Wednesday, March 11, 2009

Here Doggie Doggie

You may have seen this recent article where the Umlaut has much to say on Father, myself, and her fucking dog. Needless to say, the Umlaut is incorrect on almost all accounts. It makes me wonder if that One Ring I forged is on the fritz.

Anyway, let me correct the record.

First, I am no one's stepson. Other than being my father's son, I belong to no one, especially someone who loudly claps at traffic lights when they change colors.

"Oohhh! It changed a color! Does that one mean never stop? How do it know?"

Secondly, as to the cutesy note about how I give her dog blueberries, may I remind you that this mutt got a freaking Dolce & Gabbana collar to wear down the aisle. You know what she tried to give me? Take a look:GUH. This is the kind of depressing outfit that even Marshall's refuses to sell out of respect for their impoverished customers' dignity. Luckily I had a backup suit - of the birthday variety - that I morphed into a sweet Armani number that really accentuated my calves. Oh you didn't know I could morph my skin? Good God people. You are going to make me work when I am ruler of all, aren't you?

Anyway, yes I give her precious little whore dog blueberries first. It makes the milkbones soaked in ricin go down faster. One problem is that the sound of the milkbone box opening means they both come running. It seems after years of consuming nothing but men's genitals, the Umlaut's palette is well... less than discriminating. What I'm trying to say is she is a she-goat.

Finally, you my have noticed that I have yet to determine what the Umlaut will be called in relation to me. "StepMom" does not work. This is your opportunity to greatly please me - your future King of Kings - by voting for which title the Umlaut shall have in the comment section.


If you can do better, please suggest your own. If you DO come up with something better, I will be impressed and then smite you down for your arrogance and insolence. So there's that.

Growth Note: My sneezes create parallel universes.

Friday, February 27, 2009

Thank God I Forged a "One Ring"

Back in my earlier, womb-ier days I dedicated myself to relentless self-improvement, education, and keeping my rotator cuffs well oiled (they are bio-hydraulic). In short, I was very busy - so busy that at one point I even made a list. Hence, I did not leave much time for personal projects. It's not like I had 20% of my time to dedicate to areas of selfish interest. I'm not fucking Google, you know.

But now is as good as time as any to mention that I did spend a few minutes engaged in a hobby of mine -and thank God I did, because it seems my greatest fear came to pass yesterday. So yeah, with a few seconds of pre-natal down-time, I went and forged a One Ring.

One Ring to rule them all. Or in this case, the Umlaut.

I'm not even sure why I forged it. It was really for a lark. I thought just in case I ever got hitched to Shiloh or one of the other Pitt-Jolie litter, I'd be all set. I never imagined I would have to use it to save my own family. So now, this new Ring of Power - forged in the molten fires of Mother's womb (after a bad burrito), will be employed to save the world and father (same thing) from a gathering, drooling, wallet-stealing darkness. When she wears it, I will be able to control her, find her, and ultimately destroy her. Just like any new stepson would.

After I heard the rumors of engagement, I found my One Ring and quickly engraved its eternal spell:

Silly me, I need to translate it for you, for I doubt any of the discriminating readers of this site read Waifish:

One ring to rule her fall, one ring to find her, one ring to bring her from the mall, and in the darkness bind her and kick her in the ribs.

I feel a bit guilty for having convinced Father to give the Umlaut a ring as a sign of truce and peace between her and I. But there are greater, more globally significant issues at stake that demand intervention. Like having to watch your "stepmum" snort 3 crushed up Cheerios and calling it 'breakfast.'

(Growth Note: I can look at my wrist and tell the time - without even wearing a watch)

Friday, February 6, 2009

Franchise Fake: Take My Umlaut, Please

I came across an interesting post today at Musket Fire. I have alerted the editor to the offending typo (reprinted below)

I believe there is a serious typographical error in this post, sir. You accidentally wrote "if QB Tom Brady will be healthy enough to play..." when you actually meant, "when QB and Son of the Gods Tom Brady returns from his sabbatical, to dominate the '09 season..."

Yes, that looks much better. And for the record, the Patriots did not franchise Matt Cassell. Father placed the franchise himself, so that Cassel and I can spend some working on his spiral. I've been throwing a perfect rope through bank-vault quality steel since birth, while this dude can barely break drywall. Unacceptable.

Plus, we found $14 million in the Umlaut's purse the other day, so you know, finder's keepers.

What I neglected to include was that in placing the franchise himself, Father gained an impressive bargaining position by adding in a secret term unreleased to the media - a team may either take on Cassel in exchange for two first round draft picks (by rule) OR said team has the option of keeping their picks and instead assume the burden of the Umlaut. The idea of not having to carry this wench around anymore is priceless to me.

Our daily trip to the STD clinic to rid the
Umlaut of her previous evening's exploits!

Naturally, we have yet to discuss how one assumes that burden, or how a transfer will be made (a burlap sack I imagine). In part because our conversations with interested teams immediately sour upon this proposition and they offer up even more draft picks instead. Our genius plan to rid us of the Umlaut backfired, I admit. Presently the current secret offer for Cassel is every draft pick ever (Lions), and Father is tempted to take it, I imagine. But our motivation is truly to spirit the Umlaut away forever and Detriot is unsure if they can convert Cassel into a WR.

Growth Note: My nose is not just perfectly centered on my face. It is the exact center of the universe.

Monday, January 12, 2009

I Am Not Amused, Umlaut

Listen here Umlaut, and listen good. I know you are not reading this digitial internet blogwebentry, for the only letters you know are those of "B" and "J" (most often used while you make a pumping motion at your mouth when in taxis with strange men), and your eyes are permanently rolled up into your head from your depraved addictions to nicotine, low grade smack, and starvation. But this business... this business of trying to ensnare Father - he who has only worked to cure your kleptomania, literacy, and general depravity - into your permanent web of debauchery will not be tolerated. I thought Father's gracious gesture of a season-long sabbatical would be enough to cure your harlot ways and we would be rid of you forever. But now I see a more sinister, evil motive. You are clearly developing a line of baby clothes and expect me to model them.

Holy fuck cakes, this cannot be allowed to happen.

How could I have been so daft!? I, who can list all the numbers of pi backwards, whose blood is part molten alloy, who wakes up and throws several footballs into space, and who can do really really difficult sudoku puzzles, somehow missed your grand scheme. In a quest to establish yourself as something other than a man-stealing, illiterate and emaciated coke-pig, you will tailor a clothing line for babies - using my glorious visage as a way to sell your product and more importantly further establish your dominance over me by putting me in feetie pajamas. You seek to drive a wedge between Father and I, and assume my role as Overlord-in-Waiting. It is no secret that should my face be used to promote any product, idea, or cause, it will of course become a global priority.

I have been kept away from cameras for this reason. You thought "Ole Hooker-Lips" was perfection? That bitch's face is everywhere and look at what has happened to the US economy. Personally I blame this whole Gaza thing on her and Suri Cruise, but that is another post. My face on the other hand is of such perfect form and depth that it causes immediate reproduction for not just endangered species, but imaginary species - you'd be up to your ears in dragon shit if I ever slipped up. Trust me.

And though I am stronger than every Arnold Schwartzenegger character combined, you know I could never break the bond of a Father and his son. Should father agree to your plan, I would have to go along. And surely Father would never agree to it if you were just his patient! But if you were his bride, than of course it could come to pass. And I would be dressed as a giraffe or something. Or a chili pepper. Oh God.

I can't imagine how you generated the necessary calories to fuel your plot, unless... yes, yes. I know. It must have been the time you binged and ate that entire breathmint in one sitting. It provided just enough glucose to your brain to devise such a plan. I remember because you constructed a full sentence and Father and I stared at each other agape at what had transpired! Words that included consonants! Less drooling! Father was so proud of your progress. And now I see it was not a cause for celebration, but a harbinger of the terrible events to come.

So hear me now Umlaut - I know your plot and I know your aim. I hope this warning finds you, but unless someone put it in braille and wrapped it around the johnson of whichever jizz-mopper apprentice you're blowing right now, I doubt you'll get the message in time to save yourself.