By CHRIS PACKHAM
Dementia pugilistica is a neurological disorder caused by repeated blows to the head, bearing a symptomatic resemblance to drunkenness, and characterized by slurred speech, dementia, confusion and inappropriate behavior.Therefore, if you see me in public, and you're a lady, and I happen to come up and grope you in a socially unconventional or quirky, unorthodox manner, please note that I HAVE A CONDITION, and also a note from my doctor about my dementia pugilistica which I keep pinned to my shirt, and I am therefore NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR MY ACTIONS. Also, even if I didn't have a very legal and pronounced case of doctor-excused dementia pugilistica, I am also an avant-garde rebel individualist who will never conform and who rejects your precious rules about social propriety, old man.
Similarly, the Campaign Committee to Elect John McCain for President of the United States or whatever is reeling around like a glass-jawed tomato can boxer, punching at the air and struggling to remain standing. Maverick renegade Vice Presidential nominee Sarah Palin has reportedly GONE ROGUE, like maverick renegade Lorenzo Lamas from TV's Renegade, angry at what she regards as a mishandled national debutand struggling to preserve whatever remains of her reputation. High-level campaign officials are giving unbelievable quotes to reporters, now, fully expecting to lose next Tuesday, and pointing their pointer-fingers at each other.
Once Barack Obama is the president, I'm getting t'tooed upon my shoulder. Signifying my return to the sweet, blissful political obliviousness I enjoyed in the 1990s, I've chosen the logo for the video game Half-Life. My pretend-life, in which I am badass particle physicist and freedom-fighter Gordon Freeman, is going to be a full-time occupation once I don't have to think about politics anymore. Over the last eight years, there was a very real danger that if I wasn't alert at all times, I might unwittingly enlist in the army and get deployed to what military strategist Kenny Loggins called "the danger zone." Next week, I hope to relax and sink back into a womb-like state of video-game-induced catatonia, in which case, GOOD BYE FOREVER, you guys, or at least until the next party-changing political upset. Subsequent to the jump, more "news" and "links," and a SPOOKY TALE OF SEASONAL HORROR, which turns out not to be all that spooky (SPOILER!!!!) Click here or on the savior of human civilization, Gordon Freeman:
Good guys win in 2008, Part I: This morning, maverick Presidential Candidate John McCain struggled to get up off the couch, fished a Werther's Original candy out of his cardigan pocket, pressed a giant button on his Jitterbug phone, ordered some term life insurance coverage that he could not be denied due to pre-existing conditions, read the Whig Intelligencer, gave some quarters to his grandchildren, checked his blood sugar, dipped his foot in a swimming pool full of alien coccoons, kissed Henry Fonda on the mouth and called him "you old poop," set the VCR to record Diagnosis: Matlock She Wrote and then said with his thin, papery voice that horrible Alaskan bribe-taker Sen. Ted Stevens should resign from the senate as a result of his conviction yesterday on seven spectacular felony counts of making false statements on Senate ethics forms after receiving hundreds of thousands of dollars in gifts and work on his very fine Alaskan abode.
But! Ted Stevens is as innocent and pure as the driven snow, according to a deep-throat source code-named "Shmed Shmevens."
"I ask that Alaskans and... Senate colleagues stand with [Ted Stevens] as [he] pursue[s] [his] rights," "Shmed Shmevens" told reporters in a dark Washington, D.C. parking garage. "[He] remain[s] a candidate for the United States Senate." GOOD LUCK WITH THAT.
And hanging from the handle WAS A HOOK!!! The year I spent working at the haunted telemarketing call center was both terrifying and also soul-crushingly tedious. We took calls for various products advertised on late-night infomercials and the back pages of supermarket tabloids, and tried to keep call-times as low as possible while enduring sudden sensations of coldness, eerie presences and feelings ranging from extreme deja vu to outright terror. There was a whole week when I was positive that a tiny, eyeless dwarf was sucking my thoughts out of the top of my skull. This kind of thing was really common around the office, and we all knew which cubicles to avoid if we didn't want to run shrieking from things like free-floating full-torsal vaporous apparitions and spectral dead babies. The horrifying punchline to the whole story is that THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS GOD! BOO! HAHAHAHAHA!
Rather than developing deep insights into the nature of the universe or the existence of an afterlife, everyone who worked at Telmark, Incorporated actually became atheistic skeptics who didn't believe in any mystical voodoo bullshit like ghosts, vampires, mystical voodoo sasquatches or Ba'al. The source of the paradoxical skepticism of nearly all the employees was a piece of paper they made us sign at the new hire orientation that said we understood that the office's proximity to a transformer station which emitted electromagnetic frequencies measured at well over 200 microteslas, combined with a nearby pickle cannery whose machinery produced inaudible 17 Hz. infrasound sine waves, had been proven to produce "otherworldly sensations." As you recited the upsell scripts for Cathy Lee Crosby's H+ Skin Care System or nodded and pretended not to be annoyed as a supervisor went over your call monitor report, you were pretty much left with the idea that we're all afloat in a mechanistic, godless universe in which everything can be empirically and scientifically explained. So: Inasmuch as there is no such thing as spooky ghosts, spooky alien abductors, the scuttling gnome from General Guemes, Salta, Argentina, or spooky Yahweh, I hope you're enjoying the terrifying spirit of the high holy days of Halloween, y'all, gobbless us every one.