Walkin' About with VegasWalkinDude

Fill My Trophy Case

2009-11-30T09:47:00.001-08:00

It's pretty clear that Randall Flagg, (a.k.a. the Walkin' Dude, The Dark Man, The Ageless Stranger, That Guy from Law & Order) has won the Twitterized version of The Stand. Oh, most of humanity may still be walking around given that the Trips is about as infectious as lice attempting to colonize Phil Collins' head.

"I can feel it comin' out my hair tonight, Oh Rooo...gain."

Nonetheless, I won. The others were simply too boring and unimaginative to hike their way to Boulder. Even @MotherAbigail -- who I begrudgingly admit was somewhat entertaining -- has threw in her Tucks Medicated towels and was last seen playing backup vocals for a few gospel music acts.

Play this backwards and you'll hear them sing "I like big butts ..."

And I won despite me losing The Stand Poll some months back. Which goes to show you -- evil is sexy. Sexy like filet mignon tips wrapped in bacon sexy. Like a girl in a pink mini mowing the lawn in this damn commercial..... And since I am evil, I am also sexy. Although, the popular opinion is my mullet is really what tips me over into the sexy territory. Evil is just a bonus.

It's been much delayed, but this calls for a celebration. And since I'm not really into a Kool & The Gang influenced Holiday Inn wedding reception-like dance party, and since 1999 is 10 years gone now, I'm going to have to find another way to celebrate this milestone (other than the agonizing diseased deaths of 99.9% of the surface population).

"We're lookin' for nuthin' but a good time..."

So, I have installed a massive trophy case in my Caeser's Palace penthouse that will be used for all the congratulatory trinkets you will send me over the course of 2010.

It's fairly simple. Whatever you're good at doing -- hobby, arts, crafts, creatively tasteful photos found in magazines men read for the articles (really), etc. -- dedicate one to me and mail or email to my agent. My agent will then forward these trinkets to my trophy case in Vegas. I will update my followers regularly with the genuflections I receive.

Still confused? Blonde? A multilevel marketing bot? Let me give you some examples of great honorariums:

YouTube video genuflections, describing in detail how Randall Flagg's presense has changed your life for the better (or worse, makes no differnece to me). A good example can be seen here.
My Naughty, Naughty writers can send me signed copies of their published works or draft an original story to me for publication in www.SomeObscureFanFicSiteNoOneEverReads.com.
Sculptures, art work, macrame', homemade knitted socks or sweaters, etc.
Autographed pictures of youreself with mullets. Prominent placement will be given to creativity and boob size.
Bottles of wine or liquor. No need to sign those.
Plush toys or random memorialized trinkets obtained from your hard-earned quarters in those claw machines at Fudruckers.

As I stated earlier, my agent will be collecting such trinkets here on in. For correct mailing and/or email address, contact dirkthedaringinatl@yahoo.com. Dirk will then give you further instructions on how to send me such worshipful idols, depending on the item.

Here's your chance, boys and girls. Your chance to take one of my many, but limited, seats upon high and the benefits bestowed therein. I eagerly look forward to your honors. If you don't, then be ready for repeated nightmares of Carrie Prejean's sex tape with my face superimposed until you do participate.

Do you now see the impact of my power? And my mullet?

2009-11-03T13:47:00.000-08:00

Let's face it, I am one of the greatest power beasts on Twitter today. I've also been described as "epic," "sexy," "spellbinding" and "A heartwarming adventure for the whole family." This isn't my opinion. Many respected critics have echoed these remarks, including the most recent issue of Better Homes and Garden magazine....

"Randall Flagg (@VegasWalkinDude) has single-handedly transformed Twitter from a sad venue for celebrity worship and multilevel losers into a social medium with him at the center, in which all Twitterverse revolves. Crass, funny, and deeply insightful, Flagg is a shining beacon atop Caeser's Palace in Vegas in the wasteland of Twitter..." - Llaf L. Draggan, editor.

Needless to say, in barely a year in my Twitter experiment, I have made more impact in this world than Tiny Tim's vast repertoire of emotionally relevant tunes.

He strayed knee deep in the floors. Six feet under the flowers actually.

As such, my many minions have endeavored to give me proper respect and worship on a regular basis, from numerous glorifying Follow Fridays to #whyIfollowflagg Wednesdays...which reminds me. It's Wednesday. Hold a sec while I tweet this....

Okay. I'm back.

While I appreciate...well, actually, expect...the praise and honor of those who follow me, there are a few who go above and beyond. And one in particular has created ... well, let's just say this shall be the new National Anthem once the flu does its dirty work effectively.

So, without more preamble, I introduce to you Flagg's tribute by @Alexisaslut.

Okay, men, clean up the drool and shut those gaping maws. Girls, don't be jealous. There are many ways you may honor me without the sexual adoration bestowed upon me by Ms. Alex.

Awwww...You shouldn't have.

As for @Alexisaslut, who now sits upon high, we have something special. Not only is she ... umm ... made for baby bearin', but she's French! I mean, she's FREAKIN' FRENCH?! Come on, people, how many of you haven't secretly dreamed of being smothered by honey-sweet French beauties whispering sweet nothings in your ear that when translated are probably quotes from the Microsoft Vista users manual?

Oui, oui! De C-drive Register Can Be Accesssed Riiiight Dowwwwn Heeeere.

She even wrote a long tome on her bloggie thing that, I think, complements me and sings me praises. Hard to tell though. Here's an excerpt:

C' was without counting on Vegas Walkin Dude, which l' does not hear obviously this ear. Animated d' a will to reverse l' order restored at the end of film, the VWD decided to carry out the revolution on Twitter and to see which d' between him or Mother Abigaël would have the most faithful. L' idea is already amusing in oneself, but it l' is d' as much more than that which hides under the mule of VWD has a real talent of pastiche and an art of the counterpart that l' one also finds by traversing his blog.

I believe that was clear enough. And in truth, I couldn't have said it better mayself. In summary, I hide under a mule and I'm very good at counterparting on my blog. 'Nuff said, don't you think?

Perfect Protection from Nuclear fallout.
Now in mass production.

Might as well post something...

2009-09-26T11:48:00.000-07:00

Quite honestly, I have nothing to say. Which is NOT to say what I will say is not important. Or unimportant. Or importantless. Or...whatever.

I'm bored. And Clue loses its engaging appeal when played alone.

It's Professor Plum in the Library with a Gatling Gun. Coz I said so, beotch!

So, in these moments of lucid clarity coupled with the stifling elusiveness of absolutely nothing to do and no one to see, I do one of three things:

Disturb my many followers by showing them Rorschach blots and asking them with threatening undertones what they see.

The correct answer is Al Pacino's nose hair.

Explore J.J. Abhrams' New York penthouse for clues to the mystery behind Lost and Fringe.

Found the answer in his fridge. Hidden behind three fake websites and ketchup.

Continue to hone my theory of the virtues of boredom.

The last item is what I want to chat about today because it may just revolutionize modern Western philosophy and eschatology. And perhaps even proctology, but we'll leave that one open for debate.

To me, boredom is the root of everything. It is the essence of creation and of action. And it balances your bile and humors to promote rationality and justice while you're chained in a cave staring at shadow people on the walls, hoping for glimpses of the naughty naughty. Just like scrambled Cinemax.

It's a breast! Wait. No. It's a penis! Wait. Nope.

This is because it's the nature of all things to resist stagnation. Boredom draws one into action. And in that action, something is created. For instance, I'm fairly certain it was the collective boredom of the Greeks that produced vast amounts of pottery porn. And I'm also fairly certain that a thousand years from now, humans will find shreds of Barely Legal and Fetish Times in museums as well.

Yes, this is real. No, he's not circumcised.

I would wager to say that reality itself was birthed from absolute boredom. Think about it. God's sitting around in this black, shapeless void. Not much to do. And reruns of Parker Lewis Can't Lose just don't cut it after the 10th viewing. So God, now slumping into a unmitigated depression, decides to end it all, so he goes to his stove, turns on the gas and lets it filter throughout the void. Then, after downing a gazillion bottles of moonshine, he strikes the match. BOOM! Existence commences. Of course God is eternal and immortal, so his version of ending it was to create Earth and and dinosaurs and people and Big Macs and the questionable popularity of Miley Cyrus.

Which leads to me. I'm bored. The last time I was bored, I traveled the East Coast, visiting every Karaoke bar I encountered to sing my rendition of "Don't Cry for Me, Argentina." This time, I have rewritten The Stand out of sheer boredom. And out of sheer boredom the rest of The Stand cast has raised the white flag in its quest to kill me and begun to freebase CheezWiz.

So, that's it. That's my philosophy. Kant ain't got nothing on me.

And if you're particularly bored at the moment, feel free to make me a Manwich.

Since you're already pregnant with the Antichrist @yenta78 get in the kitchen and get cooking. And take off your shoes.

Surviving the Apocalypse: The ideal Survivor!

2009-09-04T10:11:00.000-07:00

Some of you may recall the little quiz I labored to make to predict your chances of surviving the apocalypse. Not many of you took it. Your loss. Coz, honestly, you're lazy. I say this because the rest of The Stand cast actually still have followers. By now, I wanted them to be lonely voices in the void that is filled with bot followers.

Alas, I still want my minions to survive...any potential eventuality. Not that I'm really expecting anything other than mass casualties as a result of H1N1, but still, you never know. There are sooo many possible ways the world could end...

Instead of letting all of you perish at the hands of mutant frogs or iridescent-clad New World Order storm troopers, I will outline exactly what you need to make it through to the end.

Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse make a New Year's Resolution to lose weight. And add a midget to their ranks.

What is the best outfit a post-apocalyptic survivor should wear?

Of all the choices (Latex gimp wear; toga robes and dirty rags; football padding; iridescent body suits), the football pads are the best. They may only provide marginal protection against projectile radiated flea seed, the pads to add girth and intimidation to the wearer -- like peacock feathers.

That's right! Don't mess with me, beotch!

What is the best mode of transportation through a radioactive wasteland?

Of the choices (stripped down buggy; motorcycle; bicycle helicopter; lower torso tank treads) the obvious choice are the tank treads. New realities beget new inventions and this one tops the cake. Combining mad genius with ubercoolness, the torso tank tred is the single best mode of transportation in a barbaric universe. Just ask Patrick Reynolds.

By grafting the tank treads to your torso, a New World warrior can easily traverse the environment. Even better, your legs can now double as a weapon. Being mugged by a half-breed? Simply run over the turd while growling, "You shouldn't have crossed this road, chicken!" The treads also instill terror to your opponent.
"Roll Tide this, asswipe!"
You see a hapless virgin surrounded by comet zombies? Simply roll into the fray shouting, "By the power of my beastly tank treads, I HAVE THE POWER!" There are a few disadvantages to be sure: It's hard to climb stairs, you lose your penis, and finding that mad scientist to perform the operation is a little tricky -- unless you're in Malaysia. Still, small problems compared to absolute awesomeness.

Who is your best friend and companion in a Roland Emmerich inspired world?

Your choices: Midget; AI computer; Dog; Woman; Chuck Norris. The answer: Midget.

It's a mystery why midgets are as loyal and handy as they are, but traveling a scarred landscape with a midget is like finding a can opener in the canned food aisle in the rubble of a Krogers. Of course, in today's world, it's inappropriate to call them midgets.

This is just sheer awesomeness

Instead, being sensitive, we refer to them as little people or elves. After the apocalypse, no such political correctness is afforded these genetic anomalies. Perhaps this is why they are so loyal and are willing to jump in front of a bulldozer outfitted with metal spikes to save your ass.

As for Chuck Norris, well, he is the apocalypse. So kinda defeats the purpose.

What is the best weapon to tote around in hell-on-earth?

Choices were a sword, shotgun, pistol, rocket launcher or scifi beam weapon thingie.

The old adage of never bring a knife to a gunfight just doesn't hold true in this New World. If you chose this, you are a wise survivor and will last well into old age -- or at least until Michael Dudikoff shurikens you in the face. A sword's advantages are numerous: It never runs out of ammo, is easy to care for, and is unmatched in stealth before and after the kill.

The American Ninja: Punching his way into 80's obscurity.

Plus, everyone knows once your hand grasps the hilt, you automatically gain ninja superpowers -- or magically transform into a giant lion robot. Either one is cool.

You see a buxom slave girl surrounded by mutant frog men ready to breed more amphibihumans. What do you do?

Just forget about her. Seriously. Women are more trouble than their worth in the post-apocalyptic world. You'll have a difficult enough time surviving without the walking mammary target attracting every warrior wannabe from here to Thunderdome.

Plus, let's face it. Even in a world covered with ash and ice and radiation, she'll still ask you if her ass is too big. The answer is always no, by the way.

Don't freakin' ask.

You have infiltrated the evil lair of the 70's Abba Tribute army. You see the powerful Xanadu machine, in which whoever controls, controls the world. What do you do?

It's the place that nobody dared to go...except you, you daring adventurer. Most of the choices involved you destroying the machine. Actually, that's wrong. You join that damn army! ABBA?! Oh hell yes! At the least you crank it up to 11 -- coz 11 is just one more better than 10.

You see Ernest Borgnine. What do you do?

Never, and I mean never, kill Ernest Borgnine. That man has survived more Apocalypses than Michael Jackson had plastic surgery. Wait, Michael's dead? Are you serious? Is Ernest Borgnine dead? Oh shit...

This is the face of doom! All he's missing is the mullet.

...he's not dead? Oh, thank heavens! That would have just sucked for the human race. I mean it. Borgnine is a veritable depository of survivalist knowledge -- and he drives around in a cool taxicab.

What is the ideal hair style after the apocalypse?

A mullet. As though there'd be another answer. Seriously, if you didn't get this one, then get out of Vegas now. This isn't even a question. I just threw that one in as a moron test.

After years of sweat, toil, violence and blood, you discover a secret paradise, a veritable Garden of Eden. What do you do?

You may be tempted to frolic forevermore in Paradise. You may go back into the wasteland looking for survivors to take with you. You may even decide instead to find Disneyland.

But there's really only one answer here. Stand at the entrance, take in its beauty and grandeur -- and then burn the f&#ing place down! Why, you ask, would I ever do such a thing, especially after so many bleak years dodging mutant dominatrix queens (I believe you'll find them at DragonCon and ComicCon)?

Larry Flint finds God. Again.
And lots and lots of Apples.

Because The Garden of Eden is the source of all that has occurred. It is the singularity of all sin. Think about it. Without the Garden, there'd be no Eve. Without the Garden, there'd be no apple. Without the Garden, there wouldn't be 18,374,552 men named Adam in the White Pages.

Sin wouldn't exist. Evil wouldn't exist. I wouldn't ex....hey, wait a minute. Am I shooting myself in the foot here?

Surviving the Apocalypse: The Quiz

2009-08-18T13:45:00.000-07:00

What is the likelihood you will be doing the Electric Slide with yours truly after the rest of the world sneezes to death?

How about you find out?

Let it not be said that I don't know how to have a good time. I do. I and my followers have such a good time that you can find us on a ceiling. Dancing. And changing lightbulbs (my followers, not me).

Dear Randall, You So Burn that Ceiling Down! - Lionel

Still, such techno-eschatology requires one to know just the right things to do to survive the initial culling. Sure, there's FluBuddyTM or fallout shelters or L. Ron Hubbard's sailors hat beachside villa replica, but most of these are temporary precautions, a way to prolong the inevitable and delay the mortal coil's shuffleboard ...uh...shuffle.

"What's that, Harold? Soylent Green for dinner again?!"

True survivors, though, will have the intimate know-how to lead a prosperous life forged in a wasteland of post-modern Americana. As the ultimate in apocalyptic evil, it's safe to say I have a fairly good idea of what it takes to be a Brave New World Warrior (other than declaring eternal devotion to me). I've spent years of scholarly education on the subject, studying such how-to survival classics as "2019: After the Fall of New York," "Hell Comes to Frogtown," "The Day After," and "Warriors of Some Cool Sounding Post-Apocalyptic Nomicker."

And I've collected all my knowledge and passed the savings on to you. Take this quiz and find out how likely you will survive a world run by Flaggocare.

In a few days, I will describe the composite of an optimal survivalist for everyone to see and study. Remember, knowledge is power. And power is something to be cherished, like steaming hot bowls of wheat germ mush while watching a Family Ties marathon. Oh so healthy and funny. In the meantime, take this quiz to see, if the world just happened to end today, how you would fare.

Guess which cast members still has a career?

How...the hell...could I lose?

2009-07-24T21:24:00.000-07:00

Damn purists.

Ever since Peter Jackson grasped the turgid girth that was the Lord of the Rings saga, audiences have come to expect -- nay they've demanded -- that movie translations remain true to the books from which they're based. This is poppycock! I mean, would we have such celluloid classics as "The Cat in the Hat" (Mike Myers movie) or "Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy" if the directors slavishly adhered to the source material?

Kids, how do you stop inappropriate touching?

But, alas, true adaptations are what the peoples want. And what the peoples want, they sometimes get, assuming assistant producers and marketing executives stay the hell out of the studio.

Which leads me to this harsh reality. I lost The Stand Poll. For this, I blame the purists.

To recap, this poll was designed to let you, the many fans of Stephen Speilbe...I mean, Stephen King's "The Stand," finally get their say as to how the novel ends. As we all know, King made a grave error. Instead of the bomb harmlessly going off in the back water, unpopulated city of Boulder, he instead mistakenly triggered it along the Vegas strip while I was MC-ing the greatest show on earth (it was the only show on earth at the moment).

So, I die in a Michael Bay wet dream and those bland good guys inherit some freakin' farm out in Montana.

Michael Bay masturbates to this. I shit you not.

My modest proposal was to alter the ending of the novel in the Twitterverse. That's right! Actually allow my followers and supporters to demand that The Walkin' Dude succeed and live on to rule all In-And-Out Burgers along the West Coast. Them damn good burgers, by the way.

If I had won, I would have started a petition that would have been sent to the King himself demanding that he capitulate and endorse my victory on Twitter.

In short, I could have revolutionized the literary world and changed what has been perhaps the most integral novel to American culture since Bronson Pinchot solidified the arch-type of the pseudo-homosexual fish out of water in the critically acclaimed series "Perfect Strangers."

Unfortunately, these dreams of mine shall not be.

Let's review the results, shall we?

http://www.misterpoll.com/polls/440355/results

As you can see, the majority of voters just want to keep The Stand's plot exactly the same. They have no imagination. No vision. No guts to forge a brave new world where mullets rule and all IRS employees must lace every conversation with titillating sexual innuendo like, "That's right, baby. We can amortize your Quicken all night long."

A glimpse inside an IRS Auditor's rape fantasies.

I suppose there's comfort in this. After all, it's not like these misguided fools are suggesting that I be killed off for personal reason. Leave that to the 14 cadave...I mean voters...who chose to say I jumped the shark. This attitude was best summarized by this coward:

"Damn it, Flagg.. if only you'd been less of an insufferable ass to me, I could have really liked you. Mayhap next time will be different," - Anonymous, Fat and Lonely in Denver.

There were also nine people who didn't have a clue as to who I am, but could probably recite every flavor combination of Slurpee possible (just so you know, there are 341,832 flavor combinations possible, including BazzaBerryBlueBlend).

Of course there's the 116 of you great, genius minds who desired for me to stick around, either because you love my mullet, or due to outright fear that I would forever cast a scarlett #unfollowfriday on you. Either choice was appropriate. But the motivation to vote for me was genuine, as summarized in this comment:

"Randall should live!!!!!!!!! Long live @VegasWalkinDude! Not only is he evil, but he makes me laugh," - @Tinhuviel, Phd. CCIM, MENSA Chair, Knighted Queen's Order of the Guards, Medal of Honor winner - three times.

Well, now all we have left to do, dear readers, is wait. Wait for those boring near-do-wells who are role playing The Stand like a collection of high school drama buffoons to get to Vegas and play out their damned story arch. At which point, of course, the rosey palm of God is supposed to descend and detonate the warhead before Jack Bauer can rescue me.

"Dear God. Can you bring my puppy, Spot, back to life? Amen," Casey Varnett, Age 7.

And per the deal, your beloved @VegasWalkinDude will cease to Twitter forever and ever.

Until then, dear Twitters, I shall continue to snark, belittle and generally remark about your legs and breasts until the final Stand comes about.

Hey! It's 2 a.m. Time for some of those enjoyable Billy Mays infomercials I love so muc...WHAT DO YOU MEAN HE'S DEAD?! Is this another of those damned Twitter lies....

The Stand Twitter Poll!

2009-06-30T07:53:00.000-07:00

Should The Walkin Dude Be Obliterated in Vegas?

As many of you know, there's a poll taking place on Twitter involving the cast of The Stand (search #thestandpoll). Please take the time to answer it. My life depends on it.

The question boils down to this: Should Randall Flagg (a.k.a. The Walkin' Dude, The Ageless Stranger, Russell Farraday, Walter O'Dimm) be obliterated in the Las Vegas nuclear explosion as outlined in Stephen King's The Stand.

Or should The Stand's bleak, terrible and pointless ending be altered to reflect a more positive change on Twitter, and the @VegasWalkinDude live on forever...snarking your tweets.

The deal is this: If the vote goes my way, then I shall continue as I have. If not, then @VegasWalkinDude's account shall be silenced forevermore. If I win, I shall draft a petition to Mr. Stephen King which will demand he endorse the alterations to his novel on Twitter.

You can see, this vote is critical, not only for literary history as we know it...but for my mullet.

So, without further ado, here's the link to the poll:

http://www.misterpoll.com/polls/440355

Ongoing results will be tracked here:

http://www.misterpoll.com/polls/440355/results

And if so inclined, you may leave worshipful messages to me here:

http://www.misterpoll.com/forums/200638

Who Follows Me and Why: An Expose

2009-06-23T22:37:00.000-07:00

Four months into my Twitter experiment, and I finally have its magic figured out.

It boils down to sex, lies and Brittany Sex Tapes.

It has been interesting to see who is following me, who have become loyal subjects, and who in the final consideration, deserve to go to Boulder with those windbags from The Stand, like @Fran_Goldsmith or @DickEllis_DVM. As it turns out, Stephen King was way off base when he described the type of person who follows me. Way off base.

You see, King's basic philosophy is that I would attract political conservatives and technogeeks, where as Mother Abigail would be the flame for the liberals, the artsy types and those who wear bras on their heads hoping to get laid by Kelly LeBrock (i.e. @haroldlauder).

My minions have been the polar opposite. Loyalists include actors, writers, artists, musicians, strippers and pyromaniacs. When you look at my Vegas roster, other than my chief of coke snortin' police @BarryDorgan, there's not a single conservative in the bunch.

So, let's take a closer look at who follows me and why my awesomeness is indisputable.

ROMANCE NOVELISTS

As I said, I have quite a few writers among my ranks: journalists, freelancers (i.e. unemployed monkeys who know how to type), bloggers (i.e. unemployed monkeys who can turn on a computer), novelists, phone sex operators, a couple of bar tenders and a lady who writes about how to diaper a baby's butt (Editors Comment: In no way does this need to be construed that The Walkin Dude supports or patronizes child pornography).

But among them, the least expected have been romance writers. Or better known as women trapped in a boring, predictable marriage, but cursed with imagination to spare.

I look like this. Really.

These authors' books are chock full of descriptions like "throbbing man-muscle," "quivering love tunnel," "knocking on the backdoor," and "meat probe." These descriptions are also packed into predictable plot lines:

Demure girl privately wishes for a ravishing sex life.
Girl trapped in relationship with boring near-do-well in no-name town.
Meets roguish, long-haired boy toy who looks really good on paperback novels.
Lots of sex. Words like "heat," "enormous," "filling," and "you're on the pill, right?" peppered throughout.
Lots of masturbating between the sex.
Climax to story -- both figuratively and literally.
Rogue and Heroine live happily ever after.
They have kids and become stuck in rut.
Cycle begins anew.

The key to understanding my attraction is in the rogue element. I am roguish. Roguish be I. Evil, yes. Wizardly, of course. Able to turn water into cheap tequila served by a boy name Jose? Perhaps. I never tried that one.

Regardless, I'm a rogue. A romance writer's defining hero is my overwhelming trait. And hence, writers like @Megan_Hart, @laurendane and @VictoriaDahl (who misspelled my name in her latest book) follow me with hearts all aflutter.

CANADIANS

Now, here's another mysterious trend. I'm quite big in Canada. This one took me some time to consider. If I were to estimate on my abbacus...abbicus...abacu...of fuck it! This Chinese counting thingie. Anyway, I would venture to say a good 40% of my followers (plus or minus 35%) are Canadian hose...I mean, residents.

At first blush, this makes little sense. Are Canadians more inherently evil? Or are they just more infatuated with my mullet?

The answer is neither. Instead, we must explore this trend in a geopolitical context.

You see, Canadians really hate Americans. No, I'm not kidding. Canadians abhor us with a vehemence second only to Bob and Doug movies. They will, of course, never reveal this hatred. American tourists and business travelers are greeted with warm smiles, firm handshakes and mellow lager. But when an American turns his back, what's missed is the flash of the demon within, the brief transformation from Canadian to a wide-mouthed long-fanged H.P. nightmare as the Canadian fight to hold in his homicidal impulse to shove petrified McDonald's french fries into American eye sockets.

This is why Canadians follow me. The Stand is a spectator sport to them. They enjoy witnessing the decimation and collapse of this country. Once the U.S. is emptied out, the Canadians will come pouring across the border to set up a new country in what remains. Entirely French speaking to boot, eh?

And as for that lager I mentioned above? Moose piss, hoser!

Moose additive that creates thick foamy head.

DOMINATRIX

In a world where everything is better, you can always see the sun day or night, we have another enigmatic follower:

The dominatrix. Power and control are the operative words here. This is a dominatrix's entire source of sustenance. They feed upon these like vampires on blood. Or like Perez Hilton and Internet infamy.

They can make many a mortal man cower before them, licking their Fredrick's of Hollywood high heels. In turn, he sashays his panty-clad hairy butt while screaming out the lyrics to Neil Diamond songs as the dominatrix paddles him with NERF toys.

So why, you ask, would a dominatrix follow me? Because secretly, in her darkest fantasies, a dominatrix yearns - craves - to submit to someone more powerful than her. That need to be subservient to a man, a real man, was actually programmed in a woman's DNA by aliens from Theta (so, Scientology has it right here). But for a dominatrix, there is no "real" man. Only toys made to be bound and controlled like a Monchichi.

This is where I come in. I fulfill that need because I'm more than a man. I'm evil wizard sausage made flesh! And that, @LadySascha, is irresistable to leather-clad frauleins -- even in Canada.

MARKETING "GURUS"

Despite my best efforts, this is a follower I can't seem to shake. These are the fucknuts who call themselves "entrepreneurs," "gurus," "social media experts," and any description that involves the word "extraordinaire." This is the same plague of locusts who began Mary Kay in the 70's, moved on to junk bonds in the 80's, then inflated the penny stock and technology bubble in the 90's, and finally became house flippers until the economy collapsed under their combined weight. Now, they're on Twitter.

I hate these people. I hate them with a passion second only to @MotherAbigail. They're cockroaches. You try to squash one, but 100 more pop up out of nowhere, promising you $13,000 a month just by fill in the scam here.

Now, many will be surprised by my stance on this. After all, I'm evil, and evil should attract evil. A Confederacy of Dunces, if you will. But there is a difference. My evil is brilliant. It has a plan. It likes to teach the world to sing in perfect harmony before wiping it out with Captain Trips. Their evil centers on lying. Most of these prolific snake oil salesmen simply use a pyramid scheme approach to achieve "wealth."

The truth is, most are as poor as Gary Coleman after Diff'rent Strokes was canceled. And probably sell used cars as a career.

Still, I welcome them, encourage them even, to come to Vegas. I got plenty of empty crosses along The Strip.

This list is certainly not comprehensive as to the makeup of my followers. Most others are just a plain joy to have on my team. And with nearly 1,400 followers staunchly behind me, the Boulder crowd ought to be anxious. And when I say "staunchly" following me, I really mean it. Coz if you unfollow me, I will know. I always do. And you will regret Fridays forever onward...

6 Little Known Monsters Ignored by Hollywood

2009-06-07T10:57:00.000-07:00

Dracula. The Wolfman. Zombies. Dr. Frankenstein’s Psychosexual Embodime…uh, I mean monster.

These are the stuff that fills the nightmares of Hollywood writers, a machine that churned out nearly 600 movies last year alone, according to the MPAA (which, sadly, does not track the more than 10,000 Adult features, like The Hills Have Thighs 2). And a good portion of these, whether in theaters or adorning your Blockbuster Video shelves, involve vampires or werewolves or little creepy girl ghosts who like to pop out of television monitors.

There has come and gone a point as to how many times you can tell a story with the same character. How many variations of vampires have hit the screens? How many times can rotting corpses run the 100-meter sprint to gnash the gooseflesh of some Scream Queen?

You’d think that Hollywood could mine other fertile territory to create a whole new genre of monster to rape ad nausea for the next hundred years. So, I am duly submitting six of the best unused monsters from other cultures that Hollywood has yet to touch.

6. Fachen

Tagline: IT’S GOT AN EYE FOR YOU…

What is it?

The closet American entertainment has come to embodying this monstrosity was encapsulated in the lyrics “one eyed, one horned, flyin’ purple people eater.” ‘Cause that’s about what you get here.

The Fachen is an Irish concoction, a bird-like monster consisting of a giant face and a single eye, supported by a single clawed foot and a single hand jutting from its stunted torso. Perhaps the image of this makes you laugh? You’d think so – except Fachen is said to be so scary, it could give you a heart attack just looking upon it. Oh, and it tends to favor mutilating its victims before devouring them in its gaping, fanged maw.

Whose Ass Would it Kick?

It’s somewhat hard to compare the Fachen to any Hollywood equivalent. Probably its best contender would be Ray Harryhausen’s Cyclopes from The Seven Voyages of Sinbad. But how could a 20-foot tall monster lose to the Fachen? ‘Cause all Fachen would have to do to win is look at it, beotch! Then it would hop on its eye and eat its intestines.

How Do You Kill It?

Apparently, there’s no special way to off the Fachen. But its giant uni-brow probably makes an ideal target. That is, if you could see it. Remember, Fachen gives you a heart attack. So you better be a damn powerful Jedi and go in blindfolded when hacking away at this beast.

5. Each Uisge

Tagline: THIS HORSE IS A HORSE, OF COURSE, OF COURSE…

What is it?

This Scottish legend literally means “water horse.” That does not mean it’s some My Little Pony variant with flowing golden locks and a kilt. You’d be dead wrong, my friend.

Most of the time, Each Uisge, part of a greater Celtic family of water sprites, appears as a stallion, and could safely be ridden through the Scottish highlands and lowlands as its rider enjoyed swig after swig of single-malt goodness. Alas though, after say a fifth of scotch, the rider is filled with the sudden urge to get bare-assed and swim naked in one of the many Scottish lochs. You’d get to the shore, but that’d be about it.

You see, Each Uisge has a little character flaw. Once near water, it goes bat-shit crazy, dragging its hapless, confused victim under water and proceeding to devour every ounce of flesh, bone and marrow. Well, all except for the liver. Each Uisge never developed the taste for human pâté.

And since Each Uisge is a water sprite, it can shape shift into a sexy human male who would then frolic around the Highlands, looking for young innocent lasses to woo and lure back to the lake. While we’re confident Each Uisge’s game was a good one, there’s some doubt about its seduction success rate since the sprite had water weeds sprouting from its locks when in human form. Although he probably made a killing seducing those Emo-loving girls who just found such an emotional connection to a lanky guy with seaweed growing out of his head…

Whose Ass Would it Kick?

Probably the best match up would be with Joe Dante’s Gremlin’s. You know those miniature Ewoks you’re not supposed to feed after Midnight or dump in liquid, or they turn into scaled, clawed beasts that multiply in water? It’d be an interesting match, but we suspect Each Uisge would just plop the little green turds in the lake and enjoy an endless smorgasbord of delectable goodness.

How Do You Kill It?

If you’re just so damned determined to keep one as a pet, you probably want to live in the desert. That way, it’ll stay docile. Or it will kill itself trying to endlessly reach that great, shimmering body of water off in the distance.

4. Transhumans

Tagline: THEY’RE SMARTER THAN YOU…AND HUNGRIER.

What are they?

They’re more than meets the eye, but they don’t transform into SUVs or semis.

Simply put, Transhumans are human. Just a hell of a lot more evolved than you and me. See, they have much bigger brains than us. They have bigger eyes than us. They have telekinetic powers and can plunder your memories and thoughts and assume the likeness of any human being on the planet. And as a bonus, they’re hung like John Holmes on Enzyte. Bastards!

Lest you think they’d be an ideal addition to the X-Men, you’d be sorely mistaken. Apparently, the next step in human evolution is sporting a hide of waxy, yellowed skin that drapes off the skeleton like a dieting septuagenarian, breaks out in a bleeding, ulcerous rash when exposed to light – oh, and is partial to cannibalism.

Unlike many monsters, Transhumans prefer a diet of fresh human flesh, “quivering with life,” according to the book The Cannibal Within. Well, all parts of a human except the liver. Kind of like Each Usige, but they see liver a poisonous.

\Whose Ass Would It Kick?

Given that they’re above human brilliance, to put them up against a run-of-the-mill zombie would be insulting. No, devious genius is needed here. As well as culinary taste.

The infamous Hannibal Lector is perhaps the best match. Except they’d probably recognize each other’s genius and refined tastes in grey matter sautéed in olive oil and garlic, co-write a cook book on a hundred and one dishes with fava beans and go on Food TV.

How Do You Kill It?

Evolution has a real way of keeping powers in check. So those enlarged body parts are also their greatest weakness. The eyes, the brain and yes, one sure shot to the testicles could very well put a Transhuman down.

3. Obayifo

Tagline: THIS WITCH ONLY COMES OUT AT NIGHT…

What are they?

Obayifo is part of the Ashanti lore from Africa. They are said to be witches or warlocks who really look no different than any other person. They blend in during the day, going about their work and generally being productive citizens of the local warlord. At night, though, well that’s a different story.

See, the Obayifo can detach their souls from their bodies to scour the land, looking for fruit, vegetables and tree sap to munch. And if that’s not around, then Obayifo also likes to drink blood and devour little children.

Luckily, Obayifos are pretty easy to spot once they’re in their demon form. They have beady, shifty eyes. A passion for cuisine, they love to hang outside fondue restaurants, salivating over meat. Oh, and you can also spot an Obayifo if you see someone with a glowing green light emanating from its armpits or ass.

Whose Ass Would It Kick?

Let’s face it, this is just another variation of the vampire. Except they not only eat kids and gorge on goblets of wine, but they also have a habit of inadvertently creating crop blights and famines when they’re hungry enough. While Dracula has the ability to create a blood-sucking harem by kissing local MILFs dry, Obayifo could melt the bastard just by farting out sunlight.

How Do You Kill It?

Actually, dispatching an Obayifo plague is as simple as hiring your local okomfo – a white witch trained in the arts of dealing with Obayifos. If your town is short of Okomfos – or the crazy drunk guy at ComicCon dressed as Gandalf doesn’t pan out – you could always gather a small band of angry villagers and just kill anybody you think may be a witch, a typical past time in Ghanna.

http://what-is-witchcraft.blogspot.com/2007/08/witch-hunting-and-exorcism-in-ghana.html

2. Flavros

Tagline: STAY IN THE TRIANGLE!

What is it?

Flavros is a Great Duke of Hell, with some thirty-six legions of demons at his disposal. He’s often depicted in humanoid form, but with a leopard face and grimly clawed hands. He can come in the form of a human, but his eyes blaze with hell fire. In short, you don’t mess with Flavros.

But of all the monsters on this list, Flavros can be extremely useful to someone with big enough testes to try and conjure and control him (maybe like a Transhuman). After drawing a triangle on the floor mixed with other symbols found in the Dungeons & Dragons Monster Manual, a proper demonologist can call forth Flavros to garner insight into the mysteries of space and time, life and death or pick all the winners in your office NCAA pool. Except you have to be sure to get Flavros to enter the triangle, otherwise, he’ll just lie his ass off and laugh as he lures you into a false sense of security (and debt, if you’re in that pool), slashes your throat with his claws, and then drags you back to hell to be Satan’s pin cushion.

So, by all means, go for it. Just stay in the triangle.

Whose Ass Would It Kick?

Tony Soprano. No, I’m not kidding.

You see, Flavros also offers the budding black magician the chance to exact revenge on his or her enemies by burning them to a smoldering cinder. And even better, like Tony, Flavros can knock some sense into fellow demons who are treating the magician like a bitch. We’re not sure the price for such services – maybe your first born, or you know, your immortal soul. Just whatever you do, stay in the goddamned triangle.

How Do You Kill It?

Frankly, you don’t kill demons. Sorry. The best you can hope for is they decide to leave, maybe to go help that pimply kid from biology class who really wants to get laid.

But assuming you haven’t completely pissed off the Supreme Being of the Universe for raising a demon from the depths of hell and all, the best way to take care of Flavros is to call in an exorcist. The Catholic Church still has a few around.

1. Manananggal

Tagline: SHE’LL GIVE YOU HEAD – TILL YOU’RE DEAD!

What is it?

Imagine encountering the beauty of your dreams. She’s alluring, provocative, smart and causes you to have to sit just a little longer in your desk, thinking thoughts of baseball and Aunt Millie after her flirtatious advances with her bountiful cleavage.

She’s every woman you dreamed to meet. She seems to really like you. So, you take her out on a date and soon enough, you guys are an item. Now at some point in any relationship, a couple’s love is tested as they each get to see the other’s faults. Will the girl still think the guy is the bees’ knees after sixteen consecutive hours of ESPN? Will that growing waistline and penchant to pick lint from his bellybutton be the death knell of a robust sex life?

And how about the girl? Would the fact that she, too, has gas be a major turnoff? If she, in fact, does look a little on the plush side in that black dress mean your eyes are searching for the next beauty?

Could you still love a girl whose head detaches from her body at night and trails her heart, lungs and intestines around in the search for fetuses to suck dry?

The Manananggal is a Filipino monster, a beautiful woman by day who, because she messed around with an Ouija Board once (fair warning to the fairer sex), can now make her head and innards fly around like zombie Batman across the skyline. The Manananggal (or Penanggal in Malaysia) drinks blood, preferring the freshness of either new mothers or newborns, and may go so far as to suck a fetus’ heart out with a long, straw-like appendage that comes out of her mouth.

While her tastes in cuisine may lack a certain amount of moral sentiment (I’d love to see a director get that first baby victim scene passed the MPAA), Manananggal makes up for it in utter disgusting coolness. You’d think a flying head would be a major inconvenience to basic motor coordination. And you’d be wrong. You see, the Manananggal can use her dripping intestinal cords as makeshift hands. So, you can still share intimate hand-holding walks on moonlit nights. Make out under the stars. At least until her little intestines wrap around your neck and strangle you for telling her about her ass in that dress.

Whose Ass Would It Kick?

Really, what Hollywood monster out there even has a chance? Not only can she fly, but being just a head and all, makes for a viciously difficult target.

Nonetheless, there may be one who could counter Manananggal – the bodiless doctor from Re-Animator. Careful, NSFW:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aOFiB3OOyBo

More than likely though, your Manananggal would likely cuckold you during her night flights with the good doctor, with her claiming that there’s just something missing from your relationship….

How Do You Kill It?

On top of being horrifically disgusting, the Manananggal also is a bugger to kill. It requires real cleverness on the part of the hunter.

The trick is to stakeout where the Manananggal hides her body during her nightly jaunts. Once the body is found without the head, the easiest way to dispatch of her would be to pour glass shards into the neck cavity. When Manananggal returns before sunrise, her internal organs will sever on the glass pieces. Other legends say one can pour salt or garlic in the neck for the same effect, or have a priest bless the body to prevent the Satanically tinged head from reattaching before dawn.

Of course, you may discover that your Manananggal stores her body in a vat of pickle juice, so there’s that. And it explains why your girlfriend always had that curious odor of a Vlassic.

Hey "Christian Radio." Add these songs, damnit!

2009-06-04T10:54:00.000-07:00

As many of you know, I love music. Honestly, I only discovered music recently when I found this nifty Sony Walkman along I-20 in Texas off of a dead farmhand.

This has opened up a whole new world of wonderful music for me. But there are things I've noticed about modern American radio, and if you would allow me, I would like to make a few suggestions - particularly regarding one type of format.

In many major cities, radio stations have begun to pop up playing an exclusive contemporary Christian music radio format. I do find the overall format humorous. And their musicians really like keytars.

At the same time, Christian radio playlists also are – well, somewhat lacking and repetitive. I mean, honestly, how many times can one hear Jars of Clay or Michael W Smith before your hand is frantically mashing buttons on the console just to find something else mind-numbingly enjoyable like …. press ….press …. press …. Ah yes, the classic sounds of John Tesh. I don’t believe that this shortcoming of Christian radio has been lost to the station programmers. In fact, I have noticed in recent weeks that some stations have begun to expand their playlists to encompass songs that could – at best – be described as ambiguously spiritual. And what better fodder than those superficial pop songs from the 1980’s and 1990’s.

Most recently stations has begun heavy rotation of Kathy Troccoli’s 1991 hit “Everything Changes.” Ostensibly, the song is about falling in love and how, well, “everything changes” for the better as you’re riding high on the endorphins caused by puppy love. But the lyrics, if given a real cursory examination, are ambiguous enough to be spiritual: “Well you came in my life like a ray of light / shining through the clouds in my heart / I just looked at you and the world was new / it was right, right from the start.”

How Quaint! You see how Christian station can take advantage of this to expand its playlist?
These lyrics are like reading a seventh grade girl’s diary on her eighth grade crush. But when applied Christian radio, the song becomes Christianized. It’s really brilliant, if you think about it. And a win-win for both the radio station, which is desperate to not bore the more adult members of its audience to tears with Mercy Me’s “I Can Only Imagine” playing for the third time that hour, and for the artist, who probably believed they had officially faded into pop music obscurity and would never, ever again receive a royalty check – except from Muzak, which converted the artist’s song into a keyboard ensemble that blares from the speakers of your local Macy’s.

So, in an effort to generate new ideas for Christian radio programmers across America, I am offering the Top 10 Ambiguously Christian songs to consider adding to the playlists, complete with explanations:

1. “Here I Go Again” by Whitesnake. Anthem of the struggling 80’s Glam Rocker can now become the anthem of anyone searching for Christ! Think about it. “Tho’ I keep searching for an answer / I never seem to find what I’m looking for / Oh Lord, I pray to give me strength to carry on / Cos I know what it means / To walk along the lonely street of dreams.” Such lyrics are matched in evocative power only by such hymns as “Swing Lo, Sweet Chariot” or “Amazing Grace.” The only suggestion would be to digitally excise the now infamous Tawny Kitaen from her preening on the hood of David Coverdale’s car with Jesus dancing a jig. That would be much more proper.

2. “Rock the Cradle of Love” by Billy Idol. Okay, this one may be a stretch, but there are just enough versus in the song for a Christian to call it her own. Let’s examine a couple: “Cause love cuts a million ways / Shakes the devil when she misbehaves,” and even more poignantly, “Sent from heaven above, that’s right! / To rock the cradle of love.” Of course, as an allusion to Christ. Which is probably what Idol meant all along.

3. “Everybody Have Fun Tonight” by Wang Chung. Does anyone know what the heck Wang Chung means? Well, Wang Chung itself is much more philosophical on the name. This comes from WangChung.com: “To the Chinese, each piece of music was more than mere entertainment, or even a worshipful act, it was an energy-formula which realized the sacred power of sound in its own unique way. From this we can draw parallels between the Chinese concept of consciousness embodying the celestial sou..." Zzzzzzzzz. Who knew there was so much transcendental meaning to Wang Chung to begin with? Besides, the words also sound like a Pentecostal speaking in tongues. CHRISTIANIZED!

4. “We Don’t Have to Take Our Clothes Off” by Jermaine Stewart. This one should be the mantra of all who attend those Young Life meetings. I mean, what a positive, upbeat message for the misaligned deviant teens of today who see more skin in a shopping mall than us adults did while straining to glimpse forbidden images on the scrambled Cinemax station after hours. I mean, what could be a more Christian message than “We don’t have to take our clothes off / To have a good time / oh no / We can dance and party all night / and drink some cherry wine / uh, huh.” See? Dance, have fun – clothing mandatory – and then celebrate by sipping some fruit-flavored Blood of Christ!

5. “Listen to Your Heart” by Roxette. This song recently was remade by some group called D.H.T. Don’t know them, don’t care to. The original is still the best to me. And it should be for you Christians, too. Just listen to these lyrics: “Listen to your heart / When He’s calling for you / Listen to your heart / There’s nothing else you can do / I don’t know where you’re going / and I don’t know why / But listen to your heart / Before you tell Him goodbye.” Great message! Essentially it's telling girls to be co-dependent and never think for themselves. Only throw their entire sexual being at Him. Him, of course, translates to me.

6. “I Knew You Were Waiting for Me” by George Michael. While we may have questioned his sexual orientation in the 80’s, been mystified by his abandonment of his singing career in the early 90’s, there are no questions or mysteries behind this ode to perseverance in the Lord: “Like a warrior that fights / and wins the battle / I know the taste of victory / Though I went through some nights / consumed by the shadows / I was crippled emotionally / Somehow I made it through the heartache / Yes I did, I escaped / I found my way out of the darkness / Kept my faith.” This is pure glory upon Your Savior. While George Michael himself has found himself a slave to the sins of Sodom, this man was touched spiritually when he penned this tune. In fact, I’d say your Church should amend this song into the Book of Psalms. And the metaphors are very Biblical. You know, warriors slaughtering infidels. Evil demons eating people in the dark. A radio must!

7. “As I Lay Me Down to Sleep” by Sophie B Hawkins. While she may have been damning for a lover, Sophie warbled this ode to what she said was for her father at the time. You Christians can now dedicate it to Our Father, on heavy rotation.

8. “Who’s Johnny” by El DeBarge. Come on. We’re talking El DeBarge! Sappy lyrics. Bubblegum pop with a saccharine taste. Sure, it was written for a movie about an annoyingly upbeat robot that gained a soul because he was struck by lightening. But with lyrics like “My heart’s in overdrive / It’s great to be alive” no one is going to be seduced by Satan anytime soon. Being seduced by me though is a given.

9. “Hero” by Mariah Carey. This 1990’s hit by Mariah would play perfectly for a Christian audience, a song about the inherent human need to find a larger-than-life hero – just like those Moses action figures, with rod-striking action!
10. “Personal Jesus” by Depeche Mode. Okay, this one probably has a few detractors. But by adopting this to a Christian station playlist, we convert what was once blasphemous into something divine, much like the Church did with switching the Sabbath to Sundays. Besides, the lyrics are pretty innocent, and even uplifting if placed in the proper context: “Your own personal Jesus / Someone who hears your prayers / Someone who cares.” Now, no longer would you young, impressionable Emos have corrupting thoughts when David Gahan croons “Reach out and touch faith!”

An Introduction...

2009-06-04T09:04:00.000-07:00

I would allow myself to introduce myself, but really - what's the point?

You know me. You love me. You really want me to send you one of those impersonal baskets of canned ham, vanilla biscuits and crappy jelly for your birthday.

So, let's get to the point. Chances are (I believe the last statistic was 99%), you will be dying of Captain Trips in the relatively near future. Now, your natural inclination will be to rage, cry, laugh, cry, beat your pillow against your sofa, cry, eat Chunky Monkey ice cream while watching Oprah. And ultimately, to blame me for your impending, painful, choking-on-your-own-bile-and-mucus demise.

To set the record straight, I am not the cause of Captain Trips. You must blame your own government for this travesty. And some slacker Air Force guard who busted through a highly advanced, lethally electrified security fence with a 1984 Pinto. Go figure.

What I am is an opportunist. I like power. A lot. I wield it like a trained monkey carrying around its little music box while I make my minions dance. Because my friends dance. And if they don't dance, then they're no friends of mine. The seat of my power, as is becoming quite clear by now, is Las Vegas; more specifically Caeser's Palace. And in particular, my intimate love nest on the top floor, where I eagerly await Nadine Cross.

In the meantime, I roam the highways and bi-ways of America, chronicling its demise and chuckling at the many deaths associated with the Superflu. This blog will be used to highlight my thoughts, desires, anecdotes and specifically-targeted venomous rantings against certain Internet marketing "gurus" that come to me during my travels.

There will be survivors, of course. Cockroaches aside, there will be some people. Those people -- the smart ones, the ones with military backgrounds, the ones who invented teh internets, the ones who run hedge funds or are twittering for celebrities, the ones who shake it, shake it, shake that big ol' butt -- they will come to Vegas and willingly submit to me. A few meaningless others are planning to head to Nebraska to sing kumbaya with a nattering old bag who makes crusty bread and smells of stale toaster strudles.

There are those who accuse me of plotting that latter group's demise once they reach Boulder, Co. I mean really, why would I waste my time? What threat will that hippie, liberal commune pose to my efficient, effective and effervescent (if you look that word up in Miriam-Webster, refer to definition 2, not 1) followers? None. Absolutely zero risk. In reality, I wish nothing but a dynamite time for Mother Abagail's followers. I mean, a real blast. An absolute holocaustic inferno of a great time for them. Right Trashy?

Of course, I've been broadcasting this information via telekinetic dreams to Captain Trips survivors for some time now. No. Not that dream you have of Joe Don Baker naked in your shower.

You know those dreams. The ones in the cornfield. With my eyes all afire, asking you to build it, cause they'll come. Hahahaha! Just joking about that building thing. I just love me some pop culturish Kevin Costner's Bull Durham references.

The problem I have found is that in today's modern world (you know, versus the 1980's), most of you NEVER FREAKIN' SLEEP. I mean that. You never shut an eye, but spend countless hours on your computers involved in cerebral cocktail parties. Thus, demigod's like me need to adjust a little. Hence, Randall Flagg (a.k.a. The Walkin Dude, The Dark Man, Merlin, The Man with No Face, Russell Faraday, the Ageless Stranger, Mrs. Butterworth) is now on Twitter (@VegasWalkinDude) and also now has his own blog. I may expand in the future, but I think these two venues, plus my chain of used car dealerships, should be enough for the moment.

A second issue: Many are citing this book by some hack named Stephen King called "The Stand." Let's clear the air once and for all. Just because someone writes something down does not make things true! There will be no surprise nuclear explosion. No hand of God mumbo-jumbo. And any infiltrators who come cross my borders from Boulder will be met with harsh punishment - You got that Stu, Ralph, Judge, Dayna, Glen and...uh...what the hell is M-O-O-N? That spells annoying.

In the end, the book is just a book. And it's being rewritten by machine on new technology.

I hope this spells out my intentions and clarifies many of the controversial topics raised by my presence in this world. Just, please, don't show this to Stephen King. Lawsuits are the last thing I need. Damned lawyers just won't die!