Revenge: The Classy Way

Allow me to regale upon to thee a tale of a great atrocity. It happened several years ago in the Blood Parlour (a room in which the finest of gentleman talk over the sampling of blood taken from various rare and fancy sources) of my favourite social gathering place, the Dubious GentleMansion. Like a jewel-encrusted thorn in my neck, the memory of this event is rather unpleasant but I am simply unable to throw it away because of it’s indescribable value to me. Also, pulling memories hurts like a bitch.

Whilst talking over our collection of ancient Peruvian diamond skulls, my friend General Maximus G. Oppenheimerson was struck most deviously by the tray of a waiter who had tripped over an armadillo. His vest now stained with the blood of Pauly Shore (1994, a good year), I fully expected Max to unleash upon him a furious volley of fists and cocks so fierce that the gods themselves may lay awake trembling for months at the thought of it. Instead, he helped the waiter to his feet and allowed him to escape without a single broken bone or gypsy curse. It then occured to me that revenge is an art form lost in this day and age, an artform that I must bring back to the slovenly masses.

Like my friend there, you’ve probably all been done wrong yourself by lower beings such as waiters, butlers and Mexicans. But how does one go about thrashing, pillaging, and raping their way back to the top, like a true gentleman? With a half glass of brandy and an iron cock? Yes, but it’s more complex than that. Not much more.

These are the 5 Commandments of Avenging. You may wish to have the nearest servant or team of children carve these into a stone tablet to preserve their aura of unmoving truth and radness.

1. Intimidation- always begin a confrontation by cleaning your monocle on your suit jacket, or with an embroidered handkerchief, and staring hard.

2. Elegance- always be dressed in your finest, hand stitched garments. The evident child labour will show them who’s boss. And who feels silky. Man silky.

3. Mystery- speak only in riddles. You’ll find the tension quickly builds, and you could puzzle them into submission.

4. Class- real men don’t fight with sticks or guns. They employ animals. With guns.

5. Irony- you must exact your revenge in much the same manner as the wrong-doer wronged you. For example, should your 70 year old cleaning lady accidentally sweep some dust into your brandy, simply pummel her into dust (a job conveniently half done by the merciless revenge of age). If all else fails, use your cane (be creative!).

One last tip! Remember your ancestors: cannons, bayonets and vaudeville. Now that’s class!

The Commandments can be confusing at times though as they we’re written back in the pre-top hat era. Here are some examples for us better drobed individuals.

REVENGIE At a Urinal
As a gentlemen you will try to avoid these public disgraces as much as possible, but in the event of an unlikely encounter with your rival while your Brandywine River is flowing, a duel of wits and brawn may and will take place. Now, your base and man-tastic instincts may be to urinate all over his pants, but as rad as this may be, you must retain your gentleman reputation. A little on his shoe will suffice here.

Rule the first is most important in this situation, because any man, gentleman or otherwise, is most vulnerable dong out. Thus, even if your enemy enters mid-stream, you must employ the intimidation technique. If the blasphemer doesn’t retreat after a daring stare and heroic glass wipe, you will be forced to employ the “Nature’s Lullaby” technique, which is simply to updo trou, and swiftly bring together his cranium with the porcelain piss-tank, and proceed to exit the facilities, whistling your favourite ragtime postmortem tune.

REVENGE On a Train
Mystery is the key to this vehicular vengeance, for where is it more classy to speak entirely in riddles than whilst sipping a brandy glass, first class on a train? Enter into your opponent’s shabby cabin, your cane-sword in tow. Begin with a simple riddle, something like:

“Riddle me this, hamwad! Your mother, laquered in the finest of syrups, screams ‘Oh! Put it INTO me!’ What is she referring to? I will give you clue: it’s over 15 inches long and I’m about to bludgeon you to death with it! Correct, it’s my DOUBLE NECK GUITAR.”

After the assailant is subdued, destroy his mortal soul by playing songs by Candian Prog Rockers Rush. Don’t worry if you don’t know all the notes, as long as your guitar is made out of compressed 100 dollar bills, whatever you play will be menacing enough to ensure he doesn’t come back as a ghost or wight.

There you have it. So the next time someone without their own space shuttle touches you on a plane, you now know how to make sure they learn their lesson and never do that — or anything — again. The classy way.

PS Several undoubtable truths in this post were scribed by none other than fellow richdude Keith McLean. Praise his greatness or be smited by his… well, greatness.

Recipes for the Blisteringly Hungry Gentleman: A Timesaving Solution

It has recently come to my attention that some people are defying the laws of eating by combining several meals into poorly named substitutes, possibly in an attempt to create more time for polishing their guns and shooting foreigners. It sickens me that in this day and age the simple “breakfast, lunch, dinner” template of nutritional responsibility has been dashed upon the rocks like a Spartan infant with a single meat-truncheon. In their place, abominations exist now to tempt you into eating meals at odd numbered hours like a Satan. Brunch, Lupper, Linner, Brinner, Aftermorn Tea, Midnoon Surprise, Lunchfast, Morning Brandytime, Pre-nap Sorbet Time, nondescript midsleep protein substance ingestion bracket, all created to give you a meal plan flexible enough to fit into your schedule of collecting rare albino skin to craft your polished white Zepplin of Indescribible Horror.

As always though, I’m here to one-up these half-assed dieticians with a little something I like to call:

The Only Meal You Will Eat This Week, Or Possibly For The Rest of Time

Preparation Time: 0, assuming you own a time machine like us normal folk.

Ingredients:
4 gallons flour
12 lbs Shark Steak
2 cups Blood
4 thingies of Garlic
2 Mars Bar
1 jar Fancy-Schmancy Mustard
2 Dark matter
1 Head of famous guy Tom Arnold
4 Chives

Firstly you will need to don your most impressive outfit, commonly known as the “birthday suit”. Pendulum in full swing, you must now cover yourself in the flour you’ve collected. This will provide you with your disguise. Take your cups of blood and head for the beach. If your local police force isn’t yet under your control, you may want to bring a taser or a similarly hilarious form of incapacitation, as they will most likely try to apprehend you in an atempt to be all grabbin’ ya junk. In fact, bring the taser regardless, as this will be a problem should ANYONE catch a glimpse of your esteemed counterweight.

Once you’ve reached the beach, get to within 10 feet of the water and sit down for a bit. Let the sun caress your glorious shoulders as you keep an eye on the water for movement. Your white appearance, coupled with the fact that you have 2 cups of delicious blood (hopefully taken from some sort of dangerous, manly animal), should attract a shark for you to beat the fuck out of. When it presents itself, run into the water and commence fisticuffs! Once your opponent is defeated, swing it onto your shoulder and follow the path of tasered pedestrians back to your mansion.

Using a guillotine or samurai sword, cut the shark into thick, delicious steaks (if you haven’t put your clothes back on at this point, be careful during this step. The term “gentleman” contains the word “man” for a reason). Next, garnish the steaks with your auxilliary ingredients: mustards, mars bars, Chives, and Tom Arnold. Into the largest, most handsome steaks, you will then inject atleast 1 cubic inch (84 quadrillion lbs) of dark matter. Now, because dark matter is so dense, it takes an insane amount of time to cook. This is why I suggest that you just man up and eat your steaks raw. If you do cook them, allow 3 or 4 weeks to cool.

Serves 190, or if you’re a man, serves you.

The Handy Guide to Richitude: Part 1 (cont.)

Welcome back to the last thing you will ever read without laser-shooting robot eyes! This guide is the defining manuscript for the wealthy, much like the Bible is for poor people. If you haven’t yet, please go back and read The Beginning of Part One.

Method 2: Actually Working Hard and Saving Money and Investing and Stuff

This method is not recommended, as it takes several Earth years and will leave you tired, old, and with a large arrest record for stealing office supplies. In fact, the less said about this method the better. In case you’re still considering this death wish, listen to this story of a lonesome young chap who did it all wrong.

I first heard of this man in the newsbooks. His name was Fred Graves, he was 23 and he was born into a house that was probably not made of bricks fired in Aztec tombs at all. Despite this shortcoming, he managed to trick the intellectuals of the world and got into Harvard, perhaps utilizing a wig or a makeshift codpiece made of potatoed chips.

I truly doubt these are nearly as good as advertised.

With this travesty underway, I took it upon myself to look into this further. Using my almost limitless ingenuity, I was able to find this man and follow his every move. Now, I won’t tell you exactly how (a good gentleman never reveals his espionage tactics), but I will tell you that it sure wasn’t a Gigantic Laser-Shooting Telescope Made Of Rubies Attached To The Moon, so don’t go looking into anything.

After about a year of following his movements, I saw that he was well on his way to earning his degree. He was spending most of his time studying and learning and writing and doing other boring, tedious things, instead of relaxing and enjoying fine wines while perusing magazines printed on pages of the original Koran like normal people. Then, all of a sudden, while he slaved away, he died. All of that work and labour and struggling was just too much for him, and his heart kicked some buckets, or whatever you mortals say. It was even in the papers, although their account was written by common peasantfolk with no respect for accurately reporting the goddamn facts.

Click to Enlarge

Horrible reporting aside, the point is this: Don’t believe for one second that working hard is going to get you anything other than a nice fat laser in the FACE.

Method 3: Murdering a Rich Person

This is by far the most difficult thing you will ever do, as most rich people are combat hardened machines of boner-inducing murder. In fact, due to a strange turn of events in the International courts, I am told by my lawyers that I become the President of Portugal if I go a day without taking a mortal soul. Hating those goddamn Iberians as much as I do, it is needless to say that I keep my quota, regularly exceeding it when I feel it is necessary, convenient or hilarious. Therefore I am well versed in fending off common plebeians, which you must assume is also the case with the man you will be trying to kill.

First, you must learn to defend yourself from his relentless pummelings. Observe Fig. 1:

Fig 1: A gentleman, ready for battle.

The numbered points are all methods of attack the gentleman will utilize, probably all at once.

1) A gentleman’s hat almost always contains some kind of weapon for murdering. It’s impossible to know exactly what it is though, as it varies greatly from gentleman to gentleman. You will have to wait patiently for it to be revealed. What will it be? Pocketknife? Hatknife? Cinder Block? Chance are you will never know, because he will have killed you with it before you realize the hat is even off.

2) While seemingly innocent and beautiful, the gentleman’s face can be a fearsome thing, depending on how tricked out the gentleman is. For example, my eyes shoot gamma radiation and my teeth are made of solid diamond. If he is new to richitude, he may not have the implants necessary to merely blink you out of existence, so you may still have a chance.

3) Inside the gentleman’s pocket may be a number of things. It is a little known fact that modern suits, for those who can afford them, are built like ninja suits. They come with over 112 secret pockets, all containing vials of exotic diseases and fake passports and the like. If you see the your foe reaching into his pocket, immediately take cover, lest he throw Polio at you or club you to death with documents from Argentina.

4 and 5) The average gentleman always has conventional weapons on the ready, should the situation arise that his prey isn’t worthy of being killed with anything diamond tipped. The gentleman in Fig. 1 is shown wielding a pair of leather gloves, used to both initiate and end combat, and an umbrella, used primarily to evade the authorities afterwards via what has been dubbed “The Mary Poppins Expressway”.

Famed gentleman and unstoppable killing machine Cornelius T. Monopoly evades police after an enthusiastic game of Blimp VS. Civilian.

6) When all else fails, the gentleman can still just plain kick your ass. Watch out for that.

Knowing the gentleman’s strengths is only the first step in defeating him. The second is coming to terms with the fact that the average gentleman has no weaknesses. Once you’ve accepted this fact, facing his barrage of fists and gloves will be easier. Just keep in there, roll with the punches, and never stop trying to punch him in the liver. I hear liver shots can kill people, that sounds like a solid plan.

If you do manage to slay your foe, simply bring his fine, handsome corpse to the nearest bank, where according to my knowledge of the banking system, you can cash him in to receive all his riches. Rejoice!

These are essentially the only ways to attain yon riches. All other ways are merely variations on these examples. If you think of one that isn’t in this book, it is a bad idea and it will never work. Hang your head in shame.

So anyways, now that you are rich, you may move to Chapter 2 where we will discuss what first to do with your fabulous wealth. Until then, begin amassing your collection of fine bourbons and wines. Once that is complete, have yourself a glass while sitting on your replica of the statue of David made from the fossilized remain of Mayan kings. You’re looking classier all ready!

The Snooty Gents Present: The Super-Oscars

That’s right folks. For all lovers of great cinema, the Super-Oscars represent the most accurate opinion on films from this modern age. For years, critics and movie-watchers alike have agreed that this prestigious ceremony symbolizes all that is correct and good in the judgement of movies. And why is this? Because it’s done by us, and we know the secret of all movies. Maybe when you are fabulously wealthy you will understand too…. maybe.

Now, let’s get to the nominees!

Most Boring Movie of All Time

Nothing Ever Happens (1933): Thought by historians to be a printing error, this film is merely 4 hours of a still frame in which Abbot is licking a pickle off of Costello’s forehead.
The Constant Gardener (2005): It’s planting flowers. For several hours. The whole fucking thing rhymes too.
Fudge (1995): The longest movie ever made, it displays Rosie O’Donnel going through the horrible process of eating fudge, taking a crap, making fudge out of the feces, and eating the new fudge. She goes through the cycle 41 times before passing out.
Non-existent Bazongas 7: The Musical (2004): Dubbed the worst porn ever, it is just a man singing for two hours about mundane things. The only highlight in the entire movie is during the song “Putting on Trousers is Easy“, when a stage light falls in the background.

Worst Gangster Movie of All Time

The Teenage Streets (2002) – A rap oddesey through the eyes of a suburban homeboy, it bears the distinction of being the only movie to have made Tupac cry. When asked about this, Tupac replied “Anyone that does not weep for the future of Rap while watching this shit is messed, yo. Seriously, you’d cry too if you had to watch a fat white kid sing a song called ‘I put the Angst in Gangsta!’. Now get outta my face cracka.”
The Godfather 5: Baby Geniuses (1999) – Also considered a printing error, this movie is a cobbled together tapestry of clips from Godfather 3, SuperBabies 2, and Non-Existant Bazongas: The Musical.
Mr. Lunchlady (1972) – Woody Allen stars as a mafia goon who must assassinate the children. He does this by posing as a lunchlady and filling all the food with bullets. The term “massive bullet overdose!” is then thrown around like a cooked ham for 2 hours until Woody Allen’s character is assassinated himself.
Pulp Fusion (2006) – This isn’t a movie, it’s actually this gross juice that I found whilst perusing the aisles of my local grocery mart. Don’t buy it, it is made from poorly distilled children’s souls.

Best Fight Scene

Mr. Ed Goes to Washington (1958) – The famous talking horse is back at it with his communist antics, and this time, he goes straight to the White House to settle the matter once and for all. The 2 hour bloodbath finally comes down to brass tacks when Mr. Ed must face the president himself…… Mothra!
Nothing Ever Happens (1933) – 4 hours of gripping Abbot VS. Costello action! Not to be missed.
Robocop VS Rapobot VS RepoRobo: First Blood (1994) – A gripping battle between the three most prominent professions of today! Who will win? Law enforcement? Hip-hop luxury stylings? Or the quiet, dignified property repossession service?
Non-Existant Bazongas 7: The Musical (2004) – Never before has the emotion of “Hitting a Stage Lamp With Your Penis Repeatedly” been captured on film so accurately. Good show.

Now it is time for you, the viewer, to vote! Cast your ballot using the comment feature, and once the votes are tabulated we will have a winner in all three gripping categories! Do YOU have what it takes?

“An Eternal Plight” – A Novel for the Masses

This is my attempt at literature that the common man can relate to. All startling parallels to current people and events are coincidental and proof of this book’s majesty. Read on, stalwart peasant!

Chapter 1: A Rude Awakening

I was laying awake in bed, thinking, wishing, wondering. Through the hole in the wall I could see Ra, the Orb God, rising above the horizon like an egg yolk on an unlevel stovetop, bathing me in his glorious rays. I got up and brushed off the straw stuck to my back. Looking around the room, I realized that my straw pile was strewn across the room, and much of it had fallen off the edge to the lower level of the barn. Dammit, I thought, Tin Can Timmy isn’t going to give that back. Fuuuuuck.

Tin Can Timmy was my neighbour, kind of. He was a neighbour in the same way that the Ninja Turtles are New York’s neighbours. What I mean to say is that he lived below me, and anything I dropped he considered to be his. I discovered this a year or two ago when I “accidentally” dropkicked my good bucket off the edge and it somehow landed on his head. “A helmet! Fucking yes!” he proclaimed, not realizing the bucket contained about 2 litres of urine and my collection of dead rats. I was sad for him, but I was sadder for me, knowing full well it would be decades before I could amass such a great collection of vermin again.

This was nothing new though. For weeks, nightmares had been causing me to thrash about in my sleep, resulting in the loss of almost half a year’s salary worth of straw to fall upon the lucky bastard down below. And these were no normal nightmares, these things were fucked up. Atleast, I think they were. I could never remember them, no matter how hard I tried to. I even used this “power of suggestion” voodoo bullshit that Kinda Psychic Mary taught me, but it didn’t work. I picked up a piece of charcoal and wrote on my arm. Note to self: Punch Kinda Psychic Mary in the Face. Also, Milk.

I bowed to the east and prayed to Ra for forgiveness, serenity, and the power to get to the corner store before all of the TV bingo cards were sold out. Spiritually fulfilled, I descended down the ladder and stepped out of my humble, embarassingly barn-like abode. My landlord was on his porch like usual, rocking in his chair with his shotgun. I made a casual wave at him like I always do, and predictably he jumped up and tried to shoot me. “DAMN YOU FUCKHAT! STAY OUT OF MY BARN OR I WILL RIP OUT YOUR EYES WITH MY PENIS!” I shrugged off his threats; he had been telling me that twice a day for three years and I still have yet to see a single act of horrific genitals-aided eye removal.

I made it into town with barely any wild turkeys following me; today was looking up all ready…

Next part comes later! Days later!

It’s For the Better: Making a “Prole-Trap”

Hup-to, gentlemen and gentlemen! This fine evening, as you cradle a fine glass of bourbon in your elegant-yet-manly fingers, I would suggest you take note of this miniature guide. Studies show that it will help you enjoy your “maxin’ and relaxin’s” no less than 1.25% more than previous!

I think I speak for every decent gent when I say that the only thing that could possibly ruin your evening as you stroll into your highrise mansion, on the moon, is the squallid, infant-producing Proletariat. We all have experienced the misfortune of having to breathe air that they have touched with their callused, cheeto stained torsos; we’ve all been there. But no longer, what with The Prole Trap! The days where it is necessary to guard your cooling windowsill pies with trained bees are over!

Step 1: Finding a Suitable Location

Unfortunately, the “law” prevents us gentleman from carrying out random acts of violence aginst those of lower class, no matter how righteous or awesome our goals are. Therefore we cannot merely slather our garbage with poison and let the problem solve itself. This trap must be hidden from all vestiges of the “man”, and this means subterfugery will be needed. No no, away with your muskets and truncheons, we’re going a different route.

Using your plane or zeppelin, observe the common routes of the proles below. Make note of the major passages they use to reach your abode, as well as any closeby alleyways. Their importance will become apparant later. Upon returning to Terra Firma, give the results to your computer, who will devour the information and compute the location what will destroy the most families. Have a glass of fine chamapagne while this process completes.

Step 2: Construct the Trap

Firstly, go into your basement and retrieve the jaw of your favourite pet, the alligator.

Now, some may claim that this creature is not an alligator, but actually a Mythical Chinese Dragon, a thing that does not actually exist. Those people will soon know the error of their ways as they scream and writhe in the pain that your alligator-powered prole trap will swiftly deliver.

With the jaw in hand, make a visit to your local gourmet breakfast pastry chef, who you will be able to theive things from with little consequence. Once he is tasered into submission, apprehend his waffle iron. Lick off any remaining batter and it is ready for use! Attach them in whatever fashion you wish, it is practically childs work! In fact, I had children build mine!

The bait will consist of something that all of your targets are intrinsically programmed to seek out: cheese and a dollar. The warmth from the active waffle iron will also draw the less ‘drobed peasants to the device waiting to shuffle them off this mortal coil.

Step 3: Placing the Trap

Firstly, disguise yourself in your least-finest clothes so that you may traverse their lands without having to deal out piles o’ pain. Remove your top hat and afix your face with scabs and welts, making sure to cover yourself in soot. Leave that monocle at home; you need to be completely devoted to this cause.

Properly concealed, descend from your helicopter to the pre-determined location. Place the trap in an easily accessible area, away from other distractions, such as soup kitchens and unlocked dumpsters. If you’ve done it right, you should have your first prole within the hour, screaming and wallowing in the fact that he was fooled by your devious design.

The Handy Guide to Richitude: Part 1 – Grabbin’ Some Dollars

The Handy Quide to Richitude

It is a complete and utter annoyance how day after day we have to bat away common folk asking us ridiculous questions. Why, it was just this morning whilst I waked ‘long the promenade when a ruffian asked of me “Gimme a dollar or taste sweet lady switchblade!” This being routine, I swiftly conquered the miscreant using a stlye my personal trainer, Igor, has dubbed “fuckin’ a nigger up with knives, yo,” or some other low class jibba-jabba. Needless to say, it is immensely effective.

My knives in bloody ruins, I strolled pompously back to my manor, finally fed up with the state of things. People, just because you are common street scum does not mean that you cannot eventually, with some luck, become a quarter as rich as us! It’s actually quite simple. So get out your best piece of writin’ charcoal and a sheet of fine toilet paper and write this down! It could be your ticket out of the shit-encrusted pestilence hole you were born and destined to!

Part 1: Attaining Yon Riches

Before we begin, please complete this checklist:

__ I was born into a large amount of money.
__ I own several hides of not only extinct animals, but also of animals that do not exist yet.
__ One time I pushed an old lady down the stairs and the cops were like “yo, go to jail” but then I knocked them out with my immense wallet and fled the scene.
__ I am wearing 1-4 top hats\cummerbunds\codpieces.

If you checked any of these, pour yourself a fine glass of bourbon and skip to part 2 of this guide, as the following information is for poor people only. If you checked all of these, you are me, and must be destroyed because for the last time, the experiment is OVER now. YOU HEAR ME? I WILL FIND YOU AND KILL YOU!

There are many ways to gain the vast wealth one needs to be happy. Easy ways, such as being born into it or winning several lotteries are obvious, and therefore won’t be discussed here. We simply haven’t the time. (If you are truly interested, see our other guide, entitled “50 Ways to Blackmail the Local Lottery Commision With Dirty Pictures and a Pirated Copy of Photoshop”)

Following are the three easiest ways to start your new life.

Method 1

This method is only for those with the will and concentration of a shaolin monk, as you will be hurling yourself in front of a ton and a half of speeding steel. Now don’t be alarmed, with the right preparations you may be alive enough to enjoy your impending fortune without the aid of a breathing machine!

If it isn’t obvoius already, I’ll say this sternly. You’re going to need armour. Special jumping techniques will not save you; without some sort of pillow-stuffed cardboard robot costume you will be dead. We suggest a refridgerator box filled with old Sunday editions of the new York Times. Cut some leg holes, build a periscope and make your way downtown.

Look for only the fanciest, jewel encrusted cars when deciding which to test your life against. The owners of these cars will undoubtably be filled to the brim with prime lawsuit dollars. Throw yourself infront of the vehicle and hope that when you wake up you’re covered in bad lawyers. At this point, according to my understanding of the legal system in this country, a simple contract signing is all you’ll need to get your riches! Good job!

(And remember, if you are injured beyond repair, that’s good news! You now have the opportunity to turn yourself into an awesome super-robot, like Prof. Stephen Hawking! Rocket-chairs, hover monocles, scary techno voices, it all can be yours!)

Part 1 continues later gents. A fine game of exlode-gammon and a glass of ‘72 Hobo’s Delight can pass the time until it is posted! Stay classy, internet!

The Marvels of Modern Cinema: The Black 6

We have very few words for The Black 6, and it evidently demands none.

If we could sum this movie up in a single word, it would be this picture:

That is a picture of us after watching it. I know. Whoa.

Seriously though, this movie is about black motorcycle men who are cursed with the ability to destroy buildings with their bare hands. Eventually the leader of the gang, Billy “D” Williams, gets a letter from a fat woman who wants him to try her chili. They do that, and then they fight about freedom. We then proceeded to skip 4 scenes…

…and happen upon 40 minutes of the black men destroying a biker gang run by a man inexplicably named Thor. By the end of it, there were approximately 451 flares on the battleground and all of the Black 6 were covered in the blood of the innocent. The movie ends with a man holding his flare in the opening to his gas tank, and then EXPLODING.

It is movies like this that give me hope for the future of cinema. On one hand, we have multi-zillion peso blockbusters like Titanic and Wayne’s World that feature acclaimed actors and special effects and plotlines. And on the other hand, we have The Black 6: A movie that features 6 football stars as motorcycle men who demolish buildings by slamming doors (I am serious, this happens no less then 4 times during the movie).

I rest my case.

On an unrelated note: in a google-aided quest for an articulate way of saying “Holy fuck, he just knocked down a building for no reason!” we found out that The Bible says that Black people are the result of a HORRIFIC HAM CURSE. Interesting.

Recipies for the Blisteringly Hungry Gentleman

Have you ever been so hungry you could literally beat your mother for hours with a homeless gent until she has detached retinas? I know we have (see the case of “The State of Wyoming vs. Snooty Richer-Than-Us Gents” or whatever it was called). With the complete lack of fine dining facilities in this society, it would seem I am encouraged, nay, forced, to lap up my diamond-infused breakfast porridge off the roof of your car. This begs the question: why can’t I lap my food off the roofs of finer cars, or for that matter inside a building?

Swan Pie

Preparation Time: Much quicker than your prole mothers could have done it.

Ingredients:

One swan (make sure it’s whole, we need all the parts)
A club (Diamonds? Yes.)
Top Hat
Access to Wendy’s
Fistful O’ Cash
Taser (for shockin’ cops.)
Blueberry Pie

Firstly, right your top hat upon your beautiful head. Looking classy!

Next, burgle the crap out of the local pond what where swans are. If your town has not a local pond, or the local pond is also used as the local sewage pit, find yourself a fine glass of bourbon and call it a night (note the location of this sewage pit in your mapbook, as it will be useful in the disposal of bodies!) Your club can be used to capture the swans, if your girly fingers are not man enough to wrestle them into delicious submission.

At this point, it may be necessary to shock cops. Do so at your leisure.

Ignoring the mournful sounds of the swan’s tiny, barely-edible young, make your way to Wendy’s, purveyor of the rectangle beef thing! Once arriving, brandish your dollars and gain control of the cooker. Be careful with the cooker, it is extremely hot and therefore probably contains the charred ruins of plebians, which you are not allowed to touch.

Once you have mastered the controls — which usually consists of “On” and “Off” — empty your blueberry pie with a fork. Pick up your swan by it’s long neck, making sure it is STILL unconscious, and place it upon the mutilated confection. Drop it into the cookatron, being sure everyone in the store can hear your devilish laugh. While it cooks, you can shock some common folk, who will run away and attempt to punch you to your delight.

At this point, it may be necessary to shock cops. Do so at your leisure.

Ding! It’s done probably! Assuming your Swan Pie takes as long to cook as a burger, it will be done and ready for you to devour. Pluck the feathers if you wish, but leaving them in gives a certain texture of elegance that only insane laziness can provide. Push aside the convulsing bodies of the Wendy’s staff and return to your abode. Feast.

Where’d the swan go? Why, it’s in your bowels, silly!

Toddler Pie

See above, but replace every instance of “swan” with “toddler”. Be sure to keep your taser at full charge.

And to go along with your deliciously illiegal pie:

The Upstanding Citizen: The World’s Rarest, Fanciest Drink.

Ingredients:
1/2 cup Roddenberries
350mL Rubbing Alcohol
The Ambrosia
1 bar Ether
1 Kg The Essence of Funk (check eBay, there’s always some there)
1 cup Sweet, Succulent Dodo Blood
Top Hat
Martini Glass
Monocle (not optional)

Firstly, erect your top hat upon your shining, glorious locks of golden hair. Looking classy!

Then, take all ingredients and throw them into a black hole. This will ensure proper mixing. Stand to the other side of the black hole, presumably in your cellar or wine closet, and prepare your strong manly arms for the monumental force of The Upstanding Citizen being hurled gently into your martini glass from the bowels of this physics-defying inferno of gravitational death (I named mine Egmund).

For maximum efficiency and elegance, invite John Petrucci of Dream Theater to dine with you and your full bodied Upstanding Citizen. Drink up, beautiful!