Smacked By the Hand of the Crazy Basement Dweller, or Writing Transformers Slash Fiction For Dummies

As I left my architecture class, passing through the throngs of tiny humans that were crowded outside of one of UNM’s hallowed architecture studios, I walked to the Student Union Building at my school, ready to take in the latest Physics class, wherein the teacher tells us about how great nuclear power is, you know, how it’s just nothing like that crazy nuclear bomb thing, and then shows us exactly how a nuclear bomb is built, down to triggers, materials, and anything else a crazy terrorist would ever need. But as I passed by the SUB, looking around for Ashley (the tattooed girl of my dreams), I noticed something out of place.

They’ve got a new Crazy Black Guy at my university.

For those of you who look at anything which pertains–or even mentions–color and thinks that the writer is an evil Nazi racist scumbag, I should mention that not all black people are crazy. Of the approximately ten black people currently living in my home state of New Mexico, I know of only two that are crazy. Those two I have taken to naming “the Crazy Black Guys” by virtue of the fact that both are crazy and black, respectively.

You may be wondering why I think these two are crazy. For the purposes of research and open debate, I have taken an informal survey of three people that I know. Among them is a lesbian named Dessie, for whom I will soon share writing credit with in writing Transformers slash fanfiction, and who I have taken to calling Sabrina, from the cartoon Sabrina Online. I also interviewed like three other people I have met on the street, including a girl who was told that she was going to Hell for being a Hindu and a guy I know from high school.

Here is what these people said about the Crazy Black Guys:

  • “Those guys are crazy.” –Dessie
  • “Those guys told me I was going to burn in Hell for being Hindu.” –Demon Hindu girl who is probably going to hell for daring to speak against the word of God, be scared Hindu girl.
  • “I’m surprised that I don’t explode into flames just walking by those two guys.” –Dessie
  • “Those guys are fuckin’ crazy.” –This one dude I know

With that said, I think it’s obvious that these guys are clearly Looney Toons, only they are unfortunately not cute like Bugs Bunny or Elmer Fudd. These are not the nice, normal people who go to church and hug and sing and worship God, you know; these are the kinds of guys that ride bicycles from house to house seeking out converts, screaming at the top of their lungs that unless you do not worship the Powerful Sexy Pasta Monster or whatever the hell deity they believe in you will go to hell and your lungs will be ripped out of your chest and your lungs will be used to make bagpipes. And these bagpipes will be used to play Korn music directly into your ears until you go insane. So, basically, they are crazy nutcases.

(Note: The people who go to church to say that Bush is God and the War in Iraq will save Mankind’s soul are also crazy nutcases.)

In the interest of increasing diversity, however, the University of New Mexico also has a Crazy White Guy who says basically the same things. These three guys, being the Messengers of the One True God Who Lives In His Parents’ Basement, clearly are the only thing standing between “Our Beautiful Earth With All Its Natural Splendor And 24-Hour Porno Shops” and complete and utter apocalypse. All I can say is, I’m glad Dessie hasn’t been smitten by the Hand of Basement-Dweller yet, because then it would be difficult for me to rewrite her Transformers slash-fiction.

Ah, yes, this reminds me of my next point. Recently I imparted upon my pagan lesbian friend Dessie a profound knowledge. This knowledge is incredibly powerful, the kind only the Internet can impart, that is, there are people who draw Transformers having sex. I told her this, citing Rule 34 specifically, which says that if there is something on the Internet there is also porn of that something. I also cited Rule 35, which states that if there is not, that the guy looking for the porn has to make it himself. Basically, somebody had to have pictures of Megatron and Optimus Prime doing the nasty, probably with organs created specifically for this purpose that were never mentioned anywhere in the entire series, even the very special episode Optimus Prime Kisses Bumblebee Passionately While Using His Male Organ To Swat Fearsomely At Decepticons. And, lo and behold, whenever Dessie went looking for said pornography, she naturally found an entire slash fanfiction group on DeviantArt, as well as over 150 YouTube videos and Christ alone knows how many websites.

Now, frankly, even though I was the one that specifically said that there had to be Transformers porn on the Internet, even citing specific examples of what it would be like down to participants and sexual positions, this Transformers slash porno confuses me. I do not know what in God’s name a robot would be doing having sex in the first place, especially not whenever both parties happen to be male. What is its purpose? Lubrication? Entertainment? Dessie says both of these are true. Apparently, according to Dessie (I’m not sure if this is exactly what she said–I kind of stopped listening very well at this point), they need to lubricate one another by spraying robot spooge on one another. They also apparently get lonely and wish to entertain fanfiction authors, who draw the scenes of passionate metallic lust on large sheets of Bristol board or 8.5×11 sheets of college-ruled notebook paper. Dessie also says that a third reason for Transformers robot sex is the “generation of sparklings”. I do not know what these are, and frankly, I do not want to know. The idea that robots would sexually spray lubricant on one another is the most frightening thing for me, though, especially considering that Transformers are the size of large office buildings. On my “list of things to do before I die”, “being showered with robot spooge” is not high on the list.

(Note: Dessie has told me that Sparklings are “baby Transformers”, apparently with both parents being male. Most of the time, anyway, because apparently some Transformers can “go fem”, as she puts it. This still does not explain the robot spooge, or why the Transformers always cry purple stuff.)

(Or why Transformers would need to have babies.)

So anyway, this is going to be a very entertaining week on The Luigiian. We will be dealing with robot spooge, gay robot sexual fantasies written by a pagan lesbian, crazy black people, crazy white people, Sabrina-Online (and the weirdness that comes from this place of darkness), and naturally the Pope. And, as usual, we will be hoping that we are not smitten.

You know, smacked by the Hand of the Basement-Dweller.

Homosexuality and Bellybuttons: The Chilling Connection

A gerbil burrowing through the anus of mankind.

The Internet is like a gerbil in the anus of the human race. It burrows deep down into our collective colons, finding all of that information which we, in previous generations, would have had the necessary self-consciousness to keep ourselves from revealing, because we, as humans, used to know that this information was not intended to be known by either God or man. In previous generations, as just one example, Paris Hilton would have been dragged through the streets and stoned. In today’s politically-correct society, she is dragged through the tabloids and…

NO! I’m sorry, but I just can’t keep writing like this. Not with what I have been informed of today at school, by a person whose name musn’t be mentioned but who I will refer to as “Paul” anyway because I laugh in the face of danger. He has informed me that, in three of my last four blog postings, I have mentioned men sticking things into their anuses, such as dry ice and gerbils. I also referred to Carlsbad Caverns as “the anus of New Mexico”, referred to Mega Bloks’ pirate minifigures as “ass-pirates”, and said that the LEGO company’s character Danju, a knight with a purple suit and a wolf on his shield, was gay. He has therefore asked me whether or not I am gay.

In case you are wondering, yes, Paul is a weinerface. So, Paul, who I will now refer to as “the weinerface”, has suggested that I might be gay, and, Hawley-Smoot tarrifs and Kaycee Posts notwithstanding, this will simply not work. The word “anus” cannot be used to such extremes on this blog, especially if it makes it seem as if I prefer the company of other men (I don’t! Really!! Honest!!!). So I find it necessary to post this, the Anus-Free version of The Luigiian. It is factual and correct, in which I write a page-long essay about my bellybutton, because it is dry right now and I fear for it. I aim to please.

My bellybutton is an important part of me. It is a part that penetrates deep into me. It is fleshy and surrounded by large mounds of fat. The area around my bellybutton is hairy; this allows sweat and debris to accumulate inside it, and this, naturally, makes my bellybutton somewhat smelly and fetid, not unlike Paul, the weinerface. It is, in short, a part of my body which God gave me to remind me that, no matter how “civilized” and “X-TREME” and “intelligent” the human race becomes, there will always be a part of every one of us human beings where the unmistakeable smell of hooman will continue to linger.

To attempt to recreate this smell without using actual smell: hoooooooooooooooommmmannnnnn…

And so, as I listen to Invisible Touch by Genesis and sit writing this, I think of my bellybutton, for it has become dry. I fear for my bellybutton. Bellybuttons are supposed to be moist, are they not, moist like a baby’s bottom? This fear–the fear that my bellybutton is too dry–haunts me.

And so I go on with my everyday life, living with only the knowledge that my bellybutton is dry and troubling, and that something terrible may happen because of it. Hell, I may even write a terrible blog post about it that Paul the Weinerface will use to make fun of me at school.


Speaking of school, my math class is becoming quite a pain, as my grade goes deeper and deeper into the depths of sadness and pain. Nearly every person in my math class is currently “in the hole”, so to speak. People are becoming concerned for their grades, which continue to penetrate deeper and deeper into the bowels of depression. It is, in short, really, really, gay, what is going on in my math class. Gayer even–this will shock you, you should know, before I reveal this to you–gayer than Michael Jackson or (God forbid) Richard Simmons.

And so, like so many times in the history of this site, I am left without a magical fairy wand with which to solve my deep, dark problems. Oh, yes, they are dark. They are as dark as dark chocolate inside of a mine shaft, unpenetrated by light of any kind. And they are indeed deep, as deep as the Carlsbad Caverns which so adorns our southern New Mexico with its glance deep into the bowels of the Earth.

May I see you next week. And may your bellybutton continue to be moist and fetid.

…And so finally, is the Internet like the squirrel, for it can hold many acorns in its plump, accomodating cheeks. Huh? Oh, yeah, I’m done with that. Yeah, sorry for all that. I hope you liked today’s article. If not, you have Paul to thank.

…And I still have yet to see our history teacher’s Hawley Smoots, Paul.