The Greatest July Fourth Present America Has Ever Been Given

Sarah Palin has resigned from her Alaska governorship.

You’re welcome.

So that she didn’t milk Alaskans with a lame-duck Governorship, she’s doing the unconventional thing with Alaska and “not taking the quitter’s way out” by resigning and giving over control of the state to Sean Parnell.

We all know that a good point guard, she drives through a full court press, keeping her head up to keep her eye on the basket so she can drive the ball in there. And she knows when to pass the ball (the Alaskan Governorship) for victory. That’s a good safe analogy that Palin felt like making.

There is no mention of wolves, but as you might have guessed I am hoping that this changes soon. I know it won’t, because Alaskans probably want to be able to shoot wolves on sight, but I can dream, can’t I?

Yes, This Is Seriously the Easter Post for 2009.

(Yes, I’ve Seen All Good People. I nominate this song for Official Easter Song.)

P.S. Happy Easter. Praise Jesus and may he not strike me dead in the coming year.

Nintendo Death Watch I

My name is Roberto Fargo. You may remember me from such acclaimed websites as What’s Right About Cars (WRAC), where we’ve been discussing the impending demise of General Motors and Chrysler for years, in our  Detroit Death Watch series. We started the series because we knew that we were important people with an important role in the advancement of the human race, and that only we could use our flowery prose to tell people that their cars sucked. It was obvious to us at the site’s inception that our site was different. We needed to discuss the truth about cars. And by God, we did. Our site’s raison d’etre hasn’t changed at all since those halcyon years. Like Alf to cats we have always determinedly fought the good fight to bring you, our esteemed readership, the latest about cars. What makes them tick. How they work. Why the Jeep Compass sucks.

But now, with GM and Chryslerberus in their final death throes, Maximum Bob put out to pasture, and Wagoner finally flown the proverbial Little Douce Coupe, it’s time that we moved on to a different subject. Here on LoopyLines I’ve decided to put my best foot forward on the pilot project for a new site which we feel will just as doggedly pursue the truth in another subject: Video games. This is the first post to what we hope will be The Untruth About Video Games. And, of course, the Untruth About Nintendo.

When Master Chief calls in the Elites to try to determine which one to murder with his spiking gun, I’m always hoping for a miracle. I want him to kill ALL of them. My feelings about Nintendo are identical. When Shigeru Miyamoto said that he’d give the Star Fox franchise to Rare if the games didn’t “go into hyperspace,” he started a debate over which of Nintendo’s lackluster gaming franchises deserved death. The answer is, of course, all of them.

Nintendo was born as a conglomeration of various shitty video game characters that nobody cared about. In the beginning, though, they all kept their basic character sprite designs and various box art designs. In spite of the fact that Nintendo kept control of all the characters, each remained true to whatever stupid gamer fanbase it had. When this structure fell apart, or became one big shitty-ass mess of crappy products and stupid games, is not as important as the fact that it has.

Nintendo’s eleven brands–Sonic the Hedgehog, Star Fox, Super Mario, Donkey Kong, various shitty third-party companies, the original Megaman, Megaman X, Zelda, Conker and Banjo-Kazooie, Krystal the Furfag Dream, and Wii Shit–are virtually interchangeable. You could remake a Mario Kart and call it a Wii Kart; or a Star Fox Adventures and call it Megaman Goes Into Space; or a Sonic Adventure II: Battle and call it Conker Turns Blue and Goes On Boring Adventures with Obnoxious Little Furry Friends. And that’s without mentioning the elephant in the programming room: Character sprite sharing.

Nintendo’s brands bring new meaning to the words “gaming overlap.” Red Steel or Super Smash Brothers Brawl? Madden or Super Mario Spikers? Need For Speed: Hot Pursuit or Mario Kart Wii? These franchises might have better luck competing with non-Nintendo brands if they weren’t so busy competing against each other. As a result, whenever one of the eleven non-identical twins tries to make a case for itself as not being another faggy Nintendo product only retarded children would play, it unintentionally demeans a fraternal partner. Mario’s claim to be “a plumber” makes Star Fox seem like a careless flyboy. Sonic the Hedgehog’s “run really fucking fast” makes Megaman seem slow. And so on.

The franchise directors may beg to differ, but their hardcore fans don’t. Star Fox still touts itself as Nintendo’s furry-fanservice division–at the same time that Sonic fans like Sonichu keep on churning out more porno of Sonic-Tails yaoi slash fanfiction. And here’s a compare-and-contrast from Hell: Mario’s jumping ability versus Luigi’s.

The situation reminds me of the Lego company’s plight in the 90’s and into the 2000’s. When the competition started offering shitty knockoffs of Lego products, Lego responded by offering new themes: Bionicle, Time Travel, Spyrius, Monorail, Electric Train, Star Wars, and Bob the Builder. The bottom line? Lego kept on sucking. All these new brands and… Lego KEPT ON KEEPING its market share. Well, OK, so video games like Nintendo and Playstation were still taking away its toy market share, but in terms of making small plastic bricks with knobs on top, Lego was still first. Am I the only one who sees a parallel with Nintendo, which is responding to its diminishing slice of the US video game market by introducing new characters and a Gamecube with a remote control and a joystick attached?

Shigeru Miyamoto could kill off a couple of these franchises, figure out what the fuck to do with the rest, make some bonsai trees and–like Hell he could. Thanks to being a big egocentric asshole, constantly having to appease stupid kids and being obsessed with middle-aged plumbers who attempt to get into the dresses of ambiguously lesbian Princesses, Nintendo has neither the will nor the reason to kill off the horrible cancer that continues to eat its brains and rip its limbs off one by one. There’s only one thing to do now: Sell all its characters to the video game orphanage, Sony Playstation.

Earthbound is the only solidly profitable part of the whole corporation, and they haven’t made a new one of that in like fourteen years; everything else is being stuck with shitty, boring games that no sane human being would ever be caught dead playing. Dump the Mario Brothers, the furry shit, the racing games, the remaining first-person shooters, and Nintendo becomes instantly more profitable than before, although it might lose its position at number one in console sales, but that doesn’t matter. What’s more, under Playstation, each franchise would be leaner, meaner, and quicker on its feet, thanks to such meaningful and important features as Blu-Ray, a device that marginally improves graphics quality at only a 240% increase in console price and a 38% increase in game price. Think about the breakup of Atari, and everything it spawned, such as Lynx.

Even if a liberated franchise’s new ownership WAS completely shitfaced and retarded, even if, say, Electronic Arts bought up, say, Sonic, and ran it into the ground at the speed of sound, well, who gives a shit? I’d say, “nobody likes Sonic, except for children and autistic furfags.” And dammit, I’d be right.

The idea of being wrenched from Nintendo’s corporate teats is not bound to make Nintendo’s franchisees happy, especially Donkey Kong, who would likely throw barrels at passersby in a disgruntled fashion until tranquilized. But most sensible financial analysts would view Nintendo’s dissolution as a necessary Hiroshima: A violent explosion set off to anger Japan and force them to surrender to the United States again.

Of course, those same analysts don’t buy Playstation IIIs or Microsoft X-Box 360s anymore. They buy Wiis, because they want to get thin playing that goddamned Wii Fit. If these so-called “experts” want to feel the Trinity Site explosion again, all they have to do is drive down to White Sands, New Mexico and set off an atomic bomb. Even Master Chief himself would savor the irony.

Christmas 2008: Waiting For Rockwell Wishes to Resurrect Abraham Lincoln

Christmas is a fascinating time to be alive right now. To begin with, America is crashing to the ground in flames, to be replaced as Heavyweight Champion of the World by China, which will enslave all of America’s men and use its women to create newer, stronger workers who can then use their collective force to obliterate the Universe as we know it.

But it’s also interesting if you’re afraid of having a heart attack. This is where I am, right now. Recently, at least two family members have died of heart attacks and loss of the ability to breathe and one more may well die soon from a heart surgery that didn’t work.

When everybody is dying around you and the world is coming to an abrupt end, and you are a pathetic furry faggot whose hobbies, like architecture and Lego design, are hated by God Himself, you begin to wonder when God is going to smite you. I have, of course, been on Smite Watch recently. Let me tell you why I am afraid that God is going to smite me:

  • Recently, I counted my heart rate and it was like 120 beats per minute or something, by my estimates.
  • My left arm is tingling.
  • I wrote this post, which is supposed to be lighthearted and funny but will crash to the ground harder even than the U.S. economy, and my family will be talking about it for years, just like the time I said that Republicans were on the level of shit-throwing apes and got a stern lecture from one of my Republican cousins.
  • Also, in spite of the fact that I am actually a Christian, it sounds like I’m making fun of Jesus in this article, which I am absolutely not, but God may not care that I’m just joking around, and although he loves the sinner he hates the sin, and thus he will smite me.
  • I feel dizzy.
  • I just had a massive heart attack.

And so on and so forth. Of course my fears are completely unjustified, and as usual I am a ridiculous hypochondriac for having spared them half a thought, but it is still tempting to think that God cares so much about the way that I act that He would knowingly give me a heart attack as punishment.

Note: God may still knowingly give me a heart attack as punishment for my obsessions with architecture and Lego design. He’s God. He can do that.

In addition to all that, of course, I am working on getting noise-reduction headphones for Christmas. You smart people out there probably already have these things. God help you if there’s ever a fire in your house while you’re wearing them. He’d probably give you a heart attack for your accounting hobby, or whatever it is you do when you’re not reading this horrible blog.

I also want a new external hard drive for my computer. Recently I bought a camera, and immediately after buying it I realized that its puny thirty-two million byte Card O’ Data was not enough for our rapidly-changing world. So I bought a new one for it, which can hold four billion bytes of pure imagey goodness, and therefore my digital camera can now record an entire episode of Dancing with the Stars, assuming you wish to use it to do such a heinous thing.

Anyway, with such power comes great responsibility, such as adding even more space for more data for my computer to keep track of. I’m thinking of buying a hard drive (SPOILER ALERT: It is hard) with two-hundred fifty billion byte storage capacity. That way I can have a full database of every single Dancing with the Stars episode ever recorded. Once I reach this pinnacle, no jury in the world would convict me of murder, especially if I murder the contestants themselves. Unless Johnnie Cochran represents the Prosecution. And since he’s a defense attorney, I’m totally safe.

But of course, I would never kill Dancing with the Stars contestants. Never. For serious.

Enough of my holiday wishes, though. Christmas, of course, is a time when we all remember Jesus’ birth. Jesus, in case you haven’t read the Bible, is a total pimping badass. He healed the sick and he gave sight to the deaf, and on occasion he was able to overcome his dyslexia and give hearing to the blind. He was awesome like that.

Jesus was also the son of God, and was a carpenter. A badass carpenter at that, but nevermind his woodworking skills. More important, of course, were his wordworking skills, at least back when he was giving out words. That was back before we nailed him to a cross. Note that we never nailed Richard Nixon to a cross. That’s just the kind of smart, sensible people humans are.

Jesus is said to work via mysterious ways. This is why Jack Chick tracts are so hard to understand. It’s important to remember that Jesus is still more understandable than normal people like me, as my latest article on the Detroit Three bailout will attest.

As a reminder of how great Jesus was, we celebrate his birth by erecting large Pagan trees in our houses and put all kinds of frilly objects on them and act rudely to relatives who come to our houses looking for food and presents. (My mother has assured me that our family does not do this.) It’s a vague reminder of what it is to be an American, because such scenes of tenderness and beauty were conveyed by visionaries like Norman Rockwell, who even today reminds Americans of Christmases long past that never really occurred but are nice to remember anyway.


Let’s remember those Rockwell Christmases. Don’t forget: If we do, Abraham Lincoln will rise from the dead and give gay people the right to freely marry one another. Don’t ask why; remember, God works in mysterious ways. It will be a great time for America. People will dance around the Christmas tree, singing that “Dahoo Doorehs” song in the Grinch movie and play old Rankin/Bass Christmas movies that seemed to have appeared randomly as virtual particles from outer space. Iraqis will rejoice and spontaneously make love to one another on the sidewalk. And the Christmas Specials Wiki will continue to exist.

Yes, of course there’s a Christmas Specials wiki. It is accessible at, and like the old Rankin/Bass movies it seems to have appeared out of nowhere. Suddenly, there’s a place where just anybody can write out information on Christmas TV shows and movies. Like Wikipedia, “The Pretend Encyclopedia that Anyone can Edit”, probably none of the information is useable for a college-level essay, which would offend me if I actually had to go to school, which thank God/Norman Rockwell I do not. I will ask my friend Dessie the Pagan lesbian Transformers slash fanfiction author, who also happens to be the cutest girl in the known Universe and is single, ladies, to write out an article for the site on any Transformers Christmas specials she knows of, including any pornographic ones. It will be a great day in American history. I would love to see it, but unfortunately I have a heart attack I’m waiting for.

A-BATS And Rabid Fans: A Glimpse Into The Days Of Lego Scheduling

Lupe’s Thoughts

A lot of people who come to this site think it’s easy to be funny, week after week, even when your mother has a huge rash on her leg and you are afraid that you are not going to get your Legos on time. It’s not, people. It’s a skilled craft in which, for no money, you are required to sit down and watch people be stupid, and then make fun of them. You cannot, for example, simply get humor from a pickup truck.

No Matter How Hard You Try

I learned this by accident. My girlfriend, here meaning “friend that is a girl” because my friend that is a girl told me that is what she is, asked me what great laughter-inducing pablum I was going to write this week, and I said I was going to write about the Toyota A-BAT, which is a truck so ugly that its looks could be improved by falling down the ugly tree a couple more times. In fact, this truck is so ugly that, as it was falling down the ugly tree, it fell right through the Earth into the tree’s ugly branches, then broke through those branches and plummeted straight into Ugly Hell, where Ugly Satan poked at it for several thousand years with his Ugly Pitchfork. Then, when he was done, he ate it, shat it out, and as it fell to the floor of Ugly Hell it crashed right through to another ugly tree in Japan (it happened to be a bonsai tree, by the way) which is where two Toyota designers, Ian Cartabiano and Matt Sperling, found it. They then went back to California, where they hosed it off and presented it as a pickup truck.

Sorry, Still Doesn’t Work.

Now, this to me is funny as hell. I think that, if any man, woman or child actually saw this vehicle parked outside their house, they would burst out laughing, and would not stop laughing until several minutes later. Then, they would set the truck on fire, laughing and dancing and circling around its burning embers, until every last bit of it was gone.

Or, at least, this is what I thought, but naturally I was wrong. As it turns out, there are people out there that love the Toyota A-BAT. I am terrified of these people. I think that they are demons.

But so anyway, my girlfriend/friend that is a girl has told me I write too much about pickup trucks, so I’ve been wracking my brains trying to figure out what the hell I am going to write about instead. I mean, it isn’t just like I can make fun of people farting on Saint Patrick’s Day because of all the corned beef and cabbage they ate. I have to come up with something funny now. This is made all the more difficult by my Lego schedule and my mother’s leg rash.

It is made even more difficult by the ceiling fan in my room. Day after day, I watch this ceiling fan like a hawk with Down’s Syndrome, because I am afraid of it. It spins and rocks back and forth on this pivot, and I am convinced that one of these days it is going to fall right down from the roof and kill somebody. Fans love to do this. They seek out unsuspecting victims who they can murder.

Death Fan

Speaking of fans, I have also found yet another fan that hides in ceilings to kill people. Her name is Annath, and she is a rabid fan of the comic TwoKinds, the premiere lulz-inducing furry comic of our day. She has stalked me out, writing me long-winded comments about how TwoKinds is not a furry comic (it is) or how I haven’t actually read the comic (I have, at least all the parts where the tiger girl and the wolf girl get naked and “yiff” each other while their boyfriends videotape the sexiness of the situation). It is clear to me that me and Annath simply have different views.


Annath’s view: Oh, look at this cute little webcomic, with the little tigers and woofy-woofies and such! Oh, I very much like this webcomic and I HEY YOU PERVERT STOP ASKING FOR NAKED PICTURES OF ANIMAL CHARACTERS!!!1

So, to me the answer is simple; namely, Tom Fischbach should send me naked pictures of his animal characters and not tell Annath about it. Unfortunately, in this liberal-minded day and age it is simply not possible for a person such as myself to obtain animal-related cartoon pornography, even if these animals are cute and sexy like Natani and Flora and appear to have incredibly soft and luscious fur. Also, they are slaves.

Note: Annath says specifically that they are not slaves.

So until next week, remember: I will keep on posting stupid shit about furries and deadly ceiling fans and leg rashes until I come up with something funny. Until then, you can be rest assured that I will continue to ruin my own website until it is so horrifically unfunny that it is as unreadable as a Livejournal. Until then, good night and good luck.

And watch out for ceiling fans. Especially Annath.

New Horizons and New Wolf Dolls: The Joys of Santa Jesus

Lupe and Jack 1st Panel Lupe and Jack 2nd Panel Lupe and Jack 3rd Panel Lupe and Jack 4th Panel

The holiday season is a time of love, a time of caring, a time for our Lord and Savior Santa Jesus, and, most importantly, an excellent time for one to scare the shit out of himself.

Perhaps you think that I’m crazy. Maybe you think, as you’ve thought so many times before, that Old Uncle Lupe who Thinks He’s a Wolf-Person has “went off the deep end” again, and that he’s proposing crazy ideas.

You would be wrong. An important factor in making a New Years Resolution inherently involves scaring the shit out of oneself come Christmastime. A New Years’ Resolution typically involves self-purification. In order to purify yourself, you have to get rid of the impurities in your body, i.e. through shitting. And in order to shit, especially during these constipated times, it is often necessary to confront yourself with something truly scary, such as Michael Jackson (the artist formerly known as Wacko Jacko).

Thus, it was my mission this holiday season to scare myself until I was finally able to go to the bathroom again. This process was delayed for a very long while, because of Thanksgiving turkey.

But I was finally able to go to the bathroom, thanks in no small part to David Hopkins, whose grim-reaper character Jack is featured in the last panel above. I will do a review on Hopkins’ magnum opus next week, and you should thank me, really, because I spared you the agony of reading it.

All right, then, but you ask, “How did your Christmas go, Lupe the Lobo or Justin or whatever the hell you call yourself?” And I say, quite swimmingly. Let’s go to the board, shall we? “Lupe/Justin’s Board of Christmassyness”, we shall call it.

  1. I get off school until late January. If you are currently in high school or are working a full-time job, I am laughing at you right now, through your computer screen.
  2. I haven’t found evidence that David Hopkins is not in an insane asylum.
  3. You don’t know who he is.
  4. This is for your own good.
  5. The fact that you don’t know who I am is probably a good thing, too.
  6. I got a new wolf doll. (Update 12/27/07 12:12 AM MST: I am hugging him right now, along with my other wolf dolls Aurora and Amarook, and my Corgi doll Ein.)
  7. As usual, I have slacked in my LEGO orders, which should be finished by the time Easter is finished, and these orders shall transform my city of dead plastic people into an even larger city of dead plastic people with more plastic crap attached.
  8. I got a remote controlled helicopter that doesn’t work.

In addition to all of this, I got fishing gear which I cannot use, new underwear, and hopefully a girlfriend by New Years’. I know that that last present is a bit farfetched, but I figure, with all the outsourcing to China our nation is doing, I should be able to get a girlfriend, even if I have to pay first class mail to get her.

My mother has found a man. It has been her personal dream, for many years, to finally find her “Mr. Right”, and during Christmas dinner, she announced that she found him. There is this man made of coffee cans in our front room, you see, and as I stooped over to get away from the table after dinner, I hit this tin man with my head, and, being the kindhearted individual she is, my mother told me not to “hit her man”. I think I hear wedding bells in the distance, although that could just be the clanking of the coffee cans.

So anyway, I’m looking forward to writing yet another comic post, and my review will be forthcoming. In the meantime, be rest assured that I do not care about your sexuality, race, gender, creed or religion. Your personality and facial features are almost assuredly enough to make me hate you.

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!