Some unexpected violence and conflict broke out at the Toronto D20 Conference between stalwart adventurers and a dungeon master (DM) whose actions have been described by attendees as “power-mad” and “utterly unrealistic”.
The D20 Conference is an annual event held between the world’s highest-leveled Dungeons & Dragons characters, and a magnet of media interest in the often-clandestine world of fantasy power playing. The characters and their roleplayers convene in an agreed-upon location that must be properly supplied by the host. Ringolos, Orange Crush and progressive rock (or, alternately, fantasy film soundtracks complete with incidental cues) must be provided, and the venue must be secured from possible intrusions such as doting mothers and sunlight. However, problems with the Toronto venue plagued this years conference to the point of calamity.
The leadup to the Toronto D20 Conference was full of bad portents. Host and dungeon master (DM) Stephen Harper’s older brother Blake was hosting a beer pong tournament in the garage on the same weekend, forcing the D20 to be held in the dining room where, according to inside sources, the illusion of fantasy was shattered by occasional family meals and repeated humpings by the family dog Terry.
“We complained to Stephen, but he didn’t listen,” said Barry “Elrendel” Moresly, representative of the Sword Coast. “He refused to break character even when the pizza guy got there. If we had a problem, he’d just say something like ‘in what manner of devilrous tongue speakest thou?’. You can’t quest with a guy like that, and you darn sure don’t want him DMing.”
The problems didn’t stop at the setting. DM Harper’s totalitarian tactics and self-centredness created rifts between the D20 organizer and those who adventured therein. One of the first roadbumps would become emblematic of DMing and hosting problems throughout the conference: the artificial lake fiasco, or Aquagate.
“I’d walked into a tavern and ordered a steak,” recounted Dmitri “Thal-Ghash” Brisov. “Thal-Gash is a half-orc, but he’s got the appetite of a troll, obviously. So I order a giant steak, and Steve must’ve misheard, because he rolls a die and says ‘very well – you are now at the bottom of a lake.’ I say I ordered a steak, not a lake, but he doesn’t care.”
The uproar was immediate. Barry, in particular, was livid. “How, by the Four Winds, could the lake have gotten there? The tavern was on a hill, Thal-Ghash isn’t a spell caster, and if the tavern wench could cast spells like that, why in Thoth’s name would she be working in a tavern on the farthest edges of Halruaa?”
Complaints to the DM were met with silence, denials, and in-game reprisals. Recounts Dmitri, “I complained about my order – in character, to the wench, mind you – and Stephen friggin’ drops a bunch of giant squids in the water for no reason! They ate up Thal-Ghash! I had to get Twiglam to cast a Recall spell on my paladin, but he’s only level 8. I mean, it’s a world-class dungeon I’ve got to crawl!”
DM Harper strongly objected to being referred to as "Gargamel's Sissy Little Brother"
Complaints of the artificial, illusion-shattering effect of the lake’s creation would dog Harper for the next two days. Adventurers argued that the time expended on describing the lake would have been better spent describing the environment of the underground passage they were supposed to explore, as previous D20s had seen their respective DMs fail to mention the dangerous thickness of their dungeons’ cobwebs in time for the adventurers to avoid them.
DM Harper, perhaps flustered by repressed embarrassment, and irritated at all the complaints (however valid), steamrolled over these and other protests at his lack of dungeon mastery. A list, compiled by disgruntled conference critics, details his failings in full, and includes such cardinal D&D sins as die rolls falling off tables, treasure troves being paltry for the effort required to unlock them, making dungeon layouts spell “Stephen Rules” from above, and refusing to play any album other than King Crimson’s Lark’s Tongue in Aspic for the duration of the conference. “It’s a decent album, even without Greg Lake,” commented Theodore “High Shaman Triffletrop” Smith, “but it’s just really grating – even during the first listen-through.”
As the game progressed, adventurers who protested these ridiculous conditions grew increasingly frustrated with DM Harper’s inability to adequately address their complaints. The descent into the underground passage grew slower and slower, dogged by more and more problems and irritations, until finally Harper arbitrarily transported all the most visible complainers to small cages in the Netherrealms. Inventory-less, cramped, unable to rest, and denied access to even Light Cure Wounds tonics, these prisoners were informed that they were to be held without use of spells until the DM decided to release them.
Adventurers thus subjected eventually rebelled, denying the DM’s authority and magically magically transporting themselves out of these cages, despite the vexed insistence of DM Harper that they could not do that. While many of the attendees simply left the conference after being freed from detention, some mutineers then further flouted roleplaying conventions and teleported their characters into a place they described as “the DM’s mom’s vagina,” laying waste to its elegantly described environs.
A furious DM Harper unleashed an impossibly large horde of orcs in response. The adventurers laughed at the DM spawning orcs in “his mom’s vagina”, but their laughter ended when he declared that the orcs had killed all their hard-leveled characters. “The keen-eared and Listening Elrendel should have heard them a mile off, had they existed before stupid Stephen just made them up ’cause he’s a crybaby,” reported Barry.
Harper's mother Karen and her unscathed vagina after an uneventful traffic stop on the weekend of the conference
The conference then devolved into shouting and namecalling, until Stephen’s brother Blake and his hockey buddies happened upon it and mocked it until it was abruptly brought to a formal close by a teary-eyed and thoroughly humiliated DM.
“The thing was, beforehand, Stephen was bragging about how much he’d spent on the whole thing,” recounts Yoshi “Yoshi” Takamoto, Stygian representative. “He was saying he’d gotten the chairs reupholstered, he’d gotten name brand snack mix, Stewart’s fizzy pop, and all this stuff. If you believed him, he must’ve spent ten times what Joey spent last time. But I didn’t see any of it there. The way he’d been carrying on, you’d think it should’ve been the best D20 ever. I think he just wanted to host for hosting’s sake.”
DM Harper could not be reached for comment, as he was grounded for throwing the remote at the TV in the aftermath of the conference.
What's he building in there?
Edward Petrenko to me, Lee
Ray Stevens can’t have a desk because Ray Stevens has managed to accidentally burn down every house he’s owned since 1964 because he keeps trying to light a grill in a carpeted rumpus room.
John Semley to Edward, Lee
False. Ray Stevens lives in a modest hovel below America’s biggest ball of mud off Highway 66 en route to San Antone.
Edward Petrenko to me, Lee
Ray Stevens is still trying to buy back his childhood shed after accidentally losing all his money to a man claiming to be a genie during the Jordanian leg of his Ahab the Arab tour.
John Semley to Edward, Lee
Ray Stevens is the embodiment of the ancient evil that loomed across America before Columbus even brought cholera and genocide from the Old World. Every 27 years Ray Stevens appears in the form of fear incarnate and lures a child into a sewer where he devours their innocence, leaving only their velcro shoes outside a storm grate as evidence.
Lee Tipton to Edward, me
Ray Stevens is wearing a rice hat, pulling another instance of himself across the Great Wall of China on a rickshaw, as the two of him rhyme “wang” with “mang.”
John Semley to Lee, Edward
Ray Stevens just confused having an idea with rhyming “Guantanamo” with “yo-ho-ho” and then that with his digitally-modified baritone singing “da-dope-do-do.”
Edward Petrenko to me, Lee
Ray Stevens is currently wearing a referee’s uniform, standing next to a “Illegal Immigrant Olympic Long Jump Event” sand pit he set up that starts on the US side of the border and ends on the Mexican side, firing a starter pistol wildly into the air, then dejectedly rhyming “hopeless” with “George Lopez.”
John Semley to Lee, Edward
Ray Stevens is reticulating the final splines on his “Americasville” in Sim City 3000.
Lee Tipton to me, Edward
Ray Stevens is filming his Krautrock single Trans(nationals), which is a static shot of him playing a Mexican homebrew of Dig Dug. He is shrugging playfully as he loses on purpose.
Lee Tipton to me
Blog post: “Ray Stevens: What is He Doing?”?
John Semley to Lee
Ray Stevens is trying to Google his name into significance and happens upon a blog post that he doesn’t get is making fun of him. In the adjacent room, a breakfast steak sizzles knowingly in a flat iron pan.
Edward Petrenko to Lee, me
Ray Stevens is pointing to a chart that shows one large taco at the top with arrows pointing to dozens of smaller tacos below it, then pointing to another chart that is just an American flag with tiny tacos instead of stars. He then folds his arms, looks at the camera, shakes his head, purses his lips, and shrugs his shoulders.
Lee Tipton to Edward, me
Ray Stevens is superimposing his own head over every instance of Wile E Coyote riding a rocket.
John Semley to Lee, Edward
Ray Stevens is on ancestry.com, trying to trace back his lineage to an oak tree that predates the Iroquois.
Edward Petrenko to me, Lee
Ray Stevens is shamelessly asking an Asian friend of his if it would be possible to “reprogram” Pac Man to make him look like Carlos Slim, and to “reprogram” the dots to look like American jobs. His Asian friend then reveals himself to be Ray Stevens. Their magic carpet then takes them far, far away, to a land without race, where all Ray Stevenses can live in honky-tonk harmony.
John Semley to Edward, Lee
Ray Stevens is in his Texarkana ranch house, reinforced athletic socks kicked up on a coffee table book of compiled Elvis Sightings; drifting into a mid-afternoon siesta he not only doesn’t deserve but resents the name of.
Lee Tipton to me, Edward
Ray Stevens is taking all 13 of his flat-faced, softball-playing daughters to Olive Garden, to steal fake grapes as pre-emptive props for when Sarkozy loses an election.
John Semley to Lee, Edward
Ray Stevens is regaling a total stranger with an anecdote about drinking Barbisol on a dare.
Lee Tipton to me, Edward
Ray Stevens is watching Airplane! on a TV with spoilers.
Lee Tipton to me, Edward
Ray Stevens is trying to twist all the yellow and green blocks off a rubicks cube.
John Semley to Lee, Edward
Ray Stevens is having it out with the 3rd generation Latino contractor who is trying to rationally explain why putting Maserati doors on Ray Stevens’ bedroom is going to be tricky.
John Semley to Lee, Edward
Ray Stevens just keeps on driving south down the I-90, knowing this string of Waffle Houses will give way to an IHOP eventually.
Edward Petrenko to me, Lee
Ray Stevens’ fourth marriage has fallen apart, upon his discovery that Jo-Anne was two transsexual Democrats in a trenchcoat.
John Semley to Edward, Lee
Ray Stevens is ceremonially burning his Culpepper flag comforter, because its laundry day at the Stevens Compound.
John Semley to Edward, Lee
I’m supposed to do my TL post tomorrow and have nothing. Can I use these? Credit all around obviously.
Lee Tipton to me, Edward
Yeah man that’s what I’m feeling.
Ray Stevens is branding his name into the federal building
Lee Tipton to me, Edward
that federal thing was a half finished thought. let me think on it
Edward Petrenko to me, Lee
Go nuts – stealin’ our jokes, like a regular Carlos Mencia, or generic sillygal Jimmy Grant!
Lee Tipton to Edward, me
Ray Stevens is distributing the last 32 minutes of Bad Boys 2 on so many CD-Rs
John Semley to Lee, Edward
Ray Stevens is alive and well and living inside anyone who has ever purchased a hot dog at a ballpark. Ray Stevens got Johnsonville Brauts.
Lee Tipton to me, Edward
I’m actually really quite pleased with us
Edward Petrenko to Lee, me
Ray Stevens is writing his fifth frantic complaint to the makers of Wooly Willy, demanding they send him enough iron filings to be sculpted into both a beard and a turban on the same Willy.
John Semley to Edward, Lee
Ray Stevens just signed a multi-hundred dollar endorsement deal with Spitz and Ray Stevens is regretting not grabbing another handful of Spitz from the loose bag on the CEO’s desk.
John Semley to Edward, Lee
Ray Stevens just figured out a way to absorb smokeless tobacco through his eye by plopping two Skoal Bandits under each lid and making himself cry a little bit.
Edward Petrenko to me, Lee
Ray Stevens just remembered that his jail sentence ended two years ago, and he doesn’t need to hide cigarettes in his butt anymore.
John Semley to Edward, Lee
Ray Stevens is wondering if he can make himself disappear by tucking his denim shirt into his blue jeans and leaning against his Ford F450.
Edward Petrenko to me, Lee
Ray Stevens just used a Gator to tow his golf cart to a lawn mower repair shop to have a kegerator installed in the trunk.
John Semley to Edward, Lee
Ray Stevens is watching “wrasslin’” on the tee vee and don’t you goddamn dare bother telling him to pronounce it any different.
Lee Tipton to me, Edward
Ray Stevens is hosing Ozzie’s piss off the Alamo with a shaken up tall boy of Billy Beer
John Semley to Lee, Edward
Ray Stevens is drinking a 2 litre of Mountain Dew: Code Red out of the bottle, sitting in a lawn chair at the bottom of an empty swimming pool.
Lee Tipton to me, Edward
Ray Stevens is the first and only Jungian Archetype discovered by the Butthole Surfers
John Semley to Lee, Edward
Ray Stevens just accidentally signed his anonymous petition for a Ray Stevens U.S. postal stamp “Ray Stevens.”
John Semley to Lee, Edward
Ray Stevens just yelled “yee-haw” as he drunkenly dove out of the way of a Conestoga wagon barreling down on him at speeds of seven furlongs/fortnight.
Edward Petrenko to me, Lee
Ray Stevens just woke up from a bender in a silo that had been welded shut from the outside, and had to carefully talk himself out of panicking by reminding himself that, in spite of it all, this is still America.
Edward Petrenko to me, Lee
Ray Stevens has ruined his last eight meals because he has refused to admit to his live-in stepdaughter that the leafblower has no place in the kitchen.
John Semley to Edward, Lee
Ray Stevens is mixing sugar into the gas tank of his riding mower with a wooden serving spoon, prepping a few Oklahoma juleps for the greyhound racetrack tailgate party.
Edward Petrenko to me, Lee
Ray Stevens puts on a Washingtonian powdered wig before he addresses a Tea Party rally, while he grudgingly plunks down eighty-five cents in full view of a toll road’s security camera, and in the afterglow of times he believes himself to have sired another child.
John Semley to Edward, Lee
Ray Stevens is…WASHTUB BASS SOLO!!!!
Edward Petrenko to me, Lee
Ray Stevens just threw up on the front yard, in full view of the neighbours, then proceeded to clean it up by lighting a trash fire on top of it.
Edward Petrenko to me, Lee
Ray Stevens is inconsolably incapable of making love to his wife in the wake of Jimmy Dean’s passing.
John Semley to Edward, Lee
Ray Stevens just got red in the face for the first time since 1974 after trying to chip a golf ball over the roof of his bungalow and driving it right through the bay windows.
John Semley to Edward, Lee
Ray Stevens is lying to the Associated Press about how close he was with Jimmy Dean.
Edward Petrenko to me, Lee
Ray Stevens, despite countless attempts to remind him not to, still responds out loud to any question a radio commercial asks him.
John Semley to Edward, Lee
Ray Stevens is trying real hard not to think about the outboard motor he found sitting in his sunroom when he snapped into consciousness this afternoon.
Edward Petrenko to me, Lee
Ray Stevens has returned to touring after spending fifteen months recovering from eating fried baloney straight out of the pan, as all his plates had been destroyed shortly after his discovery of skeet shooting.
John Semley to Edward, Lee
Ray Stevens is writing the dictionary people to try and get a cross-hatched illustration of his 3/4 profile next to the phrase “Fuck A Duck,” which he may have known wasn’t in the dictionary, had he ever read or seen a dictionary.
Edward Petrenko to me, Lee
Ray Stevens’ back pain has reached a new all-time high and his comedic confidence an all-time low after alienating every masseuse in the phone book with excessive “towelhead” jokes, deliberate farting, and using a slide whistle to draw attention to his gathering erections.
John Semley to Edward, Lee
Ray Stevens is wiping his tears with instructions for setting off a Roman Candle after sleeping through the annual 9/11 Memorial Fish Fry at the local firehall.
Edward Petrenko to me, Lee
Ray Stevens gives ninety percent of all his income to his local Methodist church in a frantic attempt to atone for walking into a synagogue one time, after mistaking it for the trampoline store he was looking for.
John Semley to Edward, Lee
Ray Stevens is standing by the microwave, watching the 7-11 ham & cheese log warm from the inside out, ‘cos baby, that’s America to Ray Stevens.
Edward Petrenko to me, Lee
Had to leave on account of work, but this is my favourite email chain ever.
Lee Tipton to me, Edward
Ray Stevens is responding to the nacho sombrero by joylessly eating 65 sliders off the brim of a Stetson.
Lee Tipton to me, Edward
Ray Stevens is slated to play every role in a pop-up book about the Federal Reserve.
Lee Tipton to me, Edward
Ray Stevens is more conflicted about Israel than anyone else in America.
John Semley to Edward, Lee
Ray Stevens is shocked to find out there’s 15,000 battered housewives in America and he’s still eating his plain.
Lee Tipton to me, Edward
Ray Stevens is dabbing at the brownface makeup on his collar with a denim serviette
Edward Petrenko to me, Lee
Ray Stevens has flushed all his elastic bands down the toilet, now that he’s realized you can castrate a bull with a bolo tie.
Lee Tipton to me, Edward
Ray Stevens is gunning a Dodge Charger through the screen of a drive-in playing Frida in slow motion.
John Semley to Edward, Lee
Ray Stevens isn’t engaged in any sort of high-speed pursuit, but he still smirks every time he crosses county lines.
Edward Petrenko to me, Lee
Ray Stevens doesn’t need no police constable telling him that wife surfing isn’t a sport, godgummit.
Edward Petrenko to me, Lee
Ray Stevens doesn’t believe in global warming, but he still blames it when his stills burn down.
John Semley to Edward, Lee
I am putting these on terminal laughter now.
-Carlos Mencia
Senator Benedict McLincoln feared communist influence so much that he remained incognito, in hiding, and virtually inaccessible for the duration of his single senatorial term, from 1950 to 1952. Believing the majority of American politicians to be under the sway of Soviet hypno-rays, he almost never attended senate hearings or sessions. Believing the majority of cars to be propelled by “teams of eight to twelve communists, hunched under the hood, running in unison, always turning left towards Moscow,” he rarely exited his house, the political orientation of which he was relatively uncertain.
Bob Jones Medical School Journal, Vol. 21 #2:
…test, devised by Sen. McLincoln, stipulates that the man is shown two films: one in which an attractive heterosexual couple is shown engaging in the sexual act, and another in which two fat men are engaged in heavy petting. The heterosexual couple are communists, as indicated by a small red tattoo visible on the ankle of either, while the fat men are proud Americans. The true patriotic male will only be aroused by the fat men. If the subject displays significant tumescence during the heterosexual film, he is to be imprisoned.
King Grill-Up Barbecue Revue, March 1951:
KGUBR: Tell us about your favorite grillables.
Senator: I don’t barbecue as much as I used to. Red meat or white meat, it’s still red blood. You drain the blood, but it just flows into the ground then, doesn’t it? Then you got commie grass.
KGUBR: You’re looking a little anemic, I must say.
Senator: Ain’t much iron in parrots.
KGUBR: You grill parrots?
Senator: Military Macaws. Jabbery birds, but their heads are in the right place.
Stinker Thinkers: Science’s Goofiest Blunderheads!:
Everybody knows that light from receding stars shifts towards the red spectrum. But when Senator Benedict McLincoln heard this in 1950, he tried to submit a bill to fire faster-than-light rockets filled with copies of the Constitution at these “godless heavenly bodies”. However, during the proposition, he realized that rockets, even American ones, have a red glare – “like the eyes of Stalin.” His next bill, a proposition to invade the USSR using only “un-tread-upon snakes,” failed to pass, by a vote of 42-58.
American Flag Round-Up, Vol. 2:
Senator McLincoln, who has repeatedly called for the removal of the colour red from the American flag and state institutions, was ejected from the United Nations building grounds last week, as he had attempted to remove the American flag from its pole in the plaza. He was remanded to medical care shortly thereafter, as it became apparent he had recently attempted to bleach all pigment out of his skin.
Washington Post, March 5, 1953:
]]>Former Senator Benedict McLincoln died tragically yesterday in a traffic accident. The police report describes him as having been fatally injured while riding a white stallion through a high-speed intersection. Senator McLincoln’s lifelong disregard for visibly red stop signs is believed to be a factor. He is survived by his wife, Janet (nee Wolczinkszsky) and a stockpile of guns. At the request of his last will and testament, there will be no viewing, and his body fed to officers presiding over court-martials.
To: john@terminallaughter.hahaFrom: wikipedia@wikipedia.org
Subject: Tsk-Tsk
Hey, John.
Wikipedia here. Listen: I’ve long considered you a valued reader and sometimes-contributor. I can always count on you to read me when you’re at work, at home, and to recycle articles you find entertaining on your Facebook profile. You’re a link-happy user, and I like that. I also admire the valuable information you’ve added under the “In Popular Culture” subheading for my entry on Flatulists. But it’s time to get down to brass tacks. I’m disappointed in you, buddy.
I mean, come on. I didn’t spend valuable microseconds processing your search of “Apartheid in South Africa” and redirecting you to “South Africa under apartheid” just so you can zip through it for forty seconds and then have your chubby, apathetic hand move the mouse back to the search bar to look up “Hunter (TV series).” I mean, sure, I’ll indulge you. But I’m not going to be happy about it.
You barely even give me a chance to tell you that Apartheid was a system of legal racial segregation enforced by the National Party government in South Africa between 1948 and 1994, under which the rights of the majority black inhabitants of South Africa were curtailed and minority rule by whites was maintained before you’re off reading about some comparatively unimportant police drama because Ed told you how funny it was.
Sure sure, Hunter ran from 1984 to 1991 on the NBC television network, and when originally placed in a Friday-night slot against Dallas […] struggled to find an audience and drew criticism for its often graphic depiction of violence. I could have told you that. But don’t you want to read more about Bantustans, forced removals, and the Organization for African Unity. Don’t you want to peruse the 129 discrete citations listed in the entry, or grow as a socially conscious individual by checking out some of the books and articles mentioned in the list of Further Reading?
Do you even care?
And don’t get me wrong. It’s not like I’m all that personally invested in the issue of South Africa under apartheid. Hell, as a free, web-based, collaborative, multilingual encyclopedia project lacking a centralized consciousness, it’s really hard for me get worked up stuff like this. But some days, you know? (And I know you know. I’m able to instantly access the fact that in the past three years you’ve spent literally hours reading, re-reading, editing, and generally hovering over the entry for Falling Down, a 1993 film by Joel Schumacher starring Michael Douglas. So I know you think you know about bad days.)
You think this is you, you disenchanted piece-of-shit?
But this is the straw that broke the camel’s back, John my boy. That was a reference to any process by which cataclysmic failure (a broken back) is achieved by a seemingly inconsequential addition (a single straw), FYI.
I mean I let it slide when you managed to figure out in record time that the entry for the Einsatzgruppen is only four degrees removed from the entry for Ilsa, She Wolf of the SS. And I held my tongue when you read the sobering entry for Homelessness only long enough to get depressed and pitifully work your way to the more esoteric entry on Bampfylde Moore Carew, self-styled King of the Beggars. And I may have rolled my eyes when you followed up your search for Murder, being the unlawful killing of another human being with intent (or malice aforethought), with a fruitless search for an entry on “awesome guns.”
I mean, really. Awesome guns? Did you really think there’d be some kind of entry detailing the most awesome guns currently in use, or comparing awesomeness of gun by make or model? I even tried to nudge you into the related entry for The Guns and Dope Party in hopes that you might end up doing some light reading on Discordianism. But ultimately I did nothing, remaining as emotionally impassive as your beleaguered conscience.
Oh and look at you now, Wikipedia-ing “Wikipedia.” Pathetic. Trying to flatter me, John boy? Trying to flatter yourself by thinking you can outsmart me by luring me into some infinitely recursive, self-reflexive data loop? Come on. I’m goddamn Wikipedia. I’m the one who suggested that my article on metadata needs attention from an expert on the subject as recently as March of 2010. I’m hardly about to fall prey to anything like “Feedback (disambiguation)” or the sort of intellectual vanity that so motivates you. You think you’re so smart, smartass? Citation needed.
Keep it up and you’ll get nothing 404 standard response errors from me, tough guy. Then how will you manage to spend half of a perfectly sunny Sunday afternoon cruising through pages listed in the category “Marvel Comics characters with accelerated healing” category hungover? Eh? Not very well.
You’re a disgrace to my symbolically appropriate logo and variously informative portals.
Not mad so much as disappointed,
Wik.
Gentlemen, the cartoon in question is, as its stands, ridiculous.
Dear Editors,
I am writing to you re: a recent editorial cartoon published in the Saturday evening edition of The New Berliner. On page 43 [dreiundveirzig], a cartoon attributed to staff illustrator Joe Himmel depicted our most esteemed ruler, emperor, and Deutscher Kaiser und König von Preußen, Prinz Friedrich Wilhelm Viktor Albrecht [hence, Wilhelm II or, Herr Kaiser] attempting to take a bite out of a globe resembling the Planet Earth as if it were a Cookie, Round Fruit, or Spherically-Shaped Piece of Chocolate. [I have attached a copy of scribble same with this letter.]
As a representative of Herr Kaiser’s completely legal government and long-standing legal consort of the House of Hohenzollern, I wish to take issue with this wildly editorialized effigy of our Glorious Leader and King of Prussia.
Gentlemen let me assure you that, contrary to Joe Himmel’s doodle, Herr Kaiser has never devoured a planet. Nor is he presently entertaining plans to devour this one. Like most Prussians, Wilhelm II enjoys a balanced diet of sourdough breads, wursts, assorted game meats, streusels, spätzles and schupfnudels. While these staples do indeed exist on the Planet Earth (many native to Bavaria and Black Forest region), Herr Kaiser procures them by traditional means, typically by dispatching a nimble Rhenish errand-boy, and not by consuming the planet whole.
Moreover, if Herr Kaiser were to eat an entire celestial body, he would likely prefer to cook it in a stew and enjoy it with a tall lager pilsner, and not merely chomp into the thing, unseasoned. If Herr Kaiser saw fit to enjoy a Cookie, Round Fruit, or Spherically-Shaped Piece of Chocolate, it is more likely that he would do just that, and not enjoy the planet as if it were one.
Let your forthcoming correction state that Herr Kaiser has in fact never confused Planet Earth for a Cookie, Round Fruit, or Spherically-Shaped Piece of Chocolate. Perhaps you have confused Herr Kaiser with Galactus, Ravager of Worlds and Possessor of the Power Cosmic. While both Wilhelm II and Herr Galactus share several mostly superficial physical similarities, and have cavorted together in the past, this is a common error which Herr Kaiser has sought to rectify in recent months.
There is also an issue of scale here, Gentlemen, which I would feel remiss in not addressing. Despite his impressively-broad shoulders and divine claim to the Chancellorship, Herr Kaiser is in fact a man of just above-average height. It is therefore unlikely that he would be large enough to crunch into into an entire planet, even one as small as Earth. If your publication seeks to pay fitting homage to Wilhelm II, you may consider honouring his already imposing proportions without exploding them to such mawkish degrees.
What I am most concerned about, Gentlemen, is that Herr Himmel’s sketch is intended as a satirical caricature of Wilhelm II’s megalomaniacal persona and state-mandated program of Ingeniously Contrived Chaos. If this is the case then your publication stands, as I’m sure you’re well aware, in direct contravention to previously-issued edicts w/r/t Spoofage, Lampoonery and Other Forms of Politicized Merry-Making. Should you intend to distribute future editions of The New Berliner, I implore you to issue a retraction forthwith.
In the future, if you wish to make substantive changes to Herr Kaiser’s decrees, might I suggest you try doing so via more established channels, such as proclaiming yourself Kaiser.
Formally,
Margrave Silly Von Seriousberg
Legal Consult of the House of Hohenzollern and Ward of This Glorious Prussian Empire
Dated: 31 July 1914
Fort Bilderberg citizen #8346 ("Dad") embraces the newly mandated Global Aloha! Day.
(Center City, Earth) A press release issued by the cabal of word leaders comprising the New World Order revealed today that, beginning with the third Friday of this month, every third Friday will be henceforth be commemorated as Hawaiian Shirt Day, or, Aloha! Day.
The announcement comes months after the United Nations, IMF, Elders of Zion, Freemasons and several worldwide ecclesiastical authorities consolidated their power as a means of putting an end to global power struggles and securing the future of the human race. While projects initiated by the world government (colloquially, “The Gov”) have thus far proven unanimously popular—from the worldwide installation of Esperanto academies, to the adoption of a single globalized credit system, to the appointment of a benevolent posthuman ruling caste—this announcement injects some degree of levity into an administration whose “strictly business” mandates have resulted in their appearing cold, inaccessible and ogreish in the eyes of some extreme uncooperatives.
“We have a sense of humour,” said a representative of the N.W.O.’s executive branch (also referred to in the press release as “X-Branch360″) whose name isn’t important, “And despite what some seditionists have been purporting, we’re really just a bunch of big, fat party guys. Which is not to suggest that any or all of us are men. Or that we’re necessarily obese. Nor is it to propose that we are now or have ever partied. Nor indeed that we exist.”
“It’s also part of an effort to put one of your human faces on this administration,” Herr Representative said before shape-shifting into a thousand bats and dispersing into the night sky. Reigstered citzens of Earth seem to agree with the Gov’s platform with regard to this obligatory tri-weekly casualwear regimen.
“See, it makes having a consolidated global authority more fun,” agreed Steve “The Pussy Inspector” Baker, a morning show DJ on New Bohemian Grove’s Z96, “Nothing says P-A-R-T-Y-because-I GOTTA like a loose-fitting piece of twill in the Polynesian style! Woah baby, just thinking of the wacky interplay of floral patterns gets this Pussy Inspector a-howlin’. Awoooooooooo! Now every third Friday, it’s going to be ‘Aloha, Friday, helloooooooooooooo weekend!’ TGIF! Ah-woooooooo!”
In response to the announcement, some lone-wolf radicals were quick to reject the enforcement of a compulsory “Lei Day” somehow in opposition to the effortless casualness of the garment itself. “It’s an affront to our sovereignty!” balked seditionist Alex Jones from somewhere on the lunatic fringe. “Not to mention an open declaration of war against any modicum of fashion sense remaining in this loony collectivist nightmare!”
In an effort to ease the transition, the public relations branch of the reigning crypto-political organization may or may not have arranged for the release of charity single, with funds being routed through unknown channels to a legitimate aid organization which cannot be named at this time. Called “Bogus Ordo Seclorum,” the iTunes-only release is a tongue-in-cheek parody of how World Hawaiian Shirt Fridays will invariably lift the spirits of global citizens rendered benumbed by the monotony of the workaday world order. A collaboration between recording artists Randy Newman, Jimmy Buffet, “Weird” Al Yankovic, Tobias Sammet and Jay-Z, “Bogus Ordo Seclorum” speaks to the Big G’s willingness to poke fun at their own unquestionable centralized authority.
(ZURICH) Former general Slobodan Blubovich was detained earlier today by Swiss police under charges of crimes against bluemanity during his brief but violent period in control of the small, musical nation of Bluemania.
Speficially, the charges stem from the brutal repression of the centre-left Blue Man Group movement, which he is alleged to have ordered after seizing power in the Blue November military coup of 1988. Mr. Blubovich has remained free in the two decades since, and has denied any involvement.
An impassioned tableau depicting the events leading up to the genocide
Representatives of the Group have toured the world since, attempting to raise awareness of the horrific violence of the period, in which an estimated 30,000 Bluemen were clubbed, hammered, and otherwise beaten to death in what many historians have labeled a genocide. Though their efforts have been praised, the Group’s representatives have faced allegations that the conceptual nature of their speeches have confused, rather than promoted awareness of, the massacre.
This arrest marks the beginning of the first attempt to bring the perpetrators to justice. Mr. Blubovich, now a dye manufacturer, had been attending a conference on synthetic dyes in Switzerland before his arrest.
Griendzic arrives at the station
His lawyer (and former Secretary of State) Radovan Griendzic quickly issued a statement once again categorically denying any involvement on behalf of his client. He went on to decry any potential trial as unjust, as no Bluemanian could be considered impartial on the matter. Critics claim Griendzic himself is implicated in the massacre as a leading member of the coup, responsible for coordinating secret negotiations with neighbouring Greengaria, his homeland. However, witnesses report Griendzic’s health to be incredibly poor, claiming his skin to have been sickly green while issuing the statement, raising questions about his ability to defend Mr. Blubovich for the duration of a trial.
Dalton Drumblue, one of the original touring members of the Blue Man Group, issued a statement regarding Mr. Blubovich’s arrest, but no member of the press has been able to decipher its meaning as of yet.
Eight women were beaten, tortured and humiliated by villagers after being branded as witches in a small community outside of Kirkview, Ontario. The incident has caused an outrage among the general public, who argue that the alarming episode is evidence of hidden chauvinistic undercurrents in society.
The suspicions began on Friday night, when the eight women were reportedly seen cackling near Old Town Square. The following morning accounts of whispering in a foreign language raised eyebrows among the superstitious and blood-hungry villagers, who began throwing stones at the levitating women. The hostilities culminated on Sunday, when the eight victims were said to have been minding their own business, huddled around a cauldron inside of the gingerbread house which they collectively share, brewing strange ingredients and producing ghastly smells, before receiving the unprovoked violent attacks. By high noon, an unruly mob ate their way into their house, dragged the women out and started beating them.
“This has set us back about 150 years in the fight for justice”, says Judith Bronte, head of the Gender Studies Department at McGill University. “I really don’t know what to say. It’s deplorable.”
“They were singled out because they were different”, says Tom Spillard, director of the Center for the Advocacy of Equal Rights.
The victims were taken to a playground where hundreds had assembled to watch the spectacle. As their clothes were torn off, they were hit with sticks. They were torn apart by hungry dogs, and then parts of their bodies were burned at the stake while other parts were drowned in large barrels of bubbling water.
Armed police have since been deployed to the area to pacify the situation. The victims, miraculously still living, have been buried in coffins under a thick layer of cement to ensure that the abuse does not continue. The entire village has since been put under arrest.
The villagers remain convinced that their actions, however drastic they were, were a necessary step in the town’s witch hunt, as well as the longstanding campaign to eliminate Magick.
“I always known they were sorc’rers for having them pointed hats”, states Jim Bucker, a local electrician.
“If they wasn’t witches, then who turned my leg into an eel?” He continued, before limping off to his house, now a toadstool.
Analysts attribute the attitude of the villagers to deeply-ingrained prejudices that stem from the patriarchal structure of their rural community.
“Something needs to be done”, Bronte insists. “This was an unparalleled act of aggression against not only a group of women, but women as a whole”.
“It really says a lot about our society that a woman is assumed to be a “witch”, and will face discrimination and ritual humiliation every time she does so much as fly around on a broomstick or turn into a toad”, Spillard told the local news.
Experts speculate that the attacks were motivated in part by superstitious beliefs.
Dr. J.W. Richter, Licensed Marriage Counsellor
August 7, 2008, 1:00PM PST: Held first private session with subject Shriver, M. [wife]. Subject claimed marriage has been strained for some time. Blames poor communication with subject Schwarzenegger, A. [husband]. While subject Shriver, M. conceded that lack of open dialogue in marriage may be a result of husband’s work as action hero, strongest man in the world and 38th governor of this, the great state of California, she claims problems run much deeper. Major breakthrough.
August 8, 2008, 3:00PM PST: Conducted first private session with subject Schwarzenegger, A. [husband]. Bigger than I anticipated. Eagerly greeted me with a firm handshake. Asked me how the “party” was. Despite subject’s confident swagger and air of refined machismo that preceded him, he seemed comfortable in therapy environment. Commented that he believed “head shrinking” was for “fancy lads,” a remark I took to be in jest. Subject denied any rift in marriage with subject Shriver, S. being result of poor communication on his part. Claimed wife had “more issues than Reader’s Digest.” Asked me if I knew what a psychiatrist’s favourite fast food restaurant chain was. Before I could offer response, he emphatically interjected: “Kentucky Freud Chicken!” No progress made.
August 10, 2008, 1:30 PM PST: Conducted first group session with subjects Shriver, M. [wife] and Schwarzenegger, A. [husband]. Subject Shriver, M. seemed flustered upon entering session, whereas subject Schwarzenegger, A. seemed typically gregarious, greeting me with another firm handshake. As soon as subject Shriver positioned herself on the chaise lounge, husband quickly snapped “See Doc, I told you she was a great lay!” Found it difficult not to be amused by subject’s effortless wordplay. [Wife] again spoke at length regarding lack of communication in their marriage, and her frustration with husband’s inability to speak honestly with her. Suggested that subject Schwarzenegger, A. used puns as a defense mechanism. Also suggested that considering his decades-long naturalization in the United States, his thick Austrian accent constitutes an affectation. Subject Schwarzenegger, A. responded with “Honey, maybe you should act like a pair of curtains and pull yourself together.” No progress made.
August 16, 2008. 4:00PM PST: Conducted second group session with subjects Shriver, M. [wife] and Schwarzenegger, A. [husband]. Suggested that the couple engage in a role-playing exercise where [husband] would assume role of [wife] and vice-versa, in order to place themselves in the other’s loafers, metaphorically and so-to-speak. Subject Schwarzenegger, A. responded “I don’t do requests.” [Wife] stormed out in what could best be described in medical health terms as a disgruntled huff. No progress made.
August 20, 2008. 2:15PM PST: Conducted third group session with subjects Shriver, M. [wife] and Schwarzenegger, A. [husband]. Subject Shriver, M. appeared visibly distressed, chain-smoking cigarettes throughout entire session. Subject Schwarzenegger, A. again seemed entirely unruffled, greeting me with a friendly “high five” and smiling throughout the duration of session. [Wife] relayed a story wherein subject Schwarzenegger, A. became violently angry as a result of a subpar dinner preparation. When prodded on subject of supper in question, [husband] reacted defensively, saying “Are you crazy?! I am not going to eat dry chicken! If I see a stupid chicken like that again I punch my hand through its stomach and break its spine!!!” Subject Schwarzenegger, A. then proceeded to snatch client registry off my desk and tear it in half. Impressive. No progress made.
August 27, 2008. 5:00PM PST: Conducted what would turn out to be final group session with subjects Shriver, M. [wife] and Schwarzenegger, A. [husband]. Subject Shriver, M. seemed at her wits end. Subject Schwarzenegger, A., unusually attentive to [wife]’s aggravation. Was uncharacteristically forthcoming in telling her/me that he is “like a genie” in that his emotions “are all bottled up.” Subject Shriver, M. was unmoved by what I considered a major breakthrough. [Wife] turned to [husband] and said “Consider this a divorce” in a mawkish Teutonic accent that I took to be a jibe at subject Schwarzenegger, A.’s inelegant handling of American English. Schwarzenegger, A. assertively shouted back “Hasta la vista, baby!” After subject Shriver, M. had left office, subject Schwarzenegger, A. sat sullen on edge of upholstered sofa in silence for a few minutes. Swore I saw single tear bead down his mighty cheek. May have been problem with contact lenses of subject Richter, Dr. J.W. [self]. After prolonged silence, subject Schwarzenegger, A. expressed emotional openness unbecoming of Styrian Oak, muttering to himself, “She’ll be back.” Major breakthrough. NOTE: Payment for counselling services rendered not yet received.
SPEAKER: Elmer Whatshisname IV
AUTHOR: Elmer Whatshisname IV, Jr.
AFFILIATION: Regressive Conservative Party
DATE: October 12th, 1975
CANDIDATE: (greetings, baby kisses, waves waves waves) Welcome, welcome one and all, thank y’all for showin’ up on this blustery Bluesday!
Now, I know y’all’s busy workin’ hard this time of year, and I thank you deeply for comin’ out in face of fatigue. Myself, I ain’t much for manual labour, but I’m tired too – tired of tax hikes! Tired of payin’ for featherbeds to rest our convicted criminals’ lyin’ heads! But first ‘n foremost, ladies ‘n gentlemen, I’m tired of all this blasphemous big city pontificatin’ – what with them sayin’ things like, “Guns kill people”, “a stitch in time saves nine”, and most of all – and most of all! – them I’ve heard what’s sayin’ that women evolved from men!
(pause, outrage) That’s right! They’re sayin’ it! Well MY grandaddy wasn’t a woman – was yours? Didn’t think so! Now, maybe we ain’t got no re-search lab-or-atories, or government grants, or LINED paper, but we know how it goes! People, we know how it all happens: (point to chart) cats get real old and turn into dogs, dogs get real old and turn into ladies, and ladies get real old and turn into my wife! (laughter) Well, maybe not that last one – but definitely th’others! Maybe t’ain’t scientific, but that’s the way I likes it!
Now if’n anyone’s got some contradictatory evidence, I’d sure as sugar like to hear it!
CRONY: Uhh, yeah, I’d like to say something – I’m a liberal from the biiiiiig city, and maybe it’s just my big fat mouth talkin’, but I’m gonna call you a big fat liar! Also, I’d like to take this opportunity to call everyone else a bunch of jerks!
CANDIDATE: (quell crowd’s disapproval of liberal) Now, now, people, take it easy – this is still America, and we all get to speak our peace, no matter how evolved we may be! (pause, smirk, wait for laughter) Now sir, are you married?
CRONY: Shoot no! We don’t allow marriage in the big fat city! (belches)
CANDIDATE: Jeepers – you sound a lot like my distinguished opponent! (laughter) But now, sir, ‘mong those of us who happen to be married, we on occasion, pardon my legalese, become intimate with our better halves! Now – good, married people, I ask you: if’n we’re carnalizin’ with each other, and women do indeed come from men, then that’d make us out to be conjugatin’ with our own kind – by which I mean to say, if men and women are the same, then we’d all be guilty of the gross sin of homosex!
(lady faints) Goodness me, someone get her some water, or better yet, I’ll sell you this one for free! (give lady water) But now, good married couples, lemme ask you – is any y’all homosexual?
(audience outrage) Didn’t think so! Good people, I did not think so! So now, if y’all ain’t homosexuals, then y’all must be married to people what ain’t the same as you! Therefore, by the grand ol’ rule of facto corpus, because y’all’s married and not homosexed, men and women is once again as different as cats and dogs!
CRONY: Aww, heck! Looks like you outsmarted me and my fancy Jewish education!
CANDIDATE: Sure did, son! And so to you, good people: when you’re having one of those many tender moments with your dear wife or husband, and you don’t want it to be a mortal sin to do so, then think of me, ol’ Elmer Whatshisname, and think of that big ol’ vote you can cast for me this election season! Thank you, god bless.
(Editor’s note: the preceding speech was never actually delivered, due to it being accidentally leaked when it flew out Elmer Whatshisname IV Jr.’s passenger-side window. A scandal ensued, with opponents accusing the Whatshisnames of colluding with “big city types”, due to Elmer Whatshisname IV’s previous campaign claim that he had never learned to read “them big city words”. Nevertheless, the editors still feel it belongs in the pantheon of great speeches.)