Crappy Movie Review: “Nature of the Beast” is Racist Against Werewolves

Werewolf Discrimination

There are times when you don’t even have to watch a movie to realize that it sucks. I know that many of you are coming here wanting a real review of this movie, because you have no taste in movies and you want to do something involving Halloween with your family. I am here to tell you that you are stupid. A romance comedy starring a “werewolf” like that pussy Eddie Kaye Thomas is racist against werewolves.

This–putting a werewolf into a romance comedy–is against all nature.

Werewolves do not star in “romance comedies.” Romance comedies are made for women, the primary food group of werewolves. Werewolves who would attempt to date women would be “playing with their food”, so to speak. Playing with your food is the sign of an infantile mind, as the only people who play with their food after the age of twelve are mentally retarded. Therefore, saying that a werewolf would “play with his food” is suggesting that he is mentally retarded, and that is a racist comment.

Other than that simple fact, the idea that a werewolf would want to stop being a werewolf (as in the case of Eddie Thomas) is yet another derogatory comment, implying that the life of a werewolf is somehow less fulfilling than that of being a human. In fact, the opposite is true: being a werewolf is far more fulfilling than being a human. Werewolves not only get to eat other people, but also get to eat their own young, and also have badass fangs and claws which they can use to kill annoying coworkers and family members at family reunions. Furthermore, they do not have to eat vegetables, as they are carnivorous.

shitty_wolf_costume.jpgThe only true werewolf ever to take the stage is named Michael J. Fox. We know that he in fact became a werewolf after his blockbuster hit Teen Wolf because he grew to have Parkinson’s, as all good werewolves do. The constant adrenaline rush a werewolf gets after eating or killing somebody who has pissed him off eventually causes chronic shaking and a desperate urge to kill more, and this shaking is clearly a sign exhibited by Mr. Fox. The only reason he has in fact not been diagnosed with lycanthropy is because of the simple fact that our current medical establishment refuses to recognize its legitimacy as a disorder (or is that order?) This fact, along with the evidence I have already given, is proof of a secret conspiracy attempting to portray werewolves as limpwristed nancy-boys, and I refuse to accept this sitting down.

In order to further the cause of the werewolf race, I will offer myself up as a sacrificial lamb. That is, I will allow a werewolf to turn me into a werewolf on the date October 31, 2007, or whenever one is available. I do realize that most werewolves, as in the case with today’s modern society, have extremely busy schedules of eating, killing and maiming people, and therefore I will be lenient. I would prefer the date October 30 or 31, as this would allow me to wear a badass costume for Halloween, but afterward is also allowable, as that would allow me to attempt to kill and eat Santa Claus on Christmas. My point is that we need more “cool” werewolves, the kind that perpetuate our race. I am not what one would consider “strong”; I was once attacked by a four-year old girl and lost in the ensuing fight. However, I am an excellent writer, and can write very good essays on the virtues of lycanthropy.

So that’s it; werewolves, the ball’s in your court. If you need more members, I and a select group of friends would be perfectly willing to join. After all, if we don’t join, Eddie Kaye Thomas will. And he will probably bring Eric Mabius with him.

Tell me what you think!

The Latest in Mass Thrift Stores: It’s Time to Go to “Savers”

(Note: For those who don’t know, Savers is a massive thrift store chain. It buys donated clothing from charities and sells the clothing at a profit, recycling clothes that are too worn or ratty to be salable.)

Savers Prospectus

A trend, not unlike Pokemon cartoons or esophageal cancer, is sweeping the United States. All around us, charities are beginning to buy into the belief that they can help poor people through giving donated clothing to thrift stores. Poor people apparently can’t wear this clothing; they must be given the latest in designer trends, it appears, so we can’t just give this clothing directly to the homeless. And middle class people can’t just give charities money. No, they have to give the charities worthless junk, which the charities then sell to large corporations.

This isn’t to say that it isn’t fun to walk through one of these stores. After all, there might be the chance that you’ll wind up finding something that you can’t find at a regular store in the piled stacks of discarded 1990s computer screens. I’ve seen everything from old Sega video game consoles to Atari 2600s amongst the smelliness of some of these places, in the rare occasion that I am asked to spend time in one of these mega thrift stores.

It just seems awfully dishonest to me. I don’t know. Am I wrong to feel like, you know, maybe it’s a horrible commentary on the beliefs and thinking of the American people that we have to give middle class America such an easy way to give money to charity? Is it right that Americans can get away with being selfish asses by giving junk they wouldn’t even use to charities that won’t even use it? Is esophageal cancer God’s punishment for the sins of morbidly-obese, selfish middle-class America?

Then I entered Savers, and I realized that there’s no way that God would give Americans two such terrible punishments. Going to Savers in the first place is punishment enough for anyone.

Part II: The Store, A Lesson In Pure Evil

As I entered the Savers pit of hell, I was instantly greeted by its “Donation Center”; at least one of the people coming to the store was driving a red Hyundai car the size of a postage stamp, and this store was actually crowded with people. I looked on these facts with a combination of shock and horror. The interior busied itself with reminding me of the caliber of store I was dealing with:


Coatracks lined the walls, the interior was filled to the brim with old clothing, and of course a Halloween display was included just behind the registers so that America’s thrift store-buying parents could dress their children in the latest used Halloween costumes.

I made a beeline for the back of the store, where they keep the used computers, typewriters, toys, and sporting equipment. All of the furniture, computer equipment and toys were at the pinnacle of Middle American taste:

Red Stool

This red stool sold for approximately $6.99, a great price with the small problem that it would clash with almost any other piece of furniture one would try to place it with. This is not unlike my green La-Z-Boy recliner, which can actually clash with velveteen posters, but unlike my green La-Z-Boy recliner, this stool is six inches tall. I could have fit it in the back of my car. Why I chose not to has more to do with what I learned from my recliner than anything else; however, not wishing to line up at the counter with at least ten other people did factor into my decision as well. What these people were buying–and God forbid, why they chose to buy anything from this store–bothered me deeply, even as I drove home.

By the way, the blurry object at the bottom of the photo is my finger. Yes, I know. I am a retard.

big_hanging_signs.jpgAt this point, the banality of this store, the bright lights and white walls and displays featuring pictures of decapitated women with beautiful torsos and music from the 1970s–all was beginning to become horrific. The store was beginning to close in on me, the white walls bearing down on me, the clothing assuming its own sinister presence. Slime began to ooze from the walls, and blood began to pour from the decapitated torsos, as people began to center around me. They were trying to make me a part of this scene, a part of this strange ritualistic behavior Americans engage in, of trying to find a “good deal” out of old industrial scales from the 1950s and those motivational posters people hang in their walls when they have lost what is left of their lives and dignity. Horror music–echoes of Ross Bagdasarian’s Witch Doctor–began to play from the store speakers, barely resonating in my ears, and I was confronted with the face of pure horror. I would like to try to replicate this scene for you:

Oooh, ee, ooh ah ah,

Ting Tang, walla-walla bing-bang

Oooh-eeee, Oooh ah-ah

Ting Tang, walla walla bing-bang

Old Pooh doll

I knew I was going to die in this store.

OK, so maybe I was exaggerating a bit in saying that there was literally blood pouring from decapitated heads and people hugging anime cosplayers, but it was pretty damn close, and I did nearly die, or would have had I gotten a whiff of their sandal section. I was horrified. This was like some kind of horrifying carnival of death. Why spend time buying things at this store, when you could spend your money on something nice from Kmart or Walmart, have your old worthless clothes recycled, and give a couple of bucks to the local Salvation Army (or what have you)? If Savers is a for-profit corporation and the charities get paid whether the goods get sold or not, why bother buying them here?


I don’t understand the point of a store like this. It’s one thing to want to buy used clothing for the chic or whatever retarded reason you’d have for wanting to wear worn jeans, but I can’t help but feel like it would be better for all parties involved if they just gave the worn jeans to poor people, or maybe if the American people could just be bothered to give money to charity instead of forcing the charities to sell middle-class Americans’ used crap to other middle-class Americans.

The primary reason I say that–you know, that they should just give the clothing to poor people–is because of the sheer bulk of it they had at this store, at least a ton or so. Even with all of these different types of clothes, amounting to every style you could imagine hanging from the racks, almost nobody in the entire store purchased clothing. You could have built a circus tent with the amount of denim they had collecting dust right in the middle of this store, doing nothing for nobody, because no person who can afford better wants jeans that could have been the victim of somebody with a terminal bowel disorder.

My mother often tells of the wonders she saw while living in the town of Artesia, New Mexico. They have a civic landmark called “Abo Elementary School and Fallout Shelter”, where they would put children in underground classrooms back in the 1960s:

Abo Elementary School And Fallout Shelter

These children were constantly being given tests of their eyesight and other abilities, because Atomic Age doctors wanted to know what the long-term effects of spending a long time in a fallout shelter would be. (Update: The scientists that conducted these tests apparently called these test children “groundhogs”.) This school is now a registered national landmark as well as a civic one:

Abo Shelter Landmark Photo

To be perfectly honest, we have always figured that this explains why my mother acts the way she does, but that is not my point. My point is, I think I would rather have spent my elementary school years at a fallout shelter like Abo than have spent another day at “Savers.”

Stop being a dumbass; get the hint. If America can’t be bothered to give money to charity directly, its punishment is Savers. And it truly, truly deserves it.

Tell me what you think!

The Albuquerque International Balloon Fiesta Bloats To The Sky, While I Sit Below Snickering Like An Ass

Unlike many events, the Albuquerque International Balloon Fiesta is one which revels in its unusual qualities. Like, for example, the fact that it centers around giant nylon bags of hot air rising into the air at six o’clock in the morning. Or the fact that it has the racial diversity of a Ku Klux Klan convention. These facts alone should deter anybody aside from the criminally insane from ever wanting to attend any of the Fiesta’s events, but no. No, people still attend, in droves, the Albuquerque International Balloon Fiesta. In droves, people. And, as my family is one of those groups of the mentally deranged that has proven itself so very incapable of resisting the sweet temptations of the hot air bags, I have decided to give you, my readers, a chance to peer into the world of the breakfast-burrito and cinnamon roll seeking walking dead.

Notice: Usage of the term “Damned Rich White Person” will occur frequently within this article, with ABSOLUTELY NO RELEVANCE WHATSOEVER TO THE BALLOON FIESTA. I just felt like, hey, it’s cool, I’m a white person.

The only people who still attend the Albuquerque International Balloon Fiesta are what me and a friend, who I’ll call Gilly here, like to call “damn rich white people.” These are unique people, the ones who you find littering on any municipal sidewalk. I know this, because by the end of the Fiesta day I went on there were at least twelve tons of napkins and saliva-encrusted green chile scattered randomly across the grassy launch field, usually within three feet of a trash can. Then again, it is quite difficult for many of these people to waddle to trash cans, as they can weigh upwards of two tons, as I found time and time again:


My mother spotted a woman with her buttcrack exposed and crack hair. I took a picture. I regretted later not having used the “zoom” function to help people really understand what horrors this woman’s buttcrack held.

Damn Rich White People people carry all their belongings in bright silvery Subaru Bajas with plastics so ugly that they can literally be seen from space. The other preferred method of transport is the Honda Ridgeline, which is just as ugly but also consumes all the fuel produced in the nation of Iran for the past seventeen years. As such, it has become the pet vehicle of one of the more common types of Damned Rich White People, the “pretend redneck”.

Anyway, back to the Fiesta. The hot air bags this year were very different from the hot air bags that were on display last year. We can tell this, because the local news station spent about 75% of the news broadcast showcasing the new “balloons”. For example:


At the Balloon Fiesta, things are different from the rest of Albuquerque. Here, for example, you have to fight your way to the front of lines rather than wait. Also, they have cinnamon roll cones, possibly the greatest invention in the history of Mankind, as well as hatpins (they call them “commemorative balloon pins”) which nobody will ever wear on a hat.

My mother and I attended the Special Shape Rodeo. We got there by bus (because only Damn Rich White People are stupid enough to pay $10 for the privilege of riding in a school bus). Our reasoning is that the special shape balloons are the only ones that look interesting, hence we are willing to spend money to get up close and possibly have a giant dragon’s hot air bag mouth swoop to the ground and appear to eat us or something. Our other reasoning was that I might find a new wolf shirt, as my collection is becoming ratty and torn from frequent usage in the wilds of the University of New Mexico campus. Neither of these things happened. I am still looking for replacement wolf shirts.

(I apologize, my mother has informed me that the preceding paragraph is incorrect. She actually spent $30 on bus tickets. So: Only Damn Rich White People are stupid enough to pay thirty dollars for the privilege of riding in a school bus. Thank you.)

The Fiesta has a strange rhythm and feel to it. Every year, it is started by the Dawn Patrol, consisting of five balloons from around the world whose pilots are willing to get up at God alone knows what hour to check the weather. These brave souls are then overshadowed by the Wells Fargo Bank’s balloons, each of which have ultra-patriotic flags attached to them, reminding viewers that one is not truly American unless they have a Wells Fargo checking account. As I watched this spectacular display, the first thing that came to my mind is that it had better damn well get more spectacular, because I have a Wells Fargo Checking account and they’re spending MY DAMN MONEY to put these hot air bags into the sky.

But never mind. As the real show, the giant dragon balloons and floating beavers and giant computer screens and beer mugs flew into the air, I became enveloped in the scene. Like a giant advancing row of cowboys on horseback, these balloons began to grow, filling the grassy knoll with their size and omnipresence. As they grew, these titans of the sky began to rise, filling their appendages and making themselves known to the peons below. Their propane-enduced girth increased, as the propane burners growled and bellowed below, like a herd of leashed monster dogs. And finally, the balloons rose into the sky, moving with the wind like angels on clouds.

All right, now that I’m done being nice, it’s time to start making fun of people again. As the balloons flew higher, it was time to begin buying paraphernalia, because my mother was paying for it. We bought three pins. That was it. I considered much more, but we finally boarded the bus after twenty minutes in line in the freezing cold morning to go home.

I had seen much in my time at the “AIBF.” I had seen large balloons, which struck terror into the hearts of weaker men. I had seen women whose bodies appeared much larger and more frightening than the balloons had been. And I had seen lots and lots of Damn Rich White People.

It was an… ahem… enchanting morning.

Tell me what you think!

The Domain of Absolute Awesomeness: A Call for your Ideas, Your Aspirations, Because I am Out

Domain Name

I have too much to do, what with drawing wolf comics and writing long rambling crap about fractals and how much I hate Richard Kyanka. Therefore, I haven’t been thinking about writing much, and what I have done is usually terrible.

I’ll get to the point. I want a badass domain name, one that pretty much describes everything this site stands for. However, I am lazy, so I want to steal one of your ideas. Please, for the love of God, give me ideas. If you’ve been reading my articles, what do you think is a good descriptive word for my writing style? Crap? Banana? Pomegranate? Your choice. In fact, anything. Just give me the first words that pop into your mind. Looking back on my ABQ ride article, the first word that pops into my mind is “shitty.” However, if you have a better word to describe my site, preferably something not involving feces, I would love to hear it.

P.S. Also something easy to spell. Remember, all bloggers choose domains for those who can’t spell and write for those who can’t read. Except for you, of course. I’m sure that you’re different.


Evil Scientists Strike Again: “Fractal Friday” Is Evil


Recently, for homework, I was asked to attend two lectures, writing about “what I learned” in both of them as an essay. A college essay. To do so, I decided to attend “Fractal Friday”, a presentation at the Albuquerque Museum of Natural History and Science, at seven o’clock at night at the observatory.

It was most clearly evil.

Beyond the obvious (and ominous) Parade of Nerds standing right outside the door, I knew it was evil for another reason: It was sold out. People were paying to see a science lecture! Tell me that isn’t evil incarnate! As if Americans actually wanted to learn something.

“Fractal Friday”, which occurs every first Friday of every month at three separate times, six, seven, and eight, and whose creator’s website is, displays the evils of mixing art with mathematics and science. It is morally wrong! Americans are not supposed to learn. After all, as an American, do you really want to learn? Seriously! Americans are supposed to be ignorant and stupid, and little snippy, cutesy-poo science lectures like these are teaching them things! Next thing you know, they’ll be doing the same thing with nuclear weapons, and before you know it, people won’t be wanting to nuke Afghanistan, Iraq, North Korea, Iran, Israel, France, Europe, Canada, Mexico, China, and the Western seaboard because they’ll figure out that they’ll screw up the climate and cause nuclear holocaust throughout the world! Who wants that? Armageddon should be started as soon as possible, and I sure as hell want the United States to start it.

If you agree with me, and you live in the Albuquerque area, be sure not to go to Fractal Friday, first Friday of any month, at either six, seven, or eight at night at the Lodestar Astronomy Center at the Albuquerque Museum of Natural History and Science, 1801 Mountain Road NW, Albuquerque, New Mexico, 87104, and be absolutely certain not to buy tickets here. And if you don’t live in Albuquerque, be sure not to visit your local museums to check out what they’ve got! They’re full of evil scientificky knowledge that us Americans shouldn’t know!

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a museum to visit. Don’t follow my lead. Remember, it’s evil.