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Local Toddler only Suspect in Duplo Slayings

28 Apr

FOXBOROUGH, MASS─A local toddler is under investigation for the possible murder of an entire Lego Duplo family. The Foxborough twenty-month old had been seen with the Duplo family on multiple occasions recently, though they had not all traveled together outside the home since the time the child threw up at the Trader Joe’s. Early interviews with the child have proved to be inconclusive at best, and the investigation is “semi-ongoing” according to Foxborough PD representatives.

An entire Duplo “Caucasian Fam-bam,” by Lego, has not been seen since last week.

“When asked about the Duplo family’s whereabouts since last Tuesday, the suspect in question usually responded with “Where they go?” holding her arms to the side in the universal symbol for uncertainty. We asked her about the Duplo children and she responded with “they’re two. Two babies,” when it’s clear from the picture on the Lego box there’s only one Duplo baby and two older children. We found some severed limbs. The Duplo grandfather’s limbs. The Duplo grandmother’s hair. Things are not promising for the rest of the Duplo family as more time continues to pass. Our suspect has at times avoided our questions and began referring to her father as the cookie monster, and then laughing uncontrollably for minutes at a time. However, this wasn’t an incoherent statement as her father was in fact eating Mother’s circus animal cookies at the time.

Later I nearly had to un-holster my tazer when I suggested to the mother that we continue the questioning down at the station. She went ballistic, so maybe we should start looking at this situation from different angles, I haven’t decided. I clearly heard the mother say something to the effect of ‘”I’m sick of stepping on those fucking things in the dark anyhow. Get out of my house, you jack asses!”‘ Several times we had to reassure the parents that we were in fact with the Foxborough PD. They were finally convinced when the father was able to compare our badges to a plastic one he had used last Halloween,” said Foxborough PD spokesperson Calvin Gleason in an official statement.

The actual police SUV that was on the scene first, but also left first before the others.

Not the actual police vehicle that visited the Lane family. But it’s driven by their home before on the way to a bust.

“There’s got to be some explanation; the Duplo father always looked sort of unhinged to me. Wearing a tie, shoes that are molded into his legs,” said Barnett Lane, the toddler’s father. “Maybe he’s the one to look at in this whole scenario. My daughter seemed to favor the Duplo farm animals from the beginning, but I don’t think she’s directly responsible here. Doesn’t make sense that the police have come around for missing toys that we own, but I don’t want to cause a scene. We’ve only lived on this street a year and the neighbors are already standoffish for no reason. I made the mistake of wearing a Steelers t-shirt to do yard work last summer, big deal, right?

If she’s guilty I don’t think she’d have to do a work camp or anything. Though if she did it might give the wife and I a chance to catch up, so to speak. Being new parents cuts into the carnal side of life, big time.”

The toddler’s mother refused to go on the record, but was certainly against the child leaving the premises “over my dead-fucking-body.” When asked if she would retain legal counsel, she responded with “What paper are you from? Get the fuck off our property!”

Reports say the Lane’s daughter had been seen at a neighbor’s house acting suspicious around their Duplo toys, but nothing had been confirmed at press time. Gleason went on about the serious responsibility the public has in such cases.

Bashful baby girl

Cute? Perhaps. Calculating and sinister? Exact-a-mundo, playa!

“As law enforcement, our job is to make sure criminals are off the street, but maybe we can also identify future homicidal maniacs and get them the help they need before childhood curiosities became full-blown rampages. At this time we ask the public to keep an eye out for this little girl if she’s snooping around Duplo toys of any kind, and pay close attention if she ever happens to have any pieces from a “Caucasian Fam-bam” Duplo set on her person for any reason. Obviously she’s a minor, we won’t be releasing the child’s name, but this photo should help the public keep an eye out at their homes, yards, and of course public parks and toy stores. Contact me directly at the evidence desk in the basement of the Foxborough department. ”

All leads or hearsay should be forwarded to Calvin Gleason at the station on Chestnut Street. Gleason would appreciate the opportunity to show his superiors any and all initiative/progress, that he can use to bolster what he expects to be his middling score on the upcoming detective exam.

“I still don’t understand what the big deal is,” said Lane. “When I was a kid I used to melt my toys with a magnifying glass while chanting phrases I memorized from a library book on the occult . . . And I grew up to be a CPA! I mean the police drop by unannounced right before we’re headed out the door for dinner, that’s effing entrapment! I stand by my daughter, though I can’t seem to find my magnifying glass anywhere.”

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Black-belt in Creepy Laughter!

27 Nov
Miyagi Karate

“I know Elisabeth went down on you, Zabka. This kick to your face will echo through eternity!”

In 1984 Daniel LaRusso crane-kicked Johnny Lawrence in the face to win the All Valley Karate Championship. An entire world of moviegoers cheered; I pointed and laughed at the blonde, starch-collared children of privilege known as the Cobra Kai. It was a perfect moment in cinema history. On the drive home from the theater, I had my father stop at half-a-dozen neighborhood dojos. I wanted to assess the suburban Sonny Chibas who instructed countless kids kicking their way from white belt to yellow in the span of 18 months. I scoffed at their modest goals and howled when they failed to break paper-thin boards with awkward round house kicks. One collapsed to the floor yelling, “Ah, shit! You didn’t hold it right! My left foot is shattered! Mom!” It was a perfect moment. Those chumps weren’t going anywhere–not one of them would be a tournament champion, to say nothing of becoming a ninja one day.

GI-Ninjas

Ninja. It’s the new “I sing in a band . . . and live in my car.”

My dad was going to sign me up on the spot, but I balked, wanting to practice some moves at home first. My NES seemed like the perfect place to start–but for months I got nowhere in Ninja Gaiden, and did even worse at my neighbor’s house while trying my hand at Shinobi (he had a Sega). My lone successful combat versus a ninja was when my neighbor’s younger brother entered the room in a Toys R Us ninja costume to demand his turn at Shinobi. He threatened me with rubber throwing stars and plastic nunchucks wrapped in foam. Rather than give up the game controller, I kicked him in the sac and ran home with it. It was a perfect escape, I laughed.

Later that week I negotiated a delicate truce with the neighbors. Their game controller was returned and I was allowed to borrow a game called Kung-Fu in the negotiation. Kung-Fu was a two-dimensional 8-bit video game which challenged the sole player to traverse five levels filled with knife throwing goons, dwarfs who did flips for the sole purpose of landing on your head, snakes that fall from the ceiling, fire breathing dragons that appear and disappear with a puff of smoke, and naturally, as in life–the killer bees, acrobat dwarfs, and knife throwing goons are more persistent as the whole brouhaha goes on.

Few realize that in the early ’80s the Nintendo corporation was at the forefront of CGI technology.

Kung-Fu taught me that I could sit on my ass for hours at a time with only minimal thumb cramping. It also taught me that I too could actually conquer a video game. After I defeated its boss, MR. X, for the first time and saved the beautiful Sylvia, who happened to closely resemble Thomas, the hero of the game, except she was wearing an 8-bit dress, I knew anything was possible. Though schoolmates taunted me when I boasted of my great victory, their triumphs in Super Mario Bros 2, Duck Hunt, Castlevania, Zelda, and Mega Man, didn’t net them any skills that might brand them a creep or social pariah later in life–their loss. You see, when I was learning the game and taking my lumps, I started mimicking the laughter emitted from the game’s bosses after they had vanquished me. Their laughter I can only describe as a maniacally digitized version of what the Count Von Count used to do on Sesame Street (RIP).

“Do you have any idea what the street value of this mountain is? AH HA HA HA!”

Everywhere I would throw my voice and put the Kung-Fu laugh out into the world–MaHaHa-Ho-Ho-Ho-Ho! MaHaHa-Ho-Ho-Ho-Ho! Throughout middle-school, high school, and college I perfected my skill. My NES was long gone, but I paid homage to my great accomplishment by continuing to preach its figurative gospel–MaHaHa-Ho-Ho-Ho-Ho! To this day in the back of theaters, in crowded elevators, when conversation momentarily dies out in a small room full of people–MaHaHa-Ho-Ho-Ho-Ho! I sometimes block my phone number and call numbers on my contact list knowing full well the blocked call will be sent straight to voicemail–MaHaHa-Ho-Ho-Ho-Ho! Right after a premature finish to lovemaking–MaHaHa-Ho-Ho-Ho-Ho! While sitting in the studio audience of horrid sitcoms for extra cash. Out in traffic when my car’s horn is on the fritz. If you don’t believe me, try it on for size yourself–MaHaHa-Ho-Ho-Ho-Ho! It’s just perfect.

I’m Ninth on the List for a Crotch Transplant

15 Nov

My alma mater was notorious for horny pinup girls and American football worship. A decade ago I graduated from a college in a state known as the penis of America. Shortly thereafter I felt the need to detox in a solitary and profound way, so I decided to live in the unfinished basement of a Midwestern duplex. My family begged me not to do it, they knew how intensely boring middle-America was and thought it might be contagious. Despite their concerns, I was very happy with my decision as I had the basement all to myself–except for a water heater that I festooned in tin foil to make it look like one of the robots from the vintage Battle Star Galactica.

“I’m leaking retromutagen ooze!”

The basement wasn’t quite as nice as my college apartment, which overlooked a swimming pool filled with buxom, unattainable coeds, but it cost me $200 dollars a month and included my very own phone-booth sized bathroom/standup shower, a laundry room about three steps from my door (rarely used), and a full kitchenette just upstairs. The allegorical symbolism of living in an unfinished basement perfectly represented my humble station in life at that time. A subterranean dwelling made sense. It served as a reminder of how much work I had to do if I hoped to live above ground one day on the steam of my own lower-middle-management salary. It was a time when the future was as vast as any distant galaxy and as promising as any hair-brained idea hatched while chugging a bottle of bottom-shelf mescal.

Late one night after a shift as a saucier at the local BBQ shack, I sought refuge on a plaid recliner in front of the tube, which was playing (on a loop) a suggestive infomercial about a high-suction hand-held vacuum. Pondering a late night phone purchase, I sipped water from an over-sized Hurricane glass that I stole from the local TGIF. After deciding I needed some rest, I tried to take one last sip from the Hurricane glass, but stopped short when I felt a small bug tap dancing on the tip of my tongue. Though not fully awake above the waist, I spit the water back into the glass. I then placed it on the windowsill next to the recliner before stumbling down the steps into the darkness, tripping over my own feet and cursing the fact that I had to work late into the night as an apprentice saucier in a neighborhood where elderly church-going women packed heat whenever they left their homes. That night I muttered in my sleep about quitting my job at the BBQ shack, and opening a pool hall/bordello in the basement.

“Hey, break it up! I’m not paying you ladies to play pool.”

In the morning I heard the effeminate cries of one of my neat freak roommates upstairs, “Who left their glass on the sill? Not cool, man. How about showing some consideration for others!” I recoiled into my dreams of wearing a top hat while being the most pleasured john in my own basement bordello, but knew I had to clear up my mess in the living room if I was to keep the precarious peace in our duplex chateau. Upstairs I examined the Hurricane glass in the sunlight and saw a small brown spider suspended in the water, tumbling end-over-end. I watched it spin like a slot machine reel, exposing the yellow violin shaped mark on its belly again and again. I waited a few minutes until the crying roommate left for work, then went to use his computer–he had banned me from doing so earlier that week because I had spilled an entire can of corn onto his keyboard. My suspicions about the spider were confirmed on Altavista (it was 2002 after all).

Though the Midwest is home to many arachnids, one of the region’s most feared and poisonous is the brown recluse–easily identifiable because of its color and the violin like birth mark. This attic and basement dweller had enough venom to kill children and the elderly. Just a year before, when moving into my last college apartment, a one-footed painter was putting the finishing touches on my room, “I got bit by a brown recluse,” he said scratching his mullet, “If they didn’t take the foot, it would’ve spread to my leg and I would have lost that too!” An online gallery showed pics that looked less like spider bites and more like the festering sores of those who had been mauled by a zombie. Huge, flesh rotting bites! Disgusting necrosis fused lesions!

“Doctor, am I going to have to skip Tough Mudder this year?”

I thought of the painter’s amputated foot, and wondered if I would still be a prize among women and a chum among men if I was missing my chin and tongue. What if the little recluse had bit my esophagus on the way down? Might I have had a neck amputation or better yet, a neck transplant? How long would it take to see the light of day on one of those transplant lists? What if it had bit my hand as I took hold of the glass? Would I have ended up with a hook, or one of those over-sized wooden hands with non-pliable fingers? I probably would have opted for birch or cotton wood if that was the case. A Terminator hand would have been out of the question as the BBQ shack only provided a PPO. Looking back on that night I’m not sure I realized at the time how close I had come to serious disfigurement. Later that week, before jumping into my murphy bed, I shook out my sheets and another recluse fell to the floor and scurried off into the shadows. Naturally, I assumed this one had been sent on a revenge mission to bite my crotch. Again, a narrow escape! Life as a eunuch would have been unpleasant. There are really very few harems to guard in the western world, and I heard those that are hiring may be going to a voucher system for their healthcare benefits, making success unlikely buried at the bottom of a crotch transplant list.

“You would look much better without a left hand, or with only half a face. I can help you with that.”

A Photo is Worth a Thousand Drinks

13 Nov

“To cannibalism!”

Sometimes I log onto Facebook and wonder how many millions of people love to get drunk with friends and take pictures while doing so. I often see FB photos of people drinking with real-life friends of theirs in backyards, at dive bars, latin discos, next to swimming pools, in swimming pools, in public parks, on roof tops, and in trash ridden alleys. Not to mention in limos, rivers, on balconies, at SoCal mansions with painted naked ladies, in South Florida with shirtless men wearing bolo ties, at rap concerts, in avocado trees, on top of tables, while doing hand stands on kegs, etc., ad nauseum.

“Cerveza es mi esposa!”

Often in these photos my FB friends are huddled up with real-life friends, booze held high, their expressions conveying something like “Wooooo!” or “Yeaahhhh!” People in these photos usually put their arms around each other as a sign of friendship, seemingly saying, “We’re best buds! It feels great to drink together and have long discussions where we mostly lie. I hope to wake up tomorrow indoors, without having soiled myself.”

Whenever I drink and some overly friendly acquaintance puts their arm around me I know there’s a lurker nearby about to snap a picture of us with a disposable camera. That’s why I usually hide my beer behind my back and make an expression that seemingly says, “I hope no one sees this photo. Being seen with these people is embarrassing enough, to say nothing of the fact that I’m wearing a false nose.” The reason I hide my beer is complicated. Some figure that I’m eyeing a future in politics and don’t want any compromising photos out there. They’re wrong. It’s because I have an endorsement deal with Mongoose Canadian Malt Liquor (15% alc. by volume). It tastes like liquid excrement, but nonetheless, I’m paid to endorse it, and can’t very well forfeit a king’s ransom because I’m photographed drinking a tall can of Modelo whilst standing on the hood of an El Camino. Now you know.

Best enjoyed on the hood of an El Camino. A Ranchero is acceptable in a pinch.

However, if Modelo wanted to throw some pesos my way for drinking their cerveza in photos with drunks who love hoisting drinks into the air, I wouldn’t object. They just have to accept the fact that I’ll be the sheepish guy off to the side, trying to contort my face in such a way that it may be rendered unrecognizable once the photo is uploaded to Facebook. DAMN! Note to self: block all attempted TAGS by those trying to rape my wallet of malt liquor endorsement deals.