime. I begin to mentally boast a tad. I might be the most clever person, ever, I think to myself…No. I AM the most clever person, ever. Even if I can’t grow a real beard, yet. Or still live in my parents basement. So I’m driving her home. She sniffles.”Catching a cold?”, I ask. “Yeah, I think so.” “Aww, that sucks.” (Note: If a guy ever says, “Aww” before ANYTHING- We don’t mean it. Our sympathy is a false attempt in a larger scheme to put our google in your crockpot. Furthermore, if you’re a dude and you actually mean “Aww”…You probably have the skidmarks of another man smeared on the front of your underpants.) Anyways, back to the story. She asks, “Do you have any Kleenex?”, then opens up my center counsil. “Oh, napkins!” She exclaims! 
From here on out, everything really does occur in slow motion. I swear, time and space actually slowed. She picks up the napkins, which had time to dry, overnight. Slowly brings them closer to her face. Mentally, I’m screaming “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”, with my hands firmly pressed against my cheeks, like Mackuly Culkin in ‘Home Alone’. 
The morbid side of me watches, as she blows her nose into the napkin. 
…My soul had physically left my body. I’d become an empty shell of a jaded, bitter, and generally hopeless human being that could never ever view the world with the slightest degree of bright eyed, bushy-tailed optimism, ever again. The rest of the car ride was her talking. I don’t remember what she was saying. Infact, it didn’t really matter. All I could think of was, I bet the words tasted like an amalagated combination of my own urine, with traces of bad gas station coffee. Finally, we reached our destination. She gives me a hug, and thanks me for everything. Then, bends over to give me a kiss. Don’t get me wrong-I love making out with chicks…Just, not after they’d had something I peed on, in the general viscinity of their mouths. So, I patted her on the shoulder, and verbally shuffled my feet. “Ayyy! You!!! We’ll go fishing sometime, little trooper!” (Like I’m more like Fonzie, less like Urkel, letting her down real cool like.) “Huh?”, she exclaims.
Then, I reached out to shake her hand, like it’s a totally normal thing to do with a chick you’re laying the sikdaddle down on. “Hahaha, you ARE goofy!” she exclaims. “Yeah. That’s the ticket.” I got in my car, punched the gas and then punched myself in the penis really hard twice. It hurt, but I deserved it. Finally I went home and took a shower. I balled up in the fetal position and resisted the urge to cry, attempt to orally satisfy myself, or ever pee somewhere there isn’t a toilet, again.
The Gentleman’s Guide To Dating
The Gentleman’s Guide To Dating:
As instructed by Eric D. Foster. (The “D” is for ‘Dangerous’)
First off, let me issue a stern warning to all of you cry baby, bedwetting people of a sensitive nature. Stop reading, now. There are images and descriptions of a graphic, unnecessary and immature nature.
However, if you’re easily influenced, lacking will power and searching for direction in life: Take my hand, friend.
Let me lead you to the promise land.
Many of you ask me-
“Foster, how do I convince a broad to allow me to have consensual sex with her vagina.”
”Foster, I’m a reject and whenever I’m around women, they file restraining orders against me, and knee me in the gonads.”
“Foster, how come no one does the electric slide with me?”
No more paying for prostitutes with peg legs and happy trail stubble.
No more handjobs from 11 year olds wearing lubed up mittens that won’t look you in the eye.
The problem?
You’re uneducated, and lacking discipline.
Before I explain HOW to lure women, you need to decide which broad is right for you.
There’s plenty of ladies out there. All with advantages and disadvantages.
Some of them are friendly. Some of them have the herp. Some of them want to drop a steaming Yogi on your chest.
I’ve compiled a detailed description of all women.
Every one of them. They all fall under one of these vague, crude stereotypes.
Some women will tell you, “I’m a unique flower.” They’re lying liars, and they have broken in catchers mitts for cooches.
The Whiny Emo Whore.
This chick is cynical pertaining to everything. There’s literally nothing you can do to make her smile. She’s incapable of upward oral reactions. Whiny Emo Whore enjoys cutting herself, listening to Bright Eyes and Simple Plan before crying herself to sleep. Her leisure time includes lighting scented candles, and posting horrible haikus on deadjournal.com.
She enjoys complaining about modern culture in coffee shops, while embracing the least talented and redundant variety on her I-Pod.
Punky Brewster.
She’s got very sexy, wide hips and all different sorts of bells & whistles.
Fellatio can be had with nothing more than a liberal political rant and a brown jug of “XXX” labeled whiskey. Do not bring her home. She has little to no concept of social interaction. She will squat down to pee, outside. At the beach. During the middle of the day. During a birthday party for a small child. She’s physically aroused by stuffing kittens into a burlap sack, then throwing it into a river. Intercourse can be initiated simply by informing her “If you’re down with pee, you’re down with me.”
The Beef & Cheddar.
These women wear revealing clothes in order to convince men that their cleavage is due to something other than natural proportioning to the rest of their body. Notorious for her fellatio, and obsessive tendency to tackle the challenge of ‘all you can eat’.
Ringing a triangle while not wearing pants should result in oral sex.
Encourage her to walk home afterwards, as means to lose extra weight. Crying burns calories.
Hollywood Bitch.
This uppity broad is high maintenance. She actually expects you to spend legitimate American currency on her. She’s often seen searching for her herpie medication through her Coach purse, and texting her father, asking why her labia is so itchy.
However, she is very hygienic, buying herself Brazilian waxes every week, while dressing her dog up in sweaters and hats, not recognizing that she hasn’t actually fed it in 4 days. Just imagine if Jean-Bennet Ramsey actually grew up.
White Trashley.
First off, I really wanted to draw a dead baby on the porch, but I was too lazy.
White Trashley is the epitome of Georgia. Barefoot and pregnant.
Wearing the same pink panties for weeks on end, with smeared menstrual blood and skidmarks. Smoking couch weed on the porch, watching tumbleweed roll across her driveway with the 1983 Pontiac sitting up on cinder blocks.
She keeps her aborted fetuses on the mantle of her trailer, next to her bowling trophies and Nascar collectible plates.
Growing a moustache usually puts you in the running to the father of her next abortion.
Try identifying with Garth Brooks lyrics, and mentioning that you find your cousins physically attractive.
It’s pretty easy porking white broads, isn’t it?
Red Headed Slut.
These chicks are frickin’ crazy. Generally very curvaceous women, some resemble Pippi Longstocking with a high freckle ratio. But, the majority do have dumps like a truck, and voluptuous milk-bags full of Vitamin A(The ‘A’ is for ‘awesome’).
Red haired women DO have tendency to recycle douche nozzles. And they’re all born with horrible lower back butterfly tattoos.
They also have Phoenix adjacent powers. Telekinesis, telepathy, etc.
They love to argue over trivial things. But, their doggy style fornication techniques have left men so dazed and confused that they actually think Dane Cook is funny.
Panda Express.
Submissive. Natural dry-cleaning, manicuring, and karate skills.
She does not come equipped with a tarp for bukkake, but one can easily be obtained from your local Mexican friend or Home Depot.
She has bad peripheral vision, so she can’t see you slip a roofie into her sake’.
Good at math, but her pubic hair is pixilated, and she has a sideways vagina.
She may or may not ‘rove you rong time.’
Take her out for orange chicken, and keep telling her how bad you felt about Hiroshima.
Black Magic.
She may try and “axe” you to use your “bafroom”.
This actually just means she’d like to use your bathroom. Let her.
Black Magic is nice. You can literally bounce a quarter off her ass.
She’s fond of KFC, Faygo Grape Soda, and watermelon. All which totally kick ass.
Don’t try and dance with her. Unlike white people, she actually has a sense of rhythm. Ask her to “clap that ass.” However, do not look directly at it without the proper eyewear. Outside the strip club, you may see her in full uniform. This includes Apple Bottom jeans and the boots with the fur. Everybody in the club, looking at her.
The darker the berry, the sweeter the vaginal excretion.
Cassie McCokeslut.
Cassie is tiny. Those who like super skinny women will love her.
She has Olive-Oil type limbs which flail around like a whirlin’ dervish while geekin’ out for a bump. Cassie actually can store up to 8 lbs of merchandise inside her vagina.
Most of it is cocaine, but sometimes she has a Rubix Cube or a PSP, which is nice to pass the time while she’s thrash dancing to Lords of Acid and sweating like Courtney Love in a pharmacy. She will fornicate for coke, money to buy coke, or with anyone who may have a distant cousin who’s roommate one time snorted a line, while watching Perfect Strangers.
Salt-Lick Lisa.
We all know her. She’s got these tiny little Tic Tac looking teeth, surrounded by miles and miles of gingivitis ridden gums. Her large nose acts as a knife, stabbing into your torso during oral sex. She eats carrots. Wears generic, four-striped Adidas. Owns a Super-Cuts bang haircut. And listens to nothing but Sister Hazel and Blessid Union of Souls on her pink I-Pod. She’s always jogging. From behind, many guys say “Daaayumn.” Then, she turns around, prompting the response “EGAD!”, or excessive projectile vomiting.
The pick-up line, “Hey baby, why the long face?” usually works.
If it does, she’ll google your name all week, and write you love letters written with perfume and menstrual blood.
Mrs. Robinson.
Go to a bar. Mrs. Robinson will be there. At the jukebox. Playing hair-metal which reminds her of her high school prom. If you pretend an interest in Queensryche or Mr. Big, you should at least get a handjob in the back of her Lumina, next to a carseat, while focusing on a Tazmanian Devil window decal.
After that, she’s pretty cool. No mind games. No drama. Try not to sell her kids on E-Bay, and you’re a potential father figure. She’s all thick, with those luscious child-bearing hips. Maybe some crows-feet developing in the optical region. But, she keeps in shape. Although, there IS a 35% chance that her vagina could actually be a Slip N’ Slide.
Top notch cock-riding skills and she cooks a mean grilled cheese sandwich.
Just agree with how much of a jerk her ex-husband is, and you should be in line for a creampie.
Juggalette.
Careful. If you actually do come across a Juggalette, make sure to handle her with gloves.
Mostly found outside during the rain, Juggalettes make their way upwards through the mosit Earths soil in order to absorb minerals into their dense exoskeletons.
If you really wish to court one, try and rhyme while you speak, provide it with wrestling magazines, and Faygo. Although, it’s an asexual being capable of reproducing with itself, it IS capable of inter-species relations. It enjoys having it’s body hair sheered off, in the spring, and it’s vaginal secretion can actually be used as a chemically heated oxidizing agent, to manipulate metal. Danger: All Juggalettes have dangerously low t-cells. Intercourse without the proper protection could be fatal.
In other words, Chick-ety check yo’self before you wreck yo’self, fool.
Patty Mayonnaise.
Patty is all grown up. She loves dinner at The Honker Burger. She likes emo faggots wearing green vests, who write in their journals. She’s totally a scenester, now. With her polka dotted sweater, skirt, and Chuck Taylors. You can probably find her at a Mates Of State concert, showing her beaver backstage.
Be careful. Patty began to get around later in her teens.
Her sexual partners include:
-Skeet Skeet Skeeter Valentine.
-Principal Bone.
-Mr. Dink.
-Porkchop.
On that note…Suddenly, Doug was a pretty screwed up show.
Polio Sarah.
Ever want a girlfriend who couldn’t run away from anal sex?
One who doesn’t need to spend a lot of money on pants, socks, or shoes?
Here you go. Polio Sarah is sweet. She’s actually grounded, with a good head on her shoulders. You don’t need to worry about her beating you in a foot-race, or grinding on the dancefloor with your best friend while a dude you went to high school with takes a bunch of upskirt photos and posts them on multiple message boards.
Actually, her vagina is mechanical. A series of censors and lasers compose most of it.
It comes equipped with On-Star and an HD DVD player.
However, if your house(or car) isn’t handicapped accessible, you won’t be receiving sex.
Plus if it is, vacuuming the tire tracks out of the carpet can be a pain.
Try impressing her with your hackey-sack skills, and casually bringing up how she can’t do it.
The more you bring her down, the more she’ll go down on you.
Bridget The Midget.
Imagine receiving fellatio while you AND your girlfriend are both standing.
However, if you’re particularly gassy, do not parade her around on her leash directly behind you. She plays Frisbee. She tugs at the rope. She rolls over on command.
Plus, her little hands make your inferior wang look gigantic.
Her little limbs are structured like she’s a fat baby. If she hasn’t been spayed, her vagina is pudgy, and hairless. Her skull is huge. She often uses a hammock as a bandana.
Kicking her through the uprights, gives your team 3 points.
Downy Syndrome.
Don’t call her a “retard”.
Downs syndrome people are capable of delivering a top-notch suplex, rendering healthy, socially contributing members of society injured and embarrassed. 4% of America is injured at the hands of an angry retard, every year. However, you can hide drugs inside her, and UPS her across the border.
One in every 4 handicapped people are vaginally full of illegal substances and paraphernalia. They’re a powerful specimin powered by emphatic waving and apple juice.
Okay, now that you’ve narrowed down your wish lists, it’s time to learn exactly HOW to meet women. Perhaps you have a friend who converses with women pertaining to mutual interests. Or a friend who takes women out to nice restaurants, with flowers and men in suits playing the violin.
These men are douches, without a concept of how to relate to today’s modern broad.
In order to physically arouse a whore, you simply need to understand biology, and how to appeal to her chemical make-up. It’s a proven fact that the tear ducts and the vagina work in direct conjunction. Basically, if a woman cries, her vagina naturally lubricates simultaneously, due to arousal.
So, the trick is how to make a woman cry.
Thus, physically arousing them. The mental influence directly leads the attraction towards the member of the opposite sex who initiated the arousal tactics.
Therefore resulting, in stanky on the hangdown.
“Foster, this concept is confusing. I still don’t know how to talk with ladies.”
Quit being a pussy. Be direct. Be direct and insulting.
Find any physical flaw, and point it out rendering her self esteem immobile.
Inform her, that she’ll never do any better, and that she’s single because of some sort of personality disorder, or an unbearable vaginal scent.
“Gee, this all makes sense now! All women are glorified prostitutes, and none of them ever say anything which interests us. Their vaginas are our main priority, and I’ll do whatever it takes to make them cry. Punch them in the kidneys, Insult her back fat, or tell her Santa Claus doesn’t exist.” Very good. Now you’re catching on!
I’ve compiled some helpful rhymes that you can remember in the field.
Follow these simple steps, and you too can be fist deep in ladies of a vulnerable and confused nature.
“Boy Foster, I know it all! There’s no stopping me, now. I’m a hustler, baby!” No, son. You CAN go wrong. Just like the conception of Britney Spears’ children, mistakes can still occur.
Use your common sense. Close your eyes, and feel out a situation. Young Padawon, the force is strong within you. Your Jedi penis will lead you away from the dark side of courtesy and treating women as equal human beings with interesting thoughts and opinions.
“What exactly do I say, when my fun parts are tingling with excitement?”
These generally work for me.
Try exclusively talking about yourself. Brag and boast about how many mint bitches you’ve obtained. Tell her about your huge genitalia, and how you tie balloon animals with it. Ignore her commentary, beliefs, and anything she says pertaining to anything other than her breasts, ass, or cooch.
“Eric Foster, where do I have to take this slut in order to obtain the beef jerky between her legs?”
Follow these steps, and you’ll be the mack daddy, as well as the daddy mack.
“Okay Foster, tell me how to please myself, without allowing her any pleasure at all.”
First off, you need to learn your penis. Look down at it. Say hello. Tell it a joke or haiku. Make it feel at home.
Remember teamwork. Without your penis, you won’t want to barbeque. You won’t watch football on Sundays. And you may become susceptible to Brokeback Mountaineers, and romantic comedies.
“Okay, now that I’ve studied up on my penis, I’m ready to spit some bitches.”
Slow down, shooter.
I’ll remind you that it’s physically impossible for any human penis to sustain length of over 3 ½ inches. You won’t be ‘splitting any bitches’, but you sure can tickle her insides with your funny stick.
(Make sure Naughty By Nature is on vinyl.)
Chicks love toast.
“Foster, I’m scared. I’ve never operated a vagina before. Do I need safety equipment?” I prefer a hardhat and safety goggles. Oh, I’m kidding. I wear gloves and a reflective vest, as well.
Also used for extra lives while playing Contra for your Nintendo Entertainment System.
“YES! Foster, I put my weiner in some ladies hoo-hah! Someone give me a championship belt!” Not so fast. In order to become heavyweight champion, there’s one more special maneuver to perfect.
Once you have the title, you can play it like a guitar, wear it over your shoulder. And finally bask in the reflection of a being pure, undisputed champion of an excellent and awesome nature.
Final lesson:
The Donkeypunch is like defating Mike Tyson in Punchout. Like finding all the space ship pieces in Toe Jam & Earl. Like getting all the pieces of the Gwar tickets in Beavis & Butthead. Like Johnny Cage uppercutting Goro into the pit of spikes. The ultimate victory. The final feather in your theoretical cap of awesome.
Now, I set you free unto the world. Go out, and pork comely lasses, my friends.Remember your teachings, and unleash a brief and efficient fornication for some lucky broad.
Sincerely,
Eric D. Foster.
P.S.: I do not actually condone white people fornicating at a family reunion, hanging black people from trees, hiding drugs in retarded people, polluting in front of Native Americans, or putting Mexican women in the Boston Crab. However, Asians eating ducks is always okay.
On that note, I really hope some of you took this seriously.
I actually love ladies. And I even pretend to listen and care about what they blabber on about. For those of you lacking common sense and deduction, this is a parody…
Mucus Pocus
I wake up the other morning. Just getting over a fever.
Perhaps I’m the only one…But when you’ve got that terrible sinus pressure/infection, head congestion, etc. What’s the first thing you do in the morning? For me, it’s hocking that epic loogie that’s been building all night. And it’s always that Chernobyl nuclear green, guacamole textured beast that you can’t expel around women with fear of being lectured about etiquette. …Resembling the Ecto slime that came with the 80’s Ghostbusters action figures that I would STILL play with if I could find them. Perhaps that’s only what I have to do. Don’t judge me.
I’m on the way to work at 6 AM. I opt for some Starbucks. 12 hour work days and 45 minute drives obviously require some overpriced caffiene. So, I pull into the drive-through and order. (Yes, these drawings are intentionally awful for comedic effect.) 
“Yes, I’d like a vente peppermint mocha please.” “That will be nine hundred and forty-three dollars and sixteen cents. Please pull through.” “…Thanks.” 
So, I put my car in drive and coast through. Without thinking twice, I snort the entire nights sleep of accumulated mucus, and spit out the window. However, the epic loogie of rejection does not clear the vehicle. Or my mouth. 
Yes. It lands nicely on the window track and drips down the outside of my door. And it sure wasn’t tough to miss, being that it was a glow-in-the-dark, radioactive loogie of the utmost embarrassing proportions.
All of this occurs while I’m about to pay, then be handed my coffee. So, I panic. You would too, don’t be a lying liar. I reach over into the passenger seat and grab a receipt. from the ATM machine.
However, the consistancy of the loogie simply will not be denied. Then, time runs out. The girl at the window goes to hand my my coffee. 
…And a prominent line of mucus connects my face to the recepit glued to my car, surrounded by snot.
The girl at the window tilts her head in confusion. Like a dog confused why it’s being scolded after peeing on the carpet. The akward moment when our eyes met caused more emotional damage than seeing my grandmother stepping out of the shower, with her silver Chia Pet-esq a bush connecting into a happy trail leading up her trachea.
The forecast called for rejection, that morning. With a 100% chance of involentary abstinence for the rest of my life.
She hesitated, shifted her eyes and then said, “thank you”. Had I been on the ball, I would have responded “‘Snot a problem.”
Steve Irwin: A Respectful Eulogy
A TRIBUTE TO STEVE
Steve Irwin was a great man.
A conservationist, entertainer, family man, friend to nature…Along with a complete badass.
However, his death allows us to appreciate the splendor that was his magnificent life.
On the 5th day, God said “Let there be Steve.”
On the 6th day, God said “Let there be sting rays.”
Unbeknownst to the majority of the public, Steve Irwin was present at the birth of Christ.
Here is a painting of the birth of Christ.
You can see Steve offering a biblical high five to the baby Jesus.
He brought gifts of gold and Vegimite sandwiches.
Then, God himself blessed Steve with everlasting Earthly life.
As you can imagine, Steve responded with “Crikey!”
…Down in the pits of Hell…
Satan was plotting and planning.
The birth of Christ was living proof of the truth.
So, mean ole’ Lucifer countered.
And if you knew the devil, you would be aware of his fondness for sting-rays. (And, Sham-Wow.)
Satan reached into a firey ocean, and created Glenn.
Glenn was the epitome of all that was evil. Most sting-rays were harmless, clumsy ocean creatures. Glenn was the devils ocean guardian.
His barb was laced with Lucifers venomous lies and the slimey extract of Courtney Love’s vagina. His I-Pod was always set on Huey Lewis & the News. (Obviously, which Satan also created to torture mankind.)
Glenn knew that his destiny would result in an ultimate battle with Steve.
Meanwhile, Steve left his mark on the world.
(The gaps in time were pretty much due to Steve porking comely lasses, and inventing cool shit(Kittens, ice cream, and Atari.)
(1770)- Beethovens mother can’t afford another child. She contemplates the abortion of Ludwig, but reconsiders after Steve arrives in Bonn, and wrestles the child from her womb, before crippling her with Boston Crab.
(1776)- Steve Irwin and Thomas Jefferson write the Declaration of Independence after drinking some Fosters lager, and juggling koalas.
(1865)- Steve Irwin decides that it’s time for America to heal the wounds it’s afflicted upon itself. He mediates the Confederate surrender at the Appomattox Courthouse, while subduing an awnry croc. Then, he drank more Fosters lager with General Grant, while convincing him to run for President.
(1910)- Steve Irwin dies for our sins.
The Lord is yet again disappointed by mankind.
God returns Steve to Earth, to finish out what he was sent to do.
Steve forgives. People ask themselves, “What Would Steve Do?”
Disclaimer: The hole in the O-Zone was due to Steve flapping his angel wings too hard, before he got to Heaven.
(1945)- Steve Irwin travels to Germany as an Aussie diplomat.
Steve and Hitler engage in a verbal debate over killing Jews.
Steve realizes the world needs dentists and bankers.
As Allied Forces attack Berlin, Steve and Hitler get into a physical altercation.
Steve single handedly destroys the Axis Powers with nothing more than a headlock, and audible cries of “Blimey!”
Being modest, Steve allows the government to formally name it V-E Day.
Disregarding the original name: “Steve Irwin Cockslapped the Homo Nazis Day.”
(1963)- Steve Irwin time travels to 1963, with the assistance of a quantum time machine. His holographic friend from the future, Al assists his journeys with the help of the enigmatic Ziggy. Steve discovers that he’s traveled to the past to repair a discrepency in regards to the JFK assasination.
Suddenly, Al notices a sniper in the Book Depository.
Low and behold, it’s Glenn!
Steve gives it his all to protect the President, but alas.
His arch nemesis has succeeded in the assassination.
However, Al reveals to Steve his true mission.
Here’s the crazy twist: He was actually sent to save the First Lady.
And like all of Steve’s endevors- Success.
(1969)- The world witnesses a fake moon landing. You fucking retards.
(1972)- Steve Irwin and some queer astronaut with a moustache actually do land on the moon.
Steve doesn’t need a space suit. He only needs Vegimite. Gravity still effects Steve.
…But, only because he feels sorrt for it.
(1992)- Steve sleeps. God takes a rib from Steve’s side and creates Terri.
They get married, instantly.
By the way, Steve fucking loves Star Wars.
Steve has 2 children with Terri.
Bindi Sue, born in 1998.
And Bob, born in 2003.
(They’re both already wrestling kangaroos and pissing off menstruating koalas.)
(1996)- Steve writes “The Macarena” and invents a quirky jig to go along with it. After realizing that it was all different sorts of gay, he donated it to some starving Mexicans. Steve never spoke of it, again.
(1999)- A small child screams in the supermarket.
And goth woman in the deli proceeds to tell Steve, “If that were my child, I’d have him killed.”
Steve responds by telling her, “Crikey, if that were your child, you’d be on Jenny Jones trying to figure out which of the 7 blokes is the father.”
That’s post translation, mind you.
It actually sounded more like “Criokey, Eef thot wuh yuh choild, yu’d bay oon Jinny Jones troying t’ figger oot wheech oof th’ seeven bloke ees th’ fothuh.”
Steve loves kids. Hates goths and gangbangs.
(2001)- 9/11 occurs. It only happened because Steve was taking a nap.
Everytime you wake Steve from a nap, an eskimo eats a baby penguin.
(2006)- Glenn fullfills his destiny and thrusts his barb deep into Steve’s heart.
Steve returns to Heaven, where he plays laser tag with Mr. Belvedere, and eats chicken with Wesley Willis.
The last words Steve whispered into Glenn’s ear were, “This must be Home Depot, because I’m looking at a tool.” Oooh, burn!!!
Nobody in the ocean likes Glenn, OR Huey Lewis & The News. (God, I can’t fucking believe how horrible ‘Sports’ was…)
At the end of days, Steve Irwin will return, yet again.
…..Is this where you want to be when Steve comes back?
Steve Irwin Fact & Fiction:
Fact: Steve Irwin loves koalas.
Fiction: Steve Irwin..encourages Communism
Fact: George Washington would not tell a lie. (Because Steve would have kicked his ass.)
Fiction: Steve Irwin pees Mountain Dew.
Fact: Steve impregnated Teri with a hearty handshake.
Fact: Steve refers to Teri’s vagina as his “Hot Pocket”.
Fact: “Johnny Appleseed was actually just Steve Irwin feeding animals and exploring terrain.
Fiction: Steve Irwin masturbates everytime Men At Work is on the radio.
Fact: Steve Irwin allowed Sammy Hagar to drive 55.
Fiction: Steve Irwin shaved Sammy Hagars penis shaft, and put the pubes in a sandwich. (Ed Asner did that.)
Fact: Steve Irwin loves catapillars & watching Cop &..1/2.
Fiction: Steve Irwin can kinetically charge playing cards that explode on contact.
Fact: Steve poops soft serve chocolate yogurt.
Fiction: Steve enjoys handjobs from schoolgirls wearing lubed up mittens.
Steve Irwin Haikus:
(I am the hustler of haikus…But, feel free to submit your own.)
Goodbye, Steve Irwin.
We mourn your untimely loss.
All sting-rays are fags.
Conservationist.
Nature remains in your debt.
Let me pork Teri.
Crocodile kisses.
Australias sweet embrace.
Let me pork Teri.
Unforgotton cause.
Croc could not eat your baby.
Tan shorts, Always cool.
RIP: STEVE IRWIN.
P.S.: The bad Photoshop work is intentional. WWSD?
Dr. Pepper, I’d Like A Second Opinion…
I can’t be the only broke-ass who can’t afford name brand pop.
Sorry, Mr. & Mrs Thurston Howell, but I can’t afford your ‘la-dee-fucking-dah’ 50 cent can soda. Sodas with commericial advertising, celebrity spokespeople, and ingredients which don’t cause various forms of impotency. Laaaa-deee-fucking-DAH, I boastfully repeat in your general direction. Fuck you Pepsi, Coca Cola, and especially you Dr. Pepper. YOU, Dr. Pepper… You’re the delicious drink in which I crave.
Dr. Pepper has always been the right diagnosis for what’s ailing me: Thirst. Prescription: Drink one of me, then bellow out a satisfied, inappropriate “Ahhhhhh”, vocally communicating just how amazing you make me feel. But recently, I calculated how much that costs me a week. Vending machine at work = .60 Times 5 days a week. (Let me find my useful Casio calculator for assistance in this complicated, mathmatical pickle) Three dollars.
You know what else costs 3 dollars? Cigarettes. A plethora of delcious Charleston Chews. A forty of Mickeys. A crappy handjob from a stubble cooched, yeast infected, housewife pill addict wearing nothing but orange-striped knee-high socks. I refuse. You heard me, doc. I refuse to let your tantilizing, carbonated product consume my monies. I will not miss out on the finer things in life. This will be my last visit to your clinic. I’d like my records, please. I’m going to find a new doctor. A doctor who can fix me up, without the financial burden you’ve put upon me with your theoretical stethoscope of bankrupcy. So, I searched. In the process, I discovered…That they pass around medical degrees in the soda industry like they pass around a joint at a Cypress Hill concert. First, I went to Dr. Thunder. 
His price was reasonable. But, the love wasn’t there. When he grabbed my balls and asked me to turn my head and cough…I realized, “I just wanted something to drink.” Then, I realized Dr. Thunder was actually Uncle Dennis. And that Uncle Dennis had really soft hands. My search continued, as I made an appointment with:
Dr. Topper.
What the fuck is a topper, anyway? This soda is a conundrum of overhwhelming confusion. He wasn’t so bad. He was gentle, yet quenching. And his prices were reasonable. Suddenly, Dr. Pepper was becoming a mere memory. Yesterdays news. But, once again…It had carbonation. Had taste. Lacked love. Dr. Springtime: (No picture available) I found Dr. Springtime in a Piggly Wiggly. At first, I assumed it was the name of a feminen hygiene product. Dr. Springtime sounds like a generic brand of douche only Tuesday afternoon strippers with happy trails can afford. On that note, Dr. Springtime also tasted like douche. Does all soda come with a vinegar scent and a nozzle? This left me gagging and angry that Dr. Springtime ever recieved his medical degree in soda.
Dr. Foots:
: 
I hoped for the best. This doctor has the name of a grey kitten with cute, white colored paws. But, I was wrong. (Although, I do enjoy the fact that “Chill Before Serving” is on the can…Just incase inbred bumblefucks weren’t sure how to drink a fancy sodee-pop.) Tasted like I was licking the gravel from the blistered corns of a hobos foot. I actually spit Dr. Foot on the ground, with an audible “BLEH!” An old lady outside the market saw me do this, and gave me me a funny look. I gestured the can in her direction implying she could finish the rest. She simply raised her hand as to say “No thanks, faggot.”, and continued on her marry way to dying soon. (Okay, that actually never happened, but it would have been completely awesome.)
Dr. Chill: (No picture available)
Dr. Chill is my dawg. The most ghetto generic pop, ever. If Dr. Chill and Faygo got into a brawl, Dr. Chill would rip Faygo’s arms from it’s torso, then roundhouse kick Faygo’s grandmother out of her wheelchair. Dr. Chill was the sheeeeeeit!!! He’s all, “Sup honky?” And I’m all, “Dayumn, Dr. Chill. I need a fix.” So, he’s all “Chickety-check yo’self son!” And he was delicious. I had the sudden urge to go home and watch the Fresh Prince of Bel Air, and smoke a pack of Newports.
Doctor: (No picture available)
Yes. I thought, perhaps his simplistic approach, may be due to a pompous arrogance of delicious product. Incorrect. Doctor tastes like flat Dr. Pepper. Literally. Open a can of Dr. Pepper. Leave it rest for a couple days. Then, taste. It tastes like someone sodomized themselves with a prune, put it in a blender with some A1 steak sauce and the puss excreation from a whore’s bread baking, yeast infection. Doctor should find a new line of work. Selling used cars, or cagefighting. I’m not sure what it actually tastes like giving a rimjob to a dead piece of roadkill, along the highway. But it can’t be any worse than drinking Doctor.
Dr. Bold:
Dr. Bold was a dickhead. He tried to stick a speculum in me. “I don’t have a vaj-ay, Dr. Bold.” Then, he opened up his glove compartment, and showed me his medical degree. Dr. Bold violated me with his bold carbonation and bitter aftertaste. In Europe, bidets should flow wild with Dr. Bold. That’s about all it’s good for.
Dr. Perfect: (No picture available)
I was hoping Dr. Perfect was a tribute to former WWF Intercontinental Champion, Mr. Perfect. I was wrong. Whereas, Mr. Perfect would spit him gum out, and swat it in mid air. Dr. Perfect tasted like a bed sore. Mr. Perfect would play baseball and hit only homeruns. Mr. Perfect would play Scrabble and get a triple word score, EVERY TIME. …Dr Perfect was like a parapeligic trying to run the gauntlet in American Gladiators. I’m not even sure this was actual soda. Perhaps the bag-boy at the grocery store urinated into a can, and I fell for it. He also gave me a piece of candy that looked curiously like a knee-scab.
Dr. Right: (No picture available)
Dr. Right? No. Dr. Wrong, you penis wrinkle! There was NOTHING right about you. I HATE YOU SO MUCH, DR. RIGHT. You bring false hope to us all, you doppleganger of disasterous porportions. Someone bring me Dr. Right, so he can diagnose the after-effects of the left uppercut to the chin he’ll soon have to endure. Dr. Sparkle: (No picture available) If Christopher Lowell drank generic Dr. Pepper…It would be Dr. Sparkle. Or “Doctor Thparkle!!!” with a limp wrist, and hand on the hip. I felt gay even drinking this. Just looking at it made me want to be an olympic figure skater, and karaoke the Dawson’s Creek theme song. I tried it, and low and behold. It was fruity. Literally. It was a horrible attempt at soda. I hope whoever created Dr. Sparkle has long since died of GAIDS.
In conclusion: After lots of research and blatent outrage. The winner is Dr. Chill.
Dr. Topper was a close runner up. I recommend them both, and the cost effiecient, tasty results which come from their consumption. Dr. Pepper, you just lost a customer. …And a friend.
The Daddy Book
If anyone has a younger sibling they’d like to exploit, let me know. I would like this narrated by a child. Now I’m well aware a select few of you who were born with an additional chromosome are accusing me of racism.
But before you do that, think about it- All the watermelon references to blacks, and duck eating, math references to Asians fail in comparison to the stereotype of caucasian, homoerotic/incest/inbreeding/child molestation. However, if you’re still offended I can assure you. I sincerely do not care in the slightest.
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