Staying Alive

Well... it's that time again. Time for a brand new episode of Lies My Podcast Told Me. I know you're really excited about this. I can feel your enthusiasm radiating through this series of tubes we foolishly call "Internet".

Wait, is that enthusiasm? Because it carries the bitter aftertaste of contempt.

It's rather early in the morning as I'm typing this, and I am working through the haze of a raging migraine headache. I suffer for you, Dear Imaginary Reader. Because I care. I promised myself that I would keep my self-imposed schedule! I refuse to let you down, because I know how much you want this.

But before I get to the main event, I must address another blog-related matter. I've noticed a recent uptick on comments here at The Book Of Lies, and I really do appreciate the feedback. But every single one of these comments is posted anonymously. I find that oddly disconcerting.

Hey guys! This asshole didn't like Men In Black III!

I'm not asking people to attach their real names to their comments, but you could at least make up something. Even a series of random letters or numbers would suffice.

This influx of comments from "Anonymous" is creeping me out. You're taking the time to comment, so take a little extra time to type out a few characters in place of a name.

It doesn't take a long time to type "Fartbag". Maybe two seconds. Throw me a bone!

Moving on, allow me to introduce the third chapter in this series of pointless conversations I call Lies My Podcast Told Me.

Entitled Bearly Gibb, this episode deals primarily with legendary disco pioneer Barry Gibb, the last Bee Gee standing.

This guy hangs out with werewolves!

More specifically, the conversation contained below uncovers the secrets behind his monstrous alter-ego, a terrifying man-beast that frightens postal workers and may or may not wear a cape. This is some serious cryptozoological shit.

And by "serious", I mean "frivolous", because cryptozoology is complete and utter bullshit. It sounds like a legitimate word, but it's worthless. You can't get a degree in cryptozoology at your friendly neighborhood university. There's no such thing.

Whenever you see somebody on one of those awful "reality shows" that litter the television landscape claiming to be a cryptozoological expert, understand that this person is completely full of shit. Literally anybody can call themselves an expert in this field, because it's completely made up.

Looks legitimate to me!

So take it from me, Cryptozoological Expert Dustin Bacon, when I say that you can't afford to miss this podcast. Because Bearly Gibb is very real, and he has developed a taste for human flesh. He feasts on hapless campers in famous national parks, leaving behind only shattered bones and blood-smeared Saturday Night Fever LPs. The knowledge contained below might just save your life.

Also discussed in this podcast: sexually ambiguous fraggles, CSI: Miami, and the tragic career of Adventures In Babysitting actress Elizabeth Shue. It's five and a half minutes of vital knowledge that will enrich your life.

Trust me. I'm an expert.



Things are really heating up here! I'm gonna need to apply some sunscreen, to avoid a painful burn.

I don't even know what that means.

Neither does Madonna.