In the last entry, I told you we were heading to Turin to find out why millions were missing- millions of Olympic viewers. I’d never been to Italy and had this romantic image of a land filled with pizza and women with hairy upper lips. The hairy lip women turned out to be true, but the pizza was no better than the joints in Hell’s Kitchen.

Our first stop was the Olympic Village. We split up so we could cover as much ground as possible. I wanted to blend in with the athletes, so I decided to pretend I was on the Curling team. I picked Curling because they were the only athletes with guts and 5 o’clock shadows. Both the men and women’s team sported this look.

I was unfamiliar with the sport, but easily convinced them that I had been sent as an alternate. I’ve watched a lot of sports in my life, but I didn’t have a fucking clue what was going on. They weren’t athletes if you ask me- they were dip shits that could sweep really well. Of all the sports out there- ultimate fighting, demolition derby, mud wrestling, this is what the Olympics decides should be an event? Watching paint dry is more exciting. Luckily, my balls needed some scratching so I was able to pass the time. 3-hours later, I had my first clue. Curling was one reason millions of viewers were missing.

Dust went to scope out the skit team. During Knick games they kept running Nike commercials for JoinBode.com. Dust found out that this Bode character was staying in a trailer at the bottom of the mountain, so he went to join him. We had been curious about that commercial anyway, because we though he must be pretty cool if Nike was ednorsing him. They always pick winners to endorse like Kobe ‘I didn’t rape the white bitch’ Bryant, and Tiger ‘I am a white bitch’ Woods. And who could forget their Bo Jackson ‘Bo Knows’ campaign. Bo Knows Hockey. Bo Knows Baseball. Bo now Knows that doing massive amounts of steoids can end your career in a hurry.

Dust was pretty excited to meet this hyped-up ‘super-cool’ dude. When he got to the trailer, the door was slightly ajar. Bode was so cool, he didn’t even have to lock his door. Dust entered and saw super cool skis. He saw super cool gear. There was a wall of magazine covers with Bode’s super-cool mug on them. The articles had headlines like; “Super cool Bode shuns spotlight.’ ‘’Bode not in it for the fame and fortune.’ ‘Bode signs million-dollar endorsement deal.’ ‘Bode is a fucking lying sack of hypocritical shit’ (That wasn’t actually a headline, but should’ve been if you ask me.)

As Dust was looking around, he heard a commotion in the trailer bedroom. Was super cool Bode getting laid? Dust didn’t want to be a pervert, but he had to sneak a peek. What he saw was quite disturbing. Super cool Bode was super drunk. He was so drunk that when he skied down the mountain, he tripped and ended up landing on his ski pole. Dust thought maybe he should help get the pole out of Bode’s ass, but when he offered assistance, Bode slurred that he doesn’t sign autographs. He’s too ‘anti-establishment’ for that. Like Dust even wanted this cock bag with a pole stuck up his butt’s autograph. But at least Dust had another clue as to why millions of viewers were missing from the Olympics. His conclusion was that Bode Miller was an over-hyped Douche Bag. You almost had us fooled again Nike.

Hans agreed to check out some of the foreign Olympic teams since he’s foreign and his natural foreign body odor would help him fit in. He spent an afternoon hanging with the Austrian ski team. When Hans came back he was jacked. He must have gained about 12 lbs of muscles in the course of an afternoon. He was also making horse noises, which we found a bit alarming. What had they done to him? We asked Hans what he discovered and he pulled his pants down. His balls looked like little dried up raisins. To blend in, Hans had partaken in a pre-event Austrian ritual. This included shooting up with steroids and praising Hitler. That’s all we needed was a juiced up Hans on our hands. I made a quick wormhole and sent him back to Hell’s Kitchen before he had a chance to go into a rage. At least he found out another clue before we sent him back. He found out that another reason why millions of viewers were missing is because half of the athletes are jacked-up, juiced-up cheaters.

What’s Up! came back to our lodge and looked a little glum. We wanted to cheer our gay friend up, but there was no consoling him. He had been so excited to try and blend in with the male figure skating team. But his cover didn’t work. They even had the nerve to made fun of him. They said he wasn’t gay enough to be a male figure skater. What’s Up! tried to prove them wrong by singing showtunes and swallowing a kielbasa. But they still said he was ‘too’ Butch to be a figure skater. But then Dust made a good point. What’s Up! had indeed discovered a clue as to why millions of viewers were missing- figure skating is gay. And not gay in the gay sense. It’s just gay. No matter what your sexual orientation is, you shouldn’t be dressed in sequined tights. It’s actually pretty offensive if you ask me. Especially when you see their little packages poking through the tights.

We were done with our investigation and zipped back to the States. NBC executives were eager to find out what was going on, because even more viewers had gone missing since we left. We invited Dick Ebersol and a few other execs over to our place in Hell’s Kitchen. We then turned on the TV and flipped to NBC. We instructed them to watch the Olympics from a couch potato’s point of view. We left them to the task. A few hours later, we returned. Dick had his head in the oven and was about to light a match. The other had swallowed some Ajax. The third executive left and was last seen on top of the Brooklyn Bridge. They finally understood. They finally understood why there were millions of viewers missing. It’s not American Idol’s fault. It’s not the Internet, video games or cable TV’s fault. No, it’s their fault. It’s because NBC’s over-hyped, underwhelming, non-stop blabbering and blubbering Olympic coverage is fucking lame. Of course, Bode Miller should accept some of the blame for being a big giant douche bag. (To really get a sense of what a douche bag he is, I encourage you to check out the landing page of Joinbode.com. What a fucking joke he is.)

Don’t you worry Tony Danza, Bode hasn’t stolen your gold medal yet. You’re still the douche bag champion of the world.

I answered the phone and heard desperation on the other end. The voice was disguised. It was muffled and I couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman. He or she said people were missing, millions of them. It sounded serious. Was this person working for the CIA, FBI, NSA or PTA? They said they would let us know once we were fully briefed on the situation.

My superhero instincts told me that if millions of people were missing, it had to be the work of Daddy Long Legs. Especially when the mysterious caller told me that the missing included women, children and guys who liked watching other guys twirl around in sparkly-sequined tights. But our sources in the underworld told us that Daddy Long Legs was down in Cuba working on a cigar smuggling operation. So I crossed him off the list.

I went over the details of the crime with Dust. We really didn’t have any suspects or clues. All we knew was that people were missing. Even Hans, the bloodthirsty bastard looked concerned. If millions were missing, that would be millions less people for him to mind control. He asked if he could help, and Dust told him that if he agreed not to try and kill us during the investigation, he could help. He was so happy he made us strudel. As much as I liked strudel, I didn’t eat any for fear he put otter feces in the batter again. Dust tried a piece and was on the shitter for 3 hours. Hans apologized.

The mysterious caller told us to meet him at the parking garage on 46th St. When we got there we saw a shadowy figure standing next to a BMW. He passed us a folder with a profile of the missing. They all had one thing in common- they watched TV. Shit, this was going to be difficult, because everyone watches TV. I asked if he had any other clues and he said that none of the missing watched NBC. Another broad clue since nobody I know watches any of the horse shit on NBC. We asked whom he was working for, and he said he worked for Dick Ebersol, the president of NBC sports. I asked if he had anything to do with the show ‘Joey’ and he said, no. I was glad because this meant that I didn’t have to kick his ass.

The assignment was beginning to make more sense. There weren’t millions of people missing in the sense of like Jimmy Hoffa missing or Tony Danza’s talent missing. After reading over the brief at our apartment we realized that they wanted to find the missing viewers of the Olympics. They wanted to know why it’s the lowest rated Olympics of all time. So Dust, Hans and I packed our bags. And of course, we invited ‘What’s Up!’ to come because he loves figure skating. We said goodbye to our friend’s in Hell’s Kitchen, and I opened up a Wormhole. It was off to Turin, Italy for this ragtag group of heroes.

To Be Continued…

When did football get sacked? When did the biggest game of the year turn into a big pussy parade? Why isn’t John Madden taking his Alzheimer medicine? Why have they turned a beloved sporting event into another drawn out, mind numbing event like the Oscars, Grammys and Tony Danza’s career?

It all started early on Sunday Morning. I was making a batch of Wormhole Chili for Dust, What’s Up!, and Gamma Hawk. My secret ingredient is Jenna Jameson juice. No, not that kind of juice, it’s some water from a water bottle she drank on a movie set. Don’t ask how I got it, but some guy on Ebay is ‘3 weeks of beer money’ richer.

So I start watching the pre-game shit, figuring maybe they’d show Mean Joe Greene’s greatest hits, or highlights from the Carolina Panther cheerleader’s season, namely the two that got caught in the bathroom stall chowing down on each other. But no, they didn’t show any of those highlights, or even anything remotely entertaining. Instead, they showed highlights from a mentally challenged football game. Yes, it was Corky Bowl.

I’m guessing they were trying to tug at our heartstrings. But come on, this is Super Bowl Sunday, it’s not time to be inspired by Corky and Benny because they can stand on a football field and drool on themselves. Sure, it’s great they have these kinds of programs, but come ON, it’s the fucking Super Bowl. I’m drinking beer and making chili. My testosterone was on overdrive, and the only reaction they got from me was a few laughs.

After the retard segment they went straight to Africa to talk about AIDS, poverty and what the NFL is doing to help out. I’m picturing the millions of other guys sitting on their couches wondering what this has to do with football. We have 364 days to feel guilty and sad for the world, but not today. I wasn’t falling for that shit. I was going to drink and stuff my face and the starving Africans were just going to have to deal with it.

Then came the promos for ABC TV. Once again, they made you feel guilty. Like, you’re not one of the 30 million people who watch Grey’s Anatomy and you’re missing out. Fuck you ABC. I don’t want to watch it. I don’t like hospital shows because I don’t like hospitals, doctors or needles. Just because you stick some hot girls in scrubs and add Patrick “Where the fuck have you been in 20 years” Dempsey in a show, doesn’t mean I have to watch it.

Finally, the guys showed up. I was beginning to feel like I had a problem because I finished a case by myself. At least now I could socially drink. The pre-pre game show started and they rolled Stevie Wonder and some other Motown has-beens out to sing some songs. Why is it that no matter what the event, it always seems like Aretha Franklin and Stevie Wonder end up singing at it. It could be a fucking KKK meeting, and there you’d find Aretha and Stevie singing the National Anthem. I guess you couldn’t blame Stevie since he wouldn’t be able to see the white hoods, but come on Aretha, have some fucking discretion. Just because there’s a free buffet doesn’t mean you have to show up and sing.
Hooray, the game was about to start. But no, then we have to sit through a useless ceremony that introduced every Hall of Famer from every single Super Bowl. Joe Montana didn’t show up though because ‘he wanted to be with his ‘family.’ Hey Joe, you’re retired and you don’t do shit, couldn’t you see your family on another day? Of course, he really didn’t show up because they wouldn’t pay him 100 grand. Nice going Joe, it’s not like the sport of football didn’t give you anything. It’s not like without football you’d probably be mopping up cum at a peep show. Oh yeah, and Terry Bradshaw didn’t show up. Bald fucking douche bag.

Right after kickoff they went to a commercial. I started giving my Wormhole prediction when all of a sudden, What’s Up! shushed me. He wanted to watch the commercials. Was he serious? Commercials? That’s when he explained that he didn’t even know who was playing. He just wanted to watch commercials. What kind of scam bullshit is this? They have brainwashed us to believe that it’s important to watch commercials during the super bowl. We’ll somehow be missing out if we miss Jessica Simpson and Miss Piggy whoring around in a Pizza Hut commercial.

Ok, so a few commercials were mildly amusing until they got to a Dove soap commercial where they showed a bunch of insecure 12 year old girls talking about their bodies. Like the retards playing football and the starving Africans, they were once again trying to buzz kill the Super Bowl. What’s Up! had a tear in his eye and I had to slug him in the arm. Because even though I love the gay bastard, there is no crying during the Super Bowl, unless your team loses. Dove, why the hell were they advertising during the super bowl anyway? If we don’t put a stop to this now, they’ll be advertising douche and tampons next year.

If it weren’t for the few dozen beers, I really would have been annoyed with the Super Bowl. The game was slow, they called a million penalties, and they kept cutting to the female reporters on the field. Now I’m not sexist, but the only girls that belong on a football field are ones with pompoms and fun bags. And what’s with the refs and the penalties. This is the main even of football, it should be like a wrestling main event where there is no disqualification and no count outs and no holds barred. Let them rip each other apart. Let them fight. Let them play football. Stop Puss-ifying it.

Then it was time for the big halftime show. Normally, I’d skip the halftime show and take a shit, but ever since Janet’s tit popped out I watch it in hopes that someone else might give their tit some airtime. So, instead of freeing up my intestines for another round of hot wings and pork chops, I endured Mick Jagger jumping around the stage in his little tight pants. And instead of a tit popping out, I got to see Mick’s midriff. At least I didn’t have to shit anymore, cause I threw up. Mick and his saggy 80-year old midriff was way too much to handle. I didn’t get no Satisfaction. In fact, the starving Africans were more entertaining than that sad display.

The game ended and Pittsburg won. I was happy for the women of Pittsburg because I knew that meant most of them weren’t going to catch a beating. For those of you who don’t know, Pittsburg has the 3rd largest cases of reported domestic abuse in the nation.

The guys left and everyone had a pretty good time, but I couldn’t help feeling disappointed. It’s as if every other game of the season is more enjoyable. Why? Because they know that it’s mostly drunk guys watching the games, so they don’t try and turn the regular games into ‘Family Entertainment.’ But not the Super Bowl. ABC felt they had to water it down so Junior wasn’t exposed to too much violence, cheerleaders, color commentating and hardcore action. Well, fuck Junior and his mother. Go watch some cartoons and lifetime. Because if I turn on a Lifetime movie I don’t expect to see boxing or Baywatch, I know it’ll be some tear-jerking bullshit. So why do they have to water down football.

Bring back the gruff and the grunt. Take off the polish and keep the skirts off the field. Let a tit pop out at halftime. Offer Aretha free buffet to stay at home. Put John Madden out of his misery. Stop turning the Super Bowl into the Pussy Bowl, or pretty soon, not only will they be showing tampon commercials during the game, we’ll all be wearing them.

The other day I decided I needed a new alias, because beer chugging slob just isn’t sexy. Superman gets to cover some pretty cool stories when he’s not flying around in his panties and tights. But I have no interest in being a beat-reporter. Robyn gets to be the poster boy for NAMBLA when he’s not chasing after the Joker. But I have no interest in dressing up like the Little Dutch Boy and posing for those freaks.

So I flipped through the hero Rolodex of aliases to see what was available. Pimp was taken. Pirate was taken. Swedish Nanny was taken. Monkey Grinder was taken. Video Game tester was taken. Columbian Drug Lord required a visa. Shit, everything was taken. Then something came to me.

It happened while I was reading the Post. There was an article about last weekend’s box office. Can you believe that Big Mad Momma’s House 2 made 28 million dollars and was the top box office hit? That means that millions of people couldn’t get enough of Martin Lawrence in a fat suit the first time around. That means that someone actually wrote a sequel to the first shit stain of a movie. That means if they could make it in Hollywood, so could Wormhole. Shit, I fart better ideas than Big Momma’s House 2.

Sequels always seem to do pretty well, so I started writing ideas for sequels. The first one I came up with was Princess Die 2. In my sequel to the ‘Car Smash Hit’ Princess Die comes back from the dead as a zombie and must find the person that cut the breaks on her Mercedes. She eats the royals and has a lesbian orgy with the Spice Girls. That’s all I got so far on that one.

True stories about musicians also do pretty well at the box office. Last year, Ray won the Oscar. This year, Walk the Line was one of the few movies that didn’t suck ass. So I started to do some research and found a great artist to write a screenplay about, Stevie Wonder. He’s black, he’s blind, he sings and he’s full of shit. As it turns out, he’s not really blind at all, he’s been faking it all these years to help sell his records. Lord knows, whitey loves a blind black singer and they also love a good conspiracy. So the title of my Biopic is Stevie I Wonder, the true story of how a beloved icon has been faking a handicap. The only scene I’ve written out so far is the lesbian orgy with the Pointer Sisters.

Ok, so I had two pretty solid ideas. But I felt I needed a few more before I unveiled my new ‘Screenwriter’ alias. People love a good sports triumph, so I figured I’d pen a screenplay about Isaiah Thomas. It’s the story of how a complete retard could overcome the odds. How a guy on a 3rd grade reading level could come to a storied franchise and, despite having gazillions of dollars to work with, run the Knickerbockers right into the ground. In the end, despite overcoming the odds, he gets strung up to the Garden rafters and beaten with the timekeeper’s clock. Oh, and in a subplot, the Knick dancers have a lesbian orgy.

Another popular movie topic these days is Jesus. Passion, in fact, has made even more money than the Church had to spend on settling molestation lawsuits. But if I was going to write a story about Jesus, I wanted it to be different, unexpected, maybe a comedy? I decided it might be fun to pair Jesus up with someone and make a buddy movie. So I came up with Gary and Jesus. The comedy stars Gary Busey as himself and Jesus as his wise-cracking sidekick. Gary takes Jesus on a madcap adventure to Vegas where Jesus counts cards for Gary. The mob soon catches on and now they’re after them. They decide to hide out at a makeshift methamphetamine lab in the Nevada desert. Once Jesus and Gary get a taste, they’re hooked, and that’s when the fun begins. Imagine what kind of miracles a methed-out person would perform. One thing for sure, one of them will be the largest lesbian orgy known to man.

Over a couple of beers I read my ideas to Dust to see what he thought. He likes movies and lesbian orgies, so I figured he’d be a good judge of my talent. I was expecting him to give me two thumbs up. But Dust didn’t. In fact, he said that my alias as a beer chugging slob was going to be impossible to change, because it’s really not an alias. He then made a good point that even if I did become a screenwriter, I’d still drink lots of beer. I’d also probably become a crack head like the idiot who wrote the last three pieces of shit Star Wars movies. Besides, he said, Hollywood isn’t looking for someone with a vision, someone bold and brave enough to put a lesbian orgy in their film. They’re just looking for Martin Lawrence in a fat suit.

I went home and figured he was right. But I didn’t want to give up right away, so I decided to write one last script just to see what happened. I got out a pad and pen and wrote the title ‘Star Jones’ starring Martin Lawrence in a fat suit. Unfortunately, I only got through the orgy scene with Barbara Walters, Elizabeth Hasselback and the other girls from the view. Then I got thirsty and needed a beer, which turned into 18 beers and me passing out. When I woke up the next morning, I officially gave up screenwriting, even though the scene I wrote with Barbara Walters wearing a strap on was killer.

Most evildoers like to sleep in late. That leaves me with my afternoons free. On this particular afternoon, I was feeling a bit woozy. It might have had something to do with my ‘lunch’. I put that in quotes, because only Ted Kennedy and Liza Minelli would consider what I consumed to be lunch.

The last thing I remember before my post ‘lunch’, drunk-induced-siesta, was stuffing two dirty dogs with mustard, kraut and relish down my throat. When I woke up around 4, I was completely immobile. The dogs hadn’t completely digested yet, so there was no way to abort them. And I was way too nauseous to flip on the old Playstation. So I did the unthinkable, I turned on daytime TV.

I think I now understand why housewives are so fucking insane. It’s because of daytime TV. And periods, but those only explain one week of insanity per month. Daytime TV explains the other 3 weeks.

The reason I say that daytime TV causes mental instability, is because I suffered a momentary lapse of reason. And it was all daytime TV’s fault. Now first off, I’m going to have to admit something that’s quite embarrassing, and it has nothing to do with my thumb busting through a sheet of toilet paper and me getting a little brown under my thumbnail. No, what I’m going to admit is that I watched Oprah Winphrey on that fateful afternoon. And let me tell you, I put my manhood on the chopping block.

By the first commercial break I felt my balls shriveling up. By the second commercial break, I was ovulating. By the third break, my man-boobs were lactating. And by the fourth commercial break, I was crying like a housewife whose husband would rather fuck a cardboard box than her.

The topic of the show was no laughing matter. It was child abuse. Now you all know that I don’t condone child abuse, in fact, I despise it. Except of course if someone’s beating Dakota Fanning with a shoe. That would be justified. But the cases on Oprah were so terrible. And everyone in the audience was crying, everyone was shaking their head, and Oprah was looking into the camera and pleading for the viewers to do something in their community. As she looked into the camera, I suddenly felt strange. I started craving Bon-Bons. I wanted to go make a roast. I wanted to be a member of the Oprah Book Club. I want to take part in some male bashing. It was as if Oprah had invaded my mind. At the time, I felt galvanized. Oprah was right. I should do something to help the kids. I was going to save the world. I had in fact become Oprah’s bitch.

After the show went off the air, I went onto Craigslist to search for children in need. Let me give you a piece of advice, don’t ever type “boys or girls in need’ into a search engine. It’ll take you places you don’t want to go, mainly an FBI watch list.

I finally found an ad on Craigslist that seemed perfect. It said, ‘Big Brother for Child in Need.’ I figured this would be a great way for me to help humanity. I could take some underprivileged, video game loving kid under my wing. We’d go to Knicks games. We’d eat hot dogs and ice cream. I’d show off some of my super powers. I’d kick his ass in Madden’s. I’d take him to a comic book convention. Maybe he’d even have a hot, overworked, undersexed single mommy. So I called the number.

I arrived at Bobby’s apartment and was surprised to find that his underprivileged family lived in a doorman building on Park Ave. When I told the doorman I was Bobby’s new big brother, he looked skeptical. Then I showed him the Grand Theft Auto video game I bought for Bobby. But the doorman still wasn’t convinced, so he called up to Bobby’s apartment. Bobby’s mother wasn’t around, but Maria was. Maria was the maid. This made me think that maybe Bobby was the maid’s son. That would make sense.

The door to the penthouse opened and Maria motioned for me to come in. I asked if Bobby was her son. She did the sign of the cross and thanked God that he wasn’t. She led me down a long hallway to Bobby’s room. I heard something banging from behind his door. When the door opened, there was Bobby, covered in his own shit and banging his head against the wall. And Bobby was way too old to be called Bobby. He was a teenager who clearly had some fucked up problems. I told him I was his new brother and went to high-five him. He caught my hand and then sunk his teeth into my thumb. I asked him what he likes to do for fun and he tried to light the family cat on fire. I asked him what his favorite sport is and he tried to poke my privates with a pencil. I told him I’d be right and he spit on me.

I didn’t even bother taking the elevator, I just wormholed my way back to my apartment. Bobby’s parents were clearly trying to get someone to watch their fucked up son for free, and they were obviously rich enough that they could hire qualified people to care for him. But it wasn’t a total waste, because the sight of Bobby had snapped me out of the Oprah trance. I felt my manhood coming back to me. I rented a Chuck Norris movie. I ordered a Philly Cheesesteak for dinner. I pissed standing up. Things were back to normal.

Let this be a lesson to you all. If you come home and your wife or girlfriend is making no sense and acting irrational, it might not be her period after all. More likely, she had watched Oprah Winfrey that day, and all the other strange crap that’s on during the day. By the way, did you know that the fat fuck from Home Improvement is the host of The Family Feud? Survey Says…He’s a big douche bag.

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Sometimes, something so inconceivable happens that you start questioning your own existence. It happened to me last night. I was drinking a few beers, flipping through the old boob-tube, when I stumbled upon a Barbara Walters special. Granted, there was crap on TV- no sports, no comedy worth a damn, no Skin-emax, but that still doesn’t excuse me. Yes, I endured a 2-hour special on what heaven is, hosted by that Elmer Fudd impersonating old hag. And let me tell you, it was hell. Fucking hell.

Barbara has had so many facelifts that it’s hard for her to get the words out of her tightly wound mouth. She interviewed some evangelical Born Again Kook who said only he and his followers would make it to the pearly gates. When asked what happens when you get there, he said, dancing and singing and praising God all day long. Jesus Fucking Christ, I thought. That doesn’t sound like fun. You’re telling me that if I live a sinless life, my reward will be going to Romper Room in the sky where I’ll be singing and dancing around like jerk-off? And what about the Big Man? I can’t dance and sing for shit, does he really want me stinking up his joint with my White Man shuffle? When asked what happens to non-believers, he said they go to Hell. A powerful assumption coming from a guy who is so clueless, he doesn’t even realize he’s a closeted homo.

Next up on the parade of the enlightened tarts was Richard Gere. He’s a Buddhist. He had this all-knowing smirk on his face when he was explaining the religion. But it all fell on deaf ears because I couldn’t stop picturing him sticking a gerbil up his ass. What the fuck was he thinking? Maybe all Buddhists do this? I kept waiting for Barbara to ask him about that incident. But she didn’t. Then I remembered he has a clause in his contract that stipulates interviewers are not allowed to ask him about his gerbil-fetish, why he and Cindy Crawford faked a marriage to cover up their homosexuality, and why he makes the worst fucking movies known to man. What a douche bag, I’d rather stick a gerbil, hedgehog and gopher up my ass, than sit through one of his slop-fests.

You knew they’d be on the show. It was just a matter of time before Barbara got her hands on some radical Muslim dude. This one was a failed suicide bomber. In heaven, he explains, there will be rivers flowing with honey and milk. What the fuck is that? Beer and whiskey, I could understand. But if you’re so hard up for milk and honey, go to the store and buy some. You’re going to blow innocent people up, so you can bathe in honey? Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with these people? He also said there would be 70 virgins waiting for him. That’s when it hit me. These fuckers are always talking about the virgins that will be waiting for their stinky ass, but what about the virgins? You remain pure and innocent all your life, and when you go to heaven, you have to be some asshole’s sex toy? Not only that, you have to share him with 70 other bitches? Besides, how old are these virgins? Most virgins are like 13 or 14, does that mean it’s ok to be a pedophile in heaven? I just hope when this guy gets to hell, Richard Gere will be waiting for him with a fist full of 70 gerbils.

I would comment on Jackie Mason being on the show, but really, it’s Jackie Mason. The fact that he’s still alive is a miracle onto itself. I did catch him mumbling about being a rabbi and heaven and corned beef (Yes, his heaven has lots of corned beef. No joke.) But I’ve already cursed him to Hell for making that God-awful sequel to Caddyshack.

By the second hour I had already had 8 beers. I was feeling pretty good. Then, Elizabeth Taylor came on and started talking about her near-death experience. There was a white light and a giant staircase that went all the way up to heaven. That’s when I’d had enough. You’re telling me that if I die and go to heaven, I’ll have to walk up 100 flights of stairs to get there? Fuck that. Not that I’m lazy, but Jesus, I just died, the least they could do is send me up in an express elevator. But seriously, I doubt there’s a staircase. I doubt Richard Gere and his ass full of gerbils will be there. I doubt Akbarr will be bathing in honey with his pre-pubescent virgins. I doubt the evangelical guy will be dancing like Shirley Temple there.

I shut off the TV and turned on my Playstaion 2. I grabbed my 9th beer and lit up a cigarette. I reached for a handful of chips. That’s when I realized, I’m drunk, I’ve got munchies, and I’m about to finish the Warriors video game. This is heaven, fucking heaven indeed.

This is the one time of the year, the only time of the year that I envy people who work in offices. Why, you ask? Well, it’s because of all the holiday party tales I hear from my tie-guy pals. Tales of those all too eager-to-please Interns, jingling and juggling balls. Tales of unhappily married, bridge and tunnel secretaries taking dick-tation from behind. Tales of Pedro from the mailroom whipping out his little elf and making the execs regret participating in the halfway house’s rehabilitation/hire program.

Unfortunately, there are no more holiday parties for our line of work. The Justice League used to throw a big hero bash, until the big lawsuit. During the 2002 holiday party, Apache Chief got poor Robyn wasted off his ass and stuck his pee-pee in Robyn’s tee-pee. It cost the Justice League millions. It probably would have cost Apache Chief his career if it weren’t for affirmative action. Apache Chief fills the Native American hero quota. The only other option they had was Apache Alcoholic Reservation Gambler Man.

So Dust and I were getting into the holiday spirit by going shot-for-shot, beer-for-beer during the Giants/Chiefs game. In a drunken stupor we decided we should throw a holiday party. When we got home, we made up of a list. Of course, we included all of the heroverse gang like Lady Dawn, Opal, Eastern Star, Lord Dusk, Gammahawk and Blazer. We also included Robyn, but not Batman cause he’s a cockblock. Besides, Batman gets mad when we tease Robyn about getting ass raped by Apache Chief. We invited Josie and the Pussycats because they’re been hard up for cash ever since their last album bombed, and for a few bucks, we were thinking we could get them to put on a lesbian show for us. We also invited Underdog, cause he likes to lick his own balls when he’s drunk and that’s pretty fucking entertaining. We also invited Thing cause he brings herb to parties. And of course, we invited Tony Danza, cause if people are having a shitty time we figured we could always smack him around for entertainment.

The day of the big holiday party arrived. I decided to be festive and wear my red baseball hat. Dust was in charge of the food and he made an artichoke dip and fondue. I teased him about the fondue. He claimed that he was watching Queer Eye for the Hero guy with What’s Up! And got the recipe.

The invitations said 8. At first, we thought everyone was just being fashionably late. By 10, we started to get worried. Was nobody going to show up to our party? Were we fucking losers or something? We had 8 cases of beer and a vast amount of liquor, but no guests. Well, Danza showed up, but we told him it was a surprise party and he’d have to hide in the closet until it was time to jump out and yell ‘surprise.’

By midnight, we had given up. Dust tried to look on the bright side by explaining that we had enough alcohol to last us an entire week. Maybe two. But that didn’t make me feel better. I was finally going to live out my office-party fantasy. I was going to have a one-night stand with a fellow hero and then feel awkward about it the next day. I was going to get really wasted and tell the Wonder Twins what I really think about them, those little fucking piss ants. I was going to tell Commissioner Gordon that I thought he was a big fucking joke. I was going to make a complete ass of myself and then apologize to everyone the next day in an email. But nobody showed up. Danza mumbled in the close that he showed up. I opened the door, threw some fondue at him and told him to pipe down.

Dust said we should go out to a bar and drink our holiday sorrows away. So we went to Scruffy Duffy’s. It was rocking in there. And who was there? All the fucking douche bags we invited to our party. Fucking Superman dancing on the table. Wonder Woman, making out with Flash Gordon on the pool table. Gamma Hawk doing shots with Green Lantern. Underdog, licking his balls under a bar stool. I’d had it. I was pissed.

I told the DJ to shut off the music. If they didn’t all have superpowers, I would have kicked their ungrateful asses. Dust told me to calm down. But I couldn’t. Even What’s Up! was there. We’d taken his gay ass under our wing, yet he didn’t have the decency to show up at our party.

After I’d finished going around the room, calling Wonder Woman a whore and Mr. Fantastic a Douche Bag. They left. They all left. On their way out, they told me I needed help. Apparently they can’t tell the difference between me being angry and me being belligerent. Wonder Woman said I had no class. No class bitch, you didn’t even RSVP. She said, she did. What a lying bitch.

The bar was now empty. I couldn’t believe she had the nerve to pretend she RSVP’ed. Then I heard it. I heard the laugh. That patronizing, menacing, I fucked you again, laugh.

Hans was having a merry old time. He’d been sitting back in the shadows of the bar, enjoying every minute of me making an ass of myself. He clapped. Fucking wiseass. He said that the only reason he didn’t hire a band or magician was because he knew I’d bust in there and provide him with plenty of entertainment. Then he walked over, and handed me a present. I’m not fucking opening this, I said. It will probably explode in my face. Hans assured me that he never tries to kill people during the holidays. And he left.

I cautiously opened the present and saw my invitations. The date was the same. The time was the same. The only thing that was different was the location. That fucking prick Hans had changed the location from my apartment to Scruffy Duffy’s. All these people, my friends, my colleagues had in fact showed up to my party. It was me who didn’t show up to my own party. God, what an asshole I was. What an asshole Hans was and is.

I got back to my apartment and decided to drown my sorrows by downing the rest of the fondue and beer. All I wanted to do was experience an office party. That’s when Dust turned to me and patted me on the back. He said that through all my bitching and complaining, I was too ignorant to realize that I had indeed experienced an office holiday party. How so, I asked?

Dust smiled and said, “Wormhole, did you make an ass out of yourself tonight?”
I shook my head, yes. He said that if that’s the case, then I did experience an office party. I made an ass out of myself and I embarrassed myself in front of my colleagues.

He was right. That is the shit that happens at an office party. I might not have puked on anyone, or pissed on the floor, but I did make an ass out of myself. Of course, I never got to bang an Intern or secretary, but there’s always next year.

I’m beginning to rethink my hero outfit. Maybe baggy jeans and a chili-stained T-shirt isn’t the way to go. Because the truth is, I’d love to see a Wormhole and Dust movie made. Hero movies always make a lot of dough, and it would be nice to have some extra beer money.

Not that there’s anything wrong with my outfit, but that cocksucker Superman is getting so much buzz because his “Package” is too big in his tights. The studio is worried that this might offend people. They’re even talking about digitally altering his size so he looks more like Aquaman after he’s come out of an icy ocean. Fucking studios, instead of worrying about this shit, maybe they should digitally remove Ben Affleck from any movie he’s ever been in, because I find his dickhead to be much more offensive than Superman’s balls.

I’ve always been a little envious of Superman, cause he has X-Ray vision and can see tits and ass without paying a cover charge or stuffing dollar bills down G-strings. But after seeing the story about his steel, I started getting penis envy. So I decided to borrow a pair of What’s Up’s! tights to see how my wormy looked.

I came out of the bathroom and Dust burst into laughter. He told me it looked like I stole a pig-in-the-blanket from a wedding platter and shoved it in my pants. Then he said there’s no way he’s going to fight crime with me, unless I take the tights off. Crooks just won’t take us seriously, he barked.

I gave up on tights, cause after looking at myself in the mirror, I wanted to kick my own ass. But I still had penis envy. It was all over the news. It was in the paper. Shit, they were even talking about Superman’s dick at the coffee shop. That did it. I had had enough.

Back when Lois Lane interned for the New Yorker, we fucked around a little bit. She was a boozehound back then, and I was fortunate enough to scrape her drunk-ass off a floor and bring her home one night. Our affair ended after she checked into rehab. That really fucking turned me off, cause when she wasn’t drunk she was always babbling about politics and shit. And even though it might be weird, I really missed the smell of her puke.

Everyone knows that she’s now banging Superman. So I figured I’d give her a call to see how my wormy compares to his steel. She was surprised to hear from me, and agreed to meet me for a drink or two. I guess she fell off the wagon.

Ah, Lois. When she walked into the bar, it brought back such memories. Like the time she let me give her a Dirty Sanchez and the time she walked out of the back alley looking like a Glazed doughnut.

After a little small talk and a few shots of Southern Comfort, I asked her point blank if Superman’s rooster was bigger than mine. She laughed. Then giggled. Then fell off her barstool. She told me not only is Superman’s penis bigger than mine, but The Green Lantern, Kato, Dare Devil, Super Grover and Wonder Woman also have bigger sacks. Ah, maybe that’s why Wonder Woman wouldn’t let me in her pants. Anyway, I was a little upset. And clearly she realized that she’d devastated my manhood.

I ordered a double shot, to ease the pain. But then Lois grabbed my arm and told me a secret, a secret that I will now share with you. Superman has genital warts. He might be hung like a gorilla, but his penis is covered with open oozing sores. She said she hasn’t touched him since he was in Superman 3. She explained that after he turned into evil Superman, he developed a fetish for Crack Whores. When they weren’t filming, he and Richard Pryor would freebase crack cocaine and bang $3 hookers.

I went into the bathroom to take a leak. I peeked down at wormy and smiled. Sure, he’s not 12, 9, or even 7 inches. But he doesn’t look like a pepperoni pizza. And sure, Superman might make 100 million dollars this summer and deck out his ice palace with flat screen TV’s and shit. But what’s the point, what’s the point of having money, making a hit movie and being the man of steel, if that steel is covered with genital warts. And what’s the point of having a hero movie made about you if there’s a possibility that a Douche Bag Like Ben Affleck might play you. Dare Devil still hasn’t gotten over that shit.

After the incident with Hans and the shit nachos, Dust and I decided that we should get real jobs to earn enough money to get our own place. We could do this during the day and still fight crime at night. I figured an office of some sort would be good for me, cause I’ve always had a thing for secretaries and college interns. The only problem is that I can’t type, fax, copy or make coffee. Plus, I start getting the shakes around noon if I don’t have a beer, and I wasn’t sure that drinking would be allowed at any of the jobs I was applying for.

My first stop was the job boards on Craigslist. There were a lot of people looking for someone who would pose topless. I would definitely let someone look at my man-boobs for $300 and hour. But when I called the number, all I heard was some dude panting, so I hung up. And between you and me, the guy kind of sounded a lot like What’s Up! With his super flexi-power I was surprised that a gay superhero would have to resort to that kind of tactic to get a cheap thrill.

When I told Mary that I was looking for an office job she congratulated me for growing up. Then she told me that her office was looking for a temp and that she would try and hook up and interview for me. But then she added a caveat and said she’d cut my balls off if I embarrassed her in any way, shape or form.

Mary came home around 7 and told me the good news, or tried to at least. Dust had challenged me to a game of shoot-the-boot. For those unfamiliar, that’s when you pour a beer in a boot and see who can drink it the fastest. I won, which meant that I was passed out with my hands in my pants when Mary walked in. All I remember hearing is that I had to wear a tie. Fucking A, I mumbled, because I don’t even own a tie.

The next morning I felt a sharp pain in my groin. Then I felt it again. Then I felt an even sharper pain in my ass. I woke up and Mary was kicking me. Apparently she came home during her lunch break to kick my ass cause I was already an hour late for the interview. When she said 10, I thought she meant at night. What kind of person would make someone get up at 10 in the morning for an interview? She then said she wasn’t leaving without me cause her reputation was on the line. I was like, wow, they know about your good girl gone frigid reputation.

I got dressed and wrote up a quick resume on a piece of paper. Mary took a look at it and told me that beating Dust 72-3 in a game of Madden doesn’t count as an accomplishment.
Nor did coming in 5th place at the 4th of July Nathan’s Hot Dog eating contest at Coney Island. I shit pig lips for a week, if that’s not an accomplishment, I don’t know what is, I told her.

She then told me to take my hat off and put on a tie. Once again I reiterated that I didn’t own a tie. I protest ties. In fact, if I could wormhole myself back in time and meet the guy that invented the tie, I’d kick his ass. Couldn’t you just picture the smug little masochist, inventing a fashionable way for men to hang themselves, everyday of their lives? Shit, if I wanted a noose around my neck, I’d get married.

But Mary insisted that I find a tie. And she had put her neck on the line for me. I checked with Dust, but the only tie he had was skinny leather one he once wore to a Flock of Seagulls concert back in the late 80’s. This was a secret that Dust only revealed cause he was still drunk and groggy from the night before. I made a mental note to rip on him later.

I was about ready to give up on the tie when Hans walked in. He was smiling and acting all charming in front of Mary. She told him about the dilemma and he said the he would be more than happy to lend me one of his silk ties. Mary commented on how sweet he was. Yeah, he’s real sweet when he’s not trying to blow me up or set me on fire. But she didn’t believe me, she never believes me about Hans.

Hans gave me a blue silk tie with some little paisley things on it. He then mumbled under his breath, “Wear it in good health.” I didn’t like the sarcastic tone in his voice, but there was no time to contemplate the hidden meaning. I was now 2 hours late to the interview and Mary was getting pissed. Plus, she was PMS’ing, and I’d rather piss off an 800-pound gorilla than a 118-pound girl on the rag.

I’ve never really tied a tie before, but this one was surprisingly easy to get on. It was almost helping me, guiding me, looping around on it’s own. I thought I had tied it a little tight cause I started to get a little light-headed. I saw the little vein in my temple start to beat to the rhythm of the night. The last thing I remember before blacking out was that cheesy Gloria Estafan song was stuck in my head. Then everything turned white.

There was a light. And I was floating towards it. The fucking Muslims are wrong. There weren’t 72 virgins urging me on, there were 72 whores. 72 big titted whores. They weren’t dressed like angels either, they were dressed like librarians, catholic schoolgirls, nurses and Swiss miss girls. They were making pancakes and having a maple syrup fight. There was a 188 inch Plasma TV with and XBOX-360 hooked up to it. And the most shocking thing of all is that God didn’t look like George Burns, he looked like Bob Barker. But then one of the showcase showgirls started slapping me across the face.

I woke up and once again Mary was hitting me. I had momentarily died and she had the nerve to slap me. She wanted to know why I was passed out on the bathroom floor with a hard-on. I explained what happened. I cried that Hans must have booby-trapped the tie. Then I told her about heaven and the pancakes and big tits. She wasn’t impressed. Then she left and told me she’s calling her boss and telling him that I can’t come to the interview cause I got run over by a handsome carriage.

Hans, he was gloating in the kitchen. He was laughing it up. I wanted to kick his ass. I wanted to slit his throat. But then, I wanted to thank him. I don’t’ want to wear a tie. I don’t really want to work in an office. At least if Hans kills me it will probably be a quick death. But if I have to go fax shit and sit in on conference calls all day, that’s like dying a slow death. That’s like having the life sucked out of you everyday for 8-hours. Besides, my near-death experience made me realize something, there aren’t any pubs in heaven, so I better do all the drinking I can while I’m still around.

Dust and I have had enough. Last week, we brought two Mexican waitresses back to our apartment. We met them at happy hour. They were serving us Tequila shots and they smelled like hot tamales, what more could you ask for in a lady? Broads are always wearing flowery smelling perfumes, but if you ask me, squirt a scent of fried anything behind your lobe and you’ll give any guy a Chimichanga.

When we got back to our apartment, they wondered where the piñatas were. I guess they took our pickup lines literally. We had promised them we’d let them beat our piñatas if they came back with us. I quickly changed the subject by mentioning that I was a big fan of Speedy Gonzalez and that soccer announcer who screams, “GOOOOOOOAL.” This was my attempt to show how immersed we were in the Mexican culture.

Then there was a bit of awkward silence. I think Dust sensed that our chances were slipping away, which meant that we had left a big tip for nothing. A 15% gratuity was about to be wasted. We had to regroup. Dust and I went out to the stoop to think of a new game plan. I suggested that we give Felix the bum a dollar to break in and pretend to terrorize them. Then Dust and I could save them in the nick-of-time. Heroism is always good foreplay.

We gave Felix a buck, but he booked down the street and headed straight for Lasandra the crack whore. Then Dust came up with plan b: which basically consisted of me not saying a word, showing them my sack, or asking how to say titty-fuck in Mexican. Sounded like a good plan to me. We headed back in.

It was a bittersweet moment when we walked in the door. They were considerably drunk, but they had also polished off my last bottle of Maker’s Mark. Dust consoled me by whispering, “Don’t be a fucking idiot you can always get more whiskey.” He was right.
Unless it’s Sunday football or St. Patrick’s Day, bush should always come before booze.

Then a scent gripped me. It was coming from the kitchen. My nipples grew hard. I started to salivate. It was cheesy. It was meaty. It was fucking nachos. How about these two little conquistadors? While we were outside worrying about how we’d get into their panties, they were busy whipping up some nachos for us. I wanted to confess my love to them. I wanted to say that I’d marry them if they needed a green card. I’d even dress up like a matador and smack their ass with a bullwhip. That was how appreciative I was.

Dust and I went into the kitchen where we saw the nachos neatly displayed on a serving plate. There were even a couple of Coronas with limes. What a spread. An even better spread then Maria who was in the other room showing off her flexibility. Dust and I decided it would be rude of us not to dig in. So we gnashed. These were the best nachos ever. They were the perfect combination of spicy and cheesy. Just enough jalapenos to balance out the sharp cheddar. I was in love. Sure I was in love with a plate of nachos, but was that so wrong? Then Dust found a note next to the plate with little hearts on it. A little High Schoolish, but a sweet touch nonetheless. I was hoping that it was an invitation from the girls to wash down the nachos with a little senorita salsa.

But it wasn’t. I knew this was too good to be true. The bastard got us again. The note read like this:

Dear Dust and Wormhole,

I hope you are enjoying the nachos I made. It took me a few weeks to come up with the perfect combination of chili powder, jalapeno and garlic salt to mask the scent and taste of dog shit. Oh, and here’s my rent check.

Regards,

Hans

P.S.
Maria has herpes.

After spending the next hour puking, I decided that I had had enough. I don’t give a shit about rent control apartments. There was no way I was living with my archenemy anymore. I’d get a second job if I had to. I’d put on a tie and go to an office like that pussy Clark Kent. I think Dust would agree but he was freaking out cause he had made out with Maria. Anyway, tomorrow, I’m going to find myself a job. I’m getting the hell out of this apartment. And no more Mexican food for me. Goodbye beloved burritos.