Jesus and Elvis: Happy Birthday, Jesus!

Elvis: Ok, you got your eyes closed?

Jesus: Yes, they're closed.

Elvis: Ok, now, don't open 'em up 'till I say so, alright?

Jesus: You know, you really didn't have to do this, Elvis. I told you not to get me anything this year...

Elvis: What, like I ain't gonna get my best bud something on his special day? C'mon, now, you know me better than that, I hope.

Jesus: Can I open my eyes now?

Elvis: Not yet... let me just get it set up here... man, these things are complicated...

Jesus: I'm starting to get dizzy.

Elvis: Hold on... ok, I got it. Alright, open your eyes.

(Jesus opens his eyes)

Elvis: Surprise! Happy birthday!

Jesus: Oh. Wow. Look at that. Say, that's really nice. Wow. Thanks, Elvis!

Elvis: You like it?

Jesus: Oh, yes. That looks great. That's really... something. A very nice gift, Elvis. Yes. Definitely.

(they look at it for a moment)

Elvis: You don't know what it is, do you?

Jesus: No, but it looks expensive.

Elvis: It's a Wii.

Jesus: A what?

Elvis: A Wii, man. You don't know what a Wii is?

Jesus: No, what's a Wii?

Elvis: What's a Wii??? Only the best freaking gaming system ever invented, dude, that's what! You kidding me?

Jesus: It's a video game? Hey, well, that's nice. I like video games. I used to frequent the arcade quite a bit, back in the day. Does it play Space Invaders?

Elvis: Naw, man, it don't play Space Invaders. Video games have come a long way since the 70's...

Jesus: That was a good game. I never understood exactly why the space invaders were attacking us, but eliminating them just felt like the right thing to do. Under the circumstances, that is.

Elvis: Do what?

Jesus: I also enjoyed Pacman for a while.

Elvis: Oh, really? You had Pacman Fever?

Jesus: I did. Until I figured out what the game was really about.

Elvis: What it was about? Pacman was about something?

Jesus: Pacman was about consumerism. It was all about seeing how much you could consume before you died. Your whole life is spent eating yellow dots – consuming products – while trying to avoid the reality of of your own death.

Elvis: Do what?

Jesus: That was what the ghosts represented. Mortality. They were always coming to get you, and the Pacman's whole existence was based on avoiding them while devouring as much crap as he could fit his mouth around. But there was death, always around the corner, and no matter how much you consumed, they always got you in the end. You never noticed that?

Elvis: I don't know. I guess I never thought about it before. What about Ms Pacman? What was that about?

Jesus: I don't know, I never played Ms Pacman. But Space Invaders... now that was a good game. Protecting your planet from evil forces... that's the kind of game I can really--

Elvis: Just wait until you experience the Wii, man. Space Invaders, Schmace Invaders. You down for this? You ready to rock?

Jesus: Ok, sure. I'm ready to rock. Let's play something.

Elvis: Ok, let's see... let me pick out something good, here... let's see, we have "Forces of Evil"... hmmm... "Highschool Massacre", that's a pretty good one... we got "Psycho Killer", I ain't played it yet, but it looks promising... oh, here's one, this one looks pretty good – "Cut Your Balls Off, Two". Let's play that.

Jesus: "Cut Your Balls Off"?

Elvis: Two. "Cut Your Balls Off, Two". I played the original, "Cut Your Balls Off", and it was pretty damn good. They say that CYBO2 is way better. Killer graphics.

Jesus: It sounds awfully violent...

Elvis: Yeah, it kicks ass. Alright, let me just pop it in. You want to go first?

Jesus: Why don't you go ahead and go first. I'll just watch.

Elvis: Alright, then. Man, I been dying to play this thing...

(Elvis starts playing)

Jesus: Oh... oh, my. Oh, wow. That really is violent. Is this a video game? It looks so realistic.

Elvis: I know, don't it? Look at how that guy's blood splashes right up on the screen.

Jesus: Why are you trying to kill that guy? You sure this thing doesn't play Space Invaders?

Elvis: Here, watch this... I'm gonna stab this guy in the nuts...

Jesus: I can't look...

Elvis: Dammit... he's a fast little fucker. Alright, let me get out my chainsaw. I'm going to cut this fucker's balls off if it's the last thing I... ah, shit! He fucking killed me. I'm fucking dead. Shit.

Jesus: Well, you can hardly blame him. You had a chainsaw.

Elvis: Yeah, I guess. Alright, your turn, JC.

Jesus: You know what? I think I'll pass for now.

Elvis: Really? You don't wanna play?

Jesus: It's just... I dunno. It's very violent. It's not really my thing. I am “Jesus”, you know.

Elvis: So you don't wanna play?

Jesus: Maybe later. After breakfast.

Elvis: Ok, then. So... so what did you get me?

Jesus: Say what?

Elvis: What did you get me? For Christmas?

Jesus: What do you mean?

Elvis: Don't tell me you didn't get me nothing. You didn't get me anything for Christmas?

Jesus: I'm supposed to get you something on my birthday? How does that work, exactly?

Elvis: Man, it's Christmas! Of course you're supposed to get me something. Ain't you got no Christmas spirit?

Jesus: Elvis, I am Christmas spirit. Literally. Hey, I always get you something on your birthday, don't I?

Elvis: Yeah, but it's Christmas.

Jesus: Alright, alright... tell you what I'll do. Your birthday's in two weeks, right?

Elvis: Yep. I'm a Capricorn, JC, just like you.

Jesus: Ok, then, tell you what. How about I give you your birthday present right now.

Elvis: Really? You already have a birthday present for me?

Jesus: I sure do. I've got something I'm sure you'll like.

Elvis: Well, ok then. That'll work. You want me to close my eyes?

Jesus: Yes, close your eyes... you got 'em closed?

Elvis: They're closed.

Jesus: No peeking, now... let me just get it set up, here... ok, almost finished... one more second... ok, it's ready. Open your eyes.

(Elvis opens his eyes)

Jesus: Happy birthday! I mean, Merry Christmas!

Elvis: (gasp!)... Oh my god! It's a Wii! I don't believe it! You got me a Wii! And the whole time you was acting like you didn't even know what a Wii was...

Jesus: (cough)

Elvis: Wait a minute... this is the same Wii I just gave you, isn't it?

Jesus: Well... I just think you'll get more out of it than me, that's all. So, do you like it?

Elvis: Like it? I love it, JC. It's exactly what I wanted.

Jesus: Yeah. I had a feeling...

Elvis: The perfect gift. You really nailed it this year. Hey, let's play something! How about we play "Cut Off Your Head And Shit Down Your Neck"... that's a two-person game. You wanna be the good guy or the bad guy? I like playing the bad guy.

Jesus: You go ahead and play. I think I'm going to fix some breakfast.

Elvis: Oh, ok then... well, Happy Birthday, Jesus!

Jesus: And Merry Christmas to you, Elvis. Hey, how much bacon do you want with your eggs?

Elvis: Oh, hell, man... just pile it on. You know me.

Jesus: Indeed.

Captain Smack is Dead

I don't believe this crap. I drop off the face of the planet for a whole freaking month, and not a single “Captain Smack is dead” rumor surfaces? What the hell? It's almost like you people have something better to do with your time than sit around thinking about me. How deflating.

Hey, speaking of ultra-smooth segues, that reminds me of the time when people actually thought I was dead. There were probably about 50 people who, for several months, thought that I had died. In fact, now that I think about it, there are probably at least a few people out there who still think I'm dead - which, for some reason, I find strangely satisfying. I sure would like to run into one of those people.

Why did everyone think I was dead? Well, it all started the year after I graduated from highschool...

(cue flashback-style harp music)

I went to this really funky highschool. And by “funky”, I mean that it kicked ass. Not a private school, but an alternative public school for kids who didn't fit into the standard system. It was very small, about 180 students altogether, and the focus was on “individualized learning”. Basically a haven for weirdos. I decided it was the place for me, and put my name on the waiting list to get in.

The way you got accepted to this school was by being interviewed by the entire student body at once. Seriously, you had to get up in front of the whole school (they would all gather in the gymnasium) and explain to them why you wanted to join, and then answer any questions they had. Then the students would take a vote to decide if you belonged there. Generally, the weirder you were, the better your chance of getting in. Naturally, I was a shoo-in.

The school saved my life. It was one of the best things that ever happened to me. After 9 years of the typical overcrowded, impersonal, bureaucratic public education, this place was almost too good to be true. We were treated like humans. We called our teachers by their first names. I actually got to know my teachers personally, and they got to know me. We would just hang out sometimes. No shit. We would get into long conversations, and crack each other up. Other times we would get into heated arguments and yell at each other.

It all seemed very natural, like an actual relationship. I even learned a few things. For example, did you know that there are seven continents on the planet? It's true.

So anyway, I made it through highschool. But then, after graduation, I did something that most graduates prefer not to do: I kept going to highschool. One of my favorite teachers, Trish, told me that I could “audit” her Media Productions class. This basically meant that I wouldn't get any actual credit, but I could go to her class, use the facilities, and learn about filmography and stuff, which is one of my things. I took her up on it.

It was great. There I was, going to highschool, yet not bound by the same rules as everyone else. I felt a certain elation from knowing that, any time I wanted, I could just up and take off. I could leave in the middle of class, if it pleased me. It was a liberated feeling. I felt sort of like Neo in The Matrix; I wasn't trapped in the matrix, like all those other poor schmucks. I could enter or escape whenever I wanted.

I would usually roll in at about 11AM each day, casually stroll around campus for a few minutes, and then sit in on Trisha's class. Then, once class was over, I would screw around in the parking lot during lunch with all the regular students. I was having a pretty good time. I was the King of the Parking Lot.

Then I met this girl, and found a better way to spend my time.

Enter Melissa:

Melissa was 18, and a virgin (until I came along, heh heh). Boy, talk about a sexual awakening. The first time she got some, it was like she found Jesus or something. Once Sex was on the menu, she just sunk her teeth in and wouldn't let go. Everything was sex sex sex, I felt like I had created a monster. I'd already gone through the whole “I-just-lost-my-virginity-so-now-I'm-going-to-screw-as-much-as-humanly-possible” stage, so I thought I knew what I was getting into, but she took it to a whole other level. I have to admit, I had a hard time keeping up with her. But I was determined to give it my best shot.

With Melissa going through such an important “coming of age” phase, I took it upon myself to help her work through it, and did what any caring, sensitive guy would do: I devoted my time to fucking her brains out. It was a lot of work, though, and I had to re-prioritize my schedule a little. My Media Productions class quickly slipped off the radar. I just stopped showing up.

Soon after, a couple of friends of mine, who were a grade behind me, and therefor still in highschool, made up a little song, which they would sing whenever my name came up. The words to the song were simply “Captain Smack is dead”, but they would sing it to the tune of “Bela Lugosi's Dead”.

At first, it was just a little joke. No one actually thought I was dead or anything. Then the highschool yearbooks began production.

One of the cool things about this highschool was that each student got to have their own yearbook page. That's right – instead of just a little picture with your name beside it, each and every student was allowed to create their very own page, dedicated wholly unto themselves, and they could put anything they wanted on it.

My friend, Joey, took this opportunity to take the “Captain Smack is dead” joke to another level. At his own expense, he designed and submitted a yearbook page that did not mention himself at all. Instead, it had a tasteful picture of my face with roses all around it, and it said “In Loving Memory: Captain Smack. We Will Miss You Always."

Once the yearbook came out, rumors of the exact circumstances of my demise circulated rapidly. Some of these rumors had me dying in a car crash. Others were more elaborate, and involved me getting stranded in South America with some exotic disease. But, of course, “drug overdose” was the most popular story, and soon became the official cause of death.

My friends did nothing to quell these rumors, and found the whole thing very amusing.

Meanwhile, I had no idea that any of this was going on. It was a strange time for me. I was really enjoying being disconnected from my social group, and had no particular plans to rejoin the tribe. Melissa's frantic “post-virgin” phase had leveled off somewhat, and we were just kind of groovin' along, doing our thing.

So one day I'm at the IGA grocery store in a nearby town. I'm walking through the parking lot, and I spot these two girls I knew from highschool, Ren & Rachelle.

They saw me and froze. Their jaws dropped and their eyes widened. I was relaxed and casual, and was returning their look of stunned bewilderment with a look of nonchalant bemusement. That's one of my favorite facial expressions – nonchalant bemusement. I still use it, sometimes. It's an expression that says “Hey, I don't know what the big deal is, but whatever floats your boat, babe.”

They suddenly broke out of it and ran to me, smothering me with hugs and kisses. They kept saying “You're alive! You're Alive!”, and I was thinking to myself “Jesus Christ, it's about time I started getting some recognition”. Of course, that was back when I still assumed I was going to be a rock star, so I just figured their reaction was some kind of precursor to my inevitable fame. What was I supposed to think? That they thought I was dead?

They told me all about the yearbook and the rumors and everything, and then I filled them in on what I had been up to. After that, word got around that I had miraculously resurrected (no wonder I have a Jesus complex), and that was pretty much that.

The only other person I ever ran into who still thought I was dead was some redneck guy, who, fortunately, did not shower me with hugs and kisses. He just saw me and was like “Oh. Hey, dude. I thought you was, like, dead or something. Huh.”

So that's my “Captain Smack is Dead” story. It was a lot of fun to be around to hear about my own death. Of course, one day I'll actually die for realsies. It could happen in the next 5 minutes. You never know, I might walk outside and get bitten by a snake or something.

And if that did happen, none of you would ever know about it. You'd probably just assume that I'd quit blogging. It's not like my friends or family would be able to access this blog to inform you about it or anything.

Which is probably the case with most of you, right? If you died, the rest of us out here in Blogland would probably just assume that you had stopped blogging. Ever known any bloggers who were going strong, and then just suddenly stopped?

I always try to end things on a positive note.

The Flaming Moth of Redemption

...

Generally speaking, society seems to take a rather negative view of serial killers. This seems counter-productive. Everyone is always complaining about overpopulation, traffic jams, and long lines – yet whenever someone actually tries to do something about it, people insist they be locked away. It almost makes you wonder why serial killers even bother in the first place.

It really is a thankless job – and not the easiest one in the world, either – yet they do it for free. Not only do these volunteer workers not get paid for their efforts, they often have to cover some of the expenses (knives, rope, shovels, night-vision goggles, etc.) out of their own pockets. That's how dedicated they are.

I think one of the reasons they don't get much public support is because of the brutal nature of their work. Most modern people eat various animals all day long, yet have never killed anything bigger than a cockroach. They just don't have the stomach for all the violence and blood involved.

What I find interesting about serial killers is the creativity they display in their work. These people are artists. With the exception of copycat killers (goddamn posers), they can be pretty original. Each one's got their own style, their own special gimmick, their own unique way of making their statement.

For example, one guy might like to strangle his victims with a garden hose, and then put little pieces of broken mirror on their faces. What does it mean? What is he trying to say? Is he saying that, as a society, our victims “reflect” a broken system? Interesting. Another guy might do something completely different. Like his thing might be to knock off a married couple, then use their heads as bookends. What statement is he trying to make? Is he saying that no matter how close we become, words will always separate us? I don't know, but you have to admit, these guys are pretty deep.

Not the funniest bunch in the world, though.

And that's one of the things I think is missing in serial killing: humor. People would be a lot more accepting of killers if they made an effort to lighten things up a little. Writing “I Am the Flaming Moth of Redemption!” on the wall in the victim's blood just isn't that funny. Sure, it's weird, but “weird” isn't going to win you any popularity contests.

If anyone reading this is a serial killer – and I'm sure at least one or two of my readers are – I hope you take the following ideas into consideration when planning your next gig. These are just a few ideas, things you could do to improve your image in the public eye.

Make it fun!
First, have some custom t-shirts printed up. Then, each time you kill someone, put them in a t-shirt that says “I got strangled with a gym sock and all I got was this lousy t-shirt.” This would at least give the people at home a chuckle when they show it on the six o'clock news. This is just an example, of course, and you should come up with your own gimmick, something that reflects you as a person.

Here's another example of how you could liven things up. Make a little game out of it, one that everyone could get involved in. For example, you could call yourself The Wheel of Fortune Killer. Leave a little note next to your very first victim, whose name is, say, “Edward”, with a riddle:

A place you'll probably end up:



Then, each time you kill a new person, add another letter. So if you killed a guy named “Sam”, the note would say:

A place you'll probably end up:



See? Do something like this, and people will actually start looking forward to each new kill. Humans are naturally curious, and will want to know the answer to the riddle. They'll start placing bets at the office, which will make the whole experience more interactive and enjoyable for everyone. Well, almost everyone.

Better victims = better PR
Improving the entertainment value of your work would certainly help with your public image, but the main problem people have with serial killers is the selection of victims. What is it with killing hot blonde chicks? How do you expect society to get on your side if you're going around killing off all the hotties? If you want to score some major brownie points, you should stop killing hot blondes, and start getting rid of some of the people we'd like to see less of anyway. How about Lawyers? Nobody ever kills lawyers. Why not? I don't know about you, but I would feel a lot differently about someone who went around offing lawyers than I would about someone who was reducing our supply of hot blondes.

Another target you might consider is journalists. Serial killers are much like bloggers, in that they enjoy getting attention. If you really want to get in the papers, I think killing journalists would be a good move. And I'm not talking about the Woodward and Bernstein types – I'm talking about these journalists who keep our newspapers packed with stories about Paris Hilton (who is, by the way, an exception to the above “blonde chick” rule). These people would be easy targets, too, as they're always sneaking around, having secret rendezvous in shadowy parking lots with mysterious informants. In fact, you could just call a journalist on the phone and say “I have some juicy information on that guy who's been going around killing journalists... meet me behind the old lighthouse at midnight... and be sure to come alone...”

Man, I would be really good at this.

Another group of people I think a lot of folks wouldn't mind if there were less of are CEOs of major corporations. The mortality rate in this profession is disproportionately low, and, as any Zen Buddhist will tell you, balance is important. It might be a little more challenging, since CEOs are rich and generally have a higher profile than your average college chick, so you might have to plan this one out a little. All you really have to do is figure out their weak spot, their Achilles Heel. This is just a stab in the dark, but I'd bet most of these types are highly motivated by greed. Use it against them. Call them up and tell them you have some juicy insider information. Tell them you know a way that they could double their market share, while simultaneously wiping out an endangered species of turtle. Have them meet you behind the old lighthouse at midnight...

And since we're brainstorming on who would make good victims, let me just plant a few seeds:

• Telemarketers


• Televangelist


• “Nu-rock” bands


• Pedophiles*


• Ku Klux Klan members


• Advertising executives


• Record company executives


• Guys who wear their collars turned up


• Radio station DJs who try to be funny


• People who take forever to back out of parking spots


• Anyone involved in the production or promotion of any reality show


• People who use the word “literally” to denote something that is actually figurative, as in “I literally died laughing” or “she literally exploded with anger”, etc. I know that sounds picky, but it really bugs me, and lately I've noticed people doing it a lot, and it needs to stop.


• Green Day

* excluding hot female teachers who have sex with their 14 year old male students. For god's sake, don't kill these people, they should be given medals.