I, Damien Richter Von Chiselfart III, Esquire, take you, SuperGigante MegaBot RoboWife 3.0 Sassy Latina Edition, to be my lawfully wedded lifetime robot companion.

Since the first moment I laid eyes upon you, MegaBot RoboWife, I’ve loved you. Little did I know that my innocent trip to the Effervescent Cloud Mall in my beat-up, early model Solar-powered 2093 Antique Super Hover Scooter would lead me to you. I was there to buy some inexpensive furniture, a few simple pieces to spice up my parent’s basement where I was temporarily living while the Tritton Corporation reconsidered their decision to lay me off from the graveyard shift at the Alunium mining colony on Jupiter’s third moon. (Not the second moon, that moon’s for losers.)

Anyway, destiny would not allow this trip to go down in my Interplanetary Spacebook Galactilog as just another uneventful trip to Ikea. Oh, no.

As I turned the corner of aisle five and walked past the ample selection of levitating coffee tables and Gorgon tentacle-massage chair/toilets, I glimpsed you out of the corner of my eye. You were at the very end of a long line of reasonably priced miniature fusion reactors. You were so dazzling and radiant, leaning against several boxes of moon-gazebos, still glistening in your original polystyrene packaging.

Oh, there will be those that claim that you were no different than any of the other MegaBot models neatly stacked behind you. But I knew differently. And I could sense through the blank stare of your yet-to-be-activated polymer real-time motion-control eye sockets that you felt the same way about me. You, SuperGigante MegaBot RoboWife 3.0 Sassy Latina Edition, are my soul mate. You complete me, more than a fully-emersive 11-dimensional video game portal ever could. You hold my heart in your hand as sure as I hold your 24 digit activation key in my wallet.

As long as the double suns of the Nubiblius Nebula shine brightly upon the ample cleavage of your astral-solar panels, I know you will be there for me. And I for you. You will be my friend, my lover and my companion until death do us part, or the manufacturer’s warranty expires (whichever comes first). In return I affirm this sacred promise: to stay faithfully by your side, through debilitating online viruses and firmware updates, downloads and reboots, updates and hardware malfunctions.

And I give you my word I will not fall into temptation, though the SuperGigante MegaBot RoboWife 4.0 will come out some time in the third quarter next year. RoboWife 3.0, you are my true love, and no upgraded model that includes a fully programmable sub-compartment for advanced genital polishing will ever change that, no matter how awesome that sounds.

I will honor you and my commitment to you and the maintenance of your eerily lifelike body features. I will respect your privacy, hold you in times of distress, plug you in and turn you to sleep mode while I am frozen in the cryo-chamber during long flights to the Transubtarian Outer Rim. I will always be honest with you as we grow together in mind and spirit, and will do my best to raise and protect our unholy cyborg children as best as I can, though they will certainly be considered an abomination by the Oort Council of 2184 and hunted down by ruthless Assassin TerrorBots until our dying day.

I love you, SuperGigante MegaBot RoboWife 3.0 Sassy Latina Edition, and I pledge myself to you now and forever more, as long as you shall boot up without bloatware.

Ah, it’s New Year’s again, when we all take inventory of our lives, our goals, our hopes and our dreams. New Year’s is a time for personal reflection, when we examine successes and failures and figure out what to do next. It’s a time to make plans, replace old habits with smart, new ones, finally take self-improvement seriously before another year disappears into the mist.

You might think that I’m different from you just because my goals for last year included moving the bones of my pre-millennium victims before the new mall construction begins and finishing my tiara made of human flesh. But I’m not different at all. Come January 1st, we all still ruminate on what steps should be taken to make ourselves better people in the coming year. I can’t be the only homicidal maniac who needs a little Tony Robbins pep talk to get the ball rolling. So here are some suggestions on how to ring in the New Year with a better you in mind!

Spend Time With the Family. Your mom is always complaining that you don’t spend quality time with her any more. Well, this year be sure to lavish her with the attention she deserves. Visit her once in awhile just to say hi! Don’t forget to put on her wedding dress before heading up to the attic to dance the night away with her lifeless body. You only have one mom. She deserves it.

Home Repair/Decoration. If your unfinished basement looks anything like mine, it looks like a medieval torture chamber. Who wants that? With some simple enhancements like new curtains and some classy framed photographs, it could easily be transformed into a modern torture chamber. Never underestimate the ability of a couple of cute throw rugs to cover blood stains. And yes, you can get positive Feng shui energy in the room even with a Judas Cradle smack dab in the middle.

Get in Shape. Does a simple after-hours chase in a remote part of the park leave you heaving and clenching your sides in pain? Are you wheezing like a fat kid with asthma after a ten yard sprint to chloroform a victim? This year, resolve to get in shape! Join a fitness club. Get a set of bench weights and keep them in that creepy room you covered with pictures of girls with their eyes burned out. Squeeze in a few push-ups when you’re not smearing your manifesto on the shed wall with your own feces. Remember, dumping bodies is a physically strenuous activity, and even a little bit of cardio could help avoid a herniated disc when filling in that mass grave at the town dump.

Cut Out the Sweets. There’s nothing more embarrassing than having to excuse yourself in the middle of a Satanic Blood Rite to give yourself an insulin shot for Type II diabetes, right? Cut back on candy, chips and anything loaded with preservatives (formaldehyde included). Fast food might seem like an easy option while spending the night parked outside your mark’s apartment waiting for them to leave alone, but a few weeks of Whoppers and McDLT’s and it’s Chubbs McKenziefor you, buster. Instead of packing on the pounds, pack a lunch. A healthy chicken salad, some fruit, maybe carrot sticks and celery should give you all the energy you need to jerk off to the debris from your victim’s garbage can. A special note for cannibals: the Atkins diet is definitely an option.

Make a Budget. Let’s face it. Your day job barely pays enough to cover the bills, and your passions are expensive. The lease on that deserted warehouse on the outskirts of town has really strained your finances. Your hardware store line-of-credit is maxed and you’re out of plastic tarps and duct tape. Antique dealers charge a premium for the types of ancient torture devices you “collect”. The price for all the wigs, wardrobe, makeup and prosthetics that allow you to hide in plain sight is exorbitant. Not to mention the untraceable firearms, getaway cars, and the emergency legal fund. Do you know how expensive it is to ship in the quantities of sodium hydroxide needed to dissolve a human body? Does anyone understand the cost of locating workable passports and social security numbers when you need to “disappear” to the next town? I don’t think so. The New Year is the perfect time to finally create a monthly budget and stick to it!

Help Your Community. It feels good to give back to the community. This year, don’t burn the clothes of the girl from the bus station in your backyard incinerator, but pop them into your local Goodwill donation box instead. In addition, most non-profits are in dire need of volunteers, and rarely run comprehensive background checks. Working the soup kitchen at a homeless shelter will give you time for some reconnaissance on “free range” possibilities. Remember, helping others is its own reward.

Make New Friends. It’s important to avoid being singled out as the “weirdo” who keeps to himself. If the only time you talk to anyone is when the neighbor’s Pomeranian scurries into your yard to remind you to decapitate all the left-handed dyslexic Jews in Newark, it’s time to go out and find some new companions. Try a website like Meetup.com. Develop a hobby like knitting and join a group. Start a book reading club and discuss Toni Morrison with middle-aged ladies over Chamomile tea. When in doubt, there’s always Craigslist! The point it, get out and show yourself to the world. Good things will come your way if you make yourself available.

Quit Smoking. Duh.

Here is a brief plot-summary of my own ultimate Christmas movie, a mashup of every Christmas movie I have ever watched, ever. From memory. This way I save you the time and effort needed to sit down and re-watch all of these schmaltzy films again with your in-laws while you hoard the caramel popcorn from the three-sided Swiss Colony holiday tin your Aunt Marge sent you last week.  Why do they even bother with the other two flavors? Ew.

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When kind-hearted businesman George Bailey comes back from fighting in the war, he teams up with Jack Frost to become a famous song and dance act. But during a trip to a nightclub that’s only open during the holidays, George discovers that Jack is actually a snowman possessed by the ghost of his dad looking to make amends with him.

Rightfully freaked out by this, George escapes by hopping onto a badly rendered CGI train conducted by a creepy CGI Tom Hanks. The train takes him to a depot at Halloween Town, where his attempts to introduce the Christmas spirit to the witches and ghouls fail miserably. Depressed from his failure to spread Christmas cheer to Jack Skellington’s buddies, ol’ George wishes he was never born. That night he is visited by three ghosts who try to convince him otherwise: the Ghost of Christmas Past, the Ghost of Christmas Present, and a plastered Billy Bob Thornton in a soiled Santa costume.

The ghost of Christmas Past, played by Jiminy Cricket, takes him on a magical journey to Whoville. There he relives the painful memory of how he stole all the town’s Christmas gifts and sold them to buy the last Turbo Man available on Christmas Eve for his bratty son. The Ghost of Christmas Present, played by a psychotic Carol Kane in a punk rocker ballerina dress, hits George with a toaster, and then takes him to New York, where he observes a grown man in an elf costume showing James Caan he still has love in his heart. Bored with all of this, a wasted Billy Bob Thornton takes George to a strip club and buys him lap dances. But George’s obnoxious cousin Eddie shows up in a beat up Winnebago and crashes the party in the Champagne Room.

Billy Bob grabs George and drags him out behind the strip club. Billy Bob threatens to shoot George’s eye out with a Red Ryder Carbine-Action Two-Hundred-Shot Range Model Air Rifle unless he helps with the Christmas Eve robbery. George reluctantly agrees, and they stake out a house in a quiet residential neighborhood where they think everyone is on vacation. Little do they know a kid was left alone in the house they choose. During the break-in, Billy Bob slips on the kid’s Micro Machine booby trap and is killed by a swinging paint can to the temple.

Fearful he will be blamed for Billy Bob’s death, George hides from the police by putting on Billy Bob’s Santa suit, but as a result he immediately becomes the Real Santa Claus! Now not only is he on the run for murder, but he has all the duties of the real Santa Claus to boot. George hides in an alley off 34th Street where two neighborhood kids recognize him as the real Santa, despite his claims otherwise. While he hides, George enlists the help of a little squirrel named Rupert to save St. Mary’s Catholic school, defeat the mouse king, save Toyland, buy Christmas shoes for a poor kid with a dying mom, and provide a much needed elf-esteem boost to Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer.

But George may have bitten off more than he can chew when he tries to save Nakatomi Plaza from a Christmas Eve hostage crisis. Even with the help of a bunch of Muppet rats in top hats, the terrorists seem to have gotten the upper hand. When our hero, bruised and battered, blood in his eyes and charred glass in his feet, is about to throw in the towel for good, he happens upon a a blanket-hugging kid giving a tearful, heartfelt speech on the true meaning of Christmas. George’s heart immediately grows three sizes, and he is finally inspired by the true spirit of Christmas to do the right thing. He pulls out the gun he cunningly strapped to his back with Christmas tape, shoots Hans Gruber out the window and saves Christmas for everyone.

All seems back to normal as George is leaving the tower to celebrate his victory, when suddenly the last remaining terrorist runs out the front door, machine guns blazing. It looks like George is going to be mowed down by a Steyr AUG after all, when Jack Frost appears out of nowhere and picks the terrorist off with a Red Ryder Carbine-Action Two-Hundred-Shot Range Model Air Rifle. Jack and George embrace, father and son reconciled after all these years. A bell rings, and George remarks that every time a bell rings an angel gets his wings. At that remark, Jack Frost/George’s dad turns into an angel and flies away. A Broadway chorus with bad cockney accents sings “Thank You Very Much” while carrying George and the melting snow carcass of Mr. Frost down the street on their shoulders, and everyone has the most wonderful Christmas ever!

The End.

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If you can successfully list all the movies I’ve referenced here, hold that mistletoe over your backside because in the spirit of the holiday season I will get down on all fours and kiss your yuletide ass!

Good luck, and a big fat Merry Christmas to you all.

GOP presidential hopeful and albino oompa-loompa Newt Gingrich challenged conventional wisdom yesterday when he claimed in a speech at Harvard that child labor laws were “stupid“. Newt’s idea, if you call this little zit on the upper crevice of Darth Vador’s buttcrack an idea, is to fire all the janitors at public schools and replace them with low paid, underage students.

The Pillsbury Beltway Boy orated this brilliant rationalization: “The kids would actually do work, they would have cash, they would have pride in the schools, they’d begin the process of rising.”

Thus, children who haven’t already “risen” up by being born with silver spoons shoved up their asses will get the awesometacular learnatunity to earn insultingly meager wages while sopping up sticky piss from the toilet seats in the school locker rooms. Now that’s edu-tastic!

You might be under the impression that the purpose of public school is to educate children, no matter what tax bracket their parents might be in. Give them a solid foundation in mathematics, history, literature, science and the arts. Teach them sound reasoning, endow them with a lifelong passion for learning, or even empower them with the skills to be a responsible citizen.

Oh, silly rabbit, Trix are for Rich Kids.

For children with parents of a lower caste, the purpose of school isn’t education, it’s to teach a work ethic. That way later in life when that kid is scheduled a back-to-back at the Burger King and has to supersize the combo meals for those dashing Ivy-League gents ordering Double Whoppers at three in the morning on their way back from discussing credit default swaps at their Skull & Bones meeting, the kid will have learned the focus and tenacity that only comes from scrubbing the vomit off the sink tiles of the girl’s restroom by the quad.

Wax on, wax off, Daniel-son.

I imagine on the first day of school, Newt would split the student body into two lines. At the front, he sits at a table going over each file:

Hi Stewart! Your dad still representing the governor in that nasty lawsuit? Well, it won’t be long until your trust fund kicks in, and in only three years you’ll be driving your dad’s Porsche. Have a great year, Stew! Head over to line 1.

Hmmm. Shaniqua, darling, your file says your mom is single and works two full-time, minimum wage jobs just to avoid getting evicted from your dumpy, one-bedroom apartment in a crime-riddled neighborhood. Sorry you won’t have any time to focus on book learnin’ with all the bird shit you’ll be scraping off the playground benches. Line 2.

Hello there Todd! Says here your dad is a investment banker who makes a seven figure income. Why not use afternoons to try out for junior varsity, or maybe cruise around the neighborhood in that new SUV your dad bought you for your birthday? Those rims look killer! Head to line 1.

Rochelle. Hm. Says here you want to go to a state college to become a veterinarian. But your dad is an alkie and a chronic gambler, and your house goes into foreclosure tomorrow. You’ll be mopping up the nasty oatmeal spills in the cafeteria over by the table with the cute jocks who call you Pigface behind your back. Good luck! Line 2.

Newt’s plan is simple: academic school for rich kids, trade school for the rest. All based on how successful mommy and daddy were at day trading or marrying a Kennedy.

You say a publicly funded school is no place to institutionalize such crass class distinctions in young children? Poppycock. The unearned entitlement a child feels from his parents’ success should be encoded into the hierarchy of government-run schools. And the best time to get children from the poorest neighborhoods accustomed to lifelong careers in menial, soul-sucking, low-wage jobs is the moment they sprout their first little pube.

Admittedly, Newt took 1.6 million dollars to advise Freddie Mac and then blamed the organization for ruining America and also possibly giving his grandmother angina. So it’s not at all preposterous when one of his solutions involves forcing a bunch of hormone-addled Twilight fans into a poverty-stricken pubescent custodial version of Dumbledore’s Army.

Surely Mr. Gingrich’s eloquent speechifying on Jobs for Poor Kids isn’t merely a cynical ploy to destroy unions, lower the bar for cheap labor, or devolve work standards back to the late 19th century when a factory boss could toss children at the grinding cogs of dangerous machinery like they were baby chicks on the last level of Angry Birds. Certainly not. Newt is a very serious candidate offering very serious policies. His ideas are innovative, bold, and might even lead to some awesome new reality shows like American Sweatshop, Project Runaway and So You Think You Can Scrub!

Newt Gingrich knows America. I believe deep down, as sure as the knuckles on a 12-year old Indonesian factory worker’s hands are scraped and callused, a Newt presidency would give our nation’s younger generation one opportunity we never had…

A chance to restock the cakes in the faculty urinals.

• Apricot
• Lima Bean
• Bellybutton Lint
• Pink Lemonade
• Despair
• Orphan
• Weasley Pubes
• Black Raspberry
• Halfrican Raspberry
• Middle-aged Virgin
• Thestral Snot
• Flop Sweat
• Dobby
• Genocide
• Olive Garden
• Hufflepuff
• Tribble
• Bong Water
• Unicorn Hymen
• Dolemite
• Homophobia
• Hippogriff Jizz
• Kardashian