This Is Not Pornography!

August is finished. It's skipped town like a hobo on the midnight train to Nowheresville. This is good news. Not for children, I suppose. The kiddies hate September, because that means their magical summertime adventures have finally come to an end, and the monotonous school year has begun.

Do you remember those times? Running around the streets like you owned them, hanging out with your best friends in the world and getting into trouble because you decided to set fire to that abandoned house at the end of the block. Just for a goof.

Arson is never not a good idea.

How were you supposed to know a beered-up vagrant was squatting in that decrepit nightmare chamber? That wasn't really your fault, and your parents agreed. They covered up the evidence and promised never to tell another soul the horrible truth.

One tiny little mistake shouldn't ruin the rest of their delightful son's promising life, after all.

And it's not like the crispy critter had a family that cared about him. Otherwise he wouldn't have been shacking up with a bottle of rotgut in that leaning edifice that the city had planned for demolition later in the year, anyway.

As the months roll on, your parents slowly stop glancing at you as if you were the embodiment of all evil, and in time the laughter returns to their wan faces. But the laughter rings hollow; there is no mirth in their eyes. Only a submerged fear.

Come Christmas Day, you are delighted to find that you received every expensive item on your bloated list, as well as a few extra presents from Santa Claus... because you were such a good boy that year. That's the only reason. In time you forget the smell of burning flesh that seemed to cling to your skin for days after the event, marking you like a scarlet letter.

But the agonized screams echo through your mind every night before you fall asleep, and your dreams are never welcome. You stopped hanging out with those kids you used to call your friends, but they still come around every now and again.

They step off their bikes and stare at the empty lot where the house once stood, and mutter silent prayers as the cold autumn winds whip their haunted faces, scratching like the gnarled fingernails of a hopeless drifter in his last desperate moments of existence...

Like I said, August is finished. September is here, and I couldn't be happier.

Sometimes I just want to give September a big hug.

Fuck the children. They think school is miserable? Wait until they see what the real world has to offer. In twenty years, they're gonna look back on those endless days sitting in a classroom with rose-tinted shades.

To quote George Carlin: it's all bullshit, and it's bad for ya.

All most of us have to look forward to is a momentary distraction to make us forget about how completely and utterly doomed we all are. A good movie, an engrossing book, a catchy song, a few stolen moments with that person you claim to love. Anything to keep us from resuming our futile staring contest with the void, if even for a moment.

Speaking of distractions, did you know that it's time for a brand-new episode of Lies My Podcast Told Me?

A few individuals, in comments and emails, were only too kind to remind me that I missed my deadline last week, because I promised to release new episodes on a bi-weekly basis. But I didn't miss a fucking thing. I knew full well that, according to my self-imposed schedule, I should have posted the new episode last Wednesday.

But seeing as how I was so generous in posting four fucking podcasts three days earlier, I decided to skip a week. Because five podcasts in one week is simply overkill.

Apparently the people who listen to Lies My Podcast Told Me don't care for any of my other audio-only delights, because hardly anybody listens to them. I can't blame them for that. After all, they're horrible. Just the most worthless, lowest common denominator stuff. But I thought that applied to all of my podcasts. There's really no difference between my regular podcast and the "special events" I push into this blog from time to time.

So why has Lies My Podcast Told Me garnered a very (very very) small, yet dedicated readership? I have no fucking clue. Is it the latex fetishists?

Dude, I love your blog!

I know they're out there, because they still contact me every now and then. At least a few of them have become regular visitors. It seems latex fetishists have no interest in Peter Cullen. Which is fine, because fuck Peter Cullen.

I promise you, my loyal, sexually liberated fans, that the following episode of Lies My Podcast Told Me has no mention of the once-and-future Optimus Prime. Unfortunately, this episode also has no mention of latex, either.

There is sodomy, though! Extraterrestrial sodomy! Which is at least three times better than traditional earth-bound sodomy.

In Chapter 9: Probe Party!, you will hear things that you will never be able to forget. Unwanted images will be seared into your memory. Nicky Minaj With Joe Pesci's Face. Alien Sadists. Subterranean Flesh Eaters. Legislation. Roger Bart.

Over a year ago, some poor soul sent me an email inquiring as to whether or not I ever saw the overlooked horror film Midnight Meat Train. That's all he said.

The subject read: Midnight Meat Train? and the body of the email read: Have you ever seen Midnight Meat Train?

I never responded to that email, because clearly the composer of that missive was unstable.

Why didn't he ever respond to my pithy electronic communiqué?

But if you're still out there, janky601, this podcast has your answer.

Put this in your ears:

Chapter 9: Probe Party!



That's it. I'm done writing.

I loved you in Gone Fishin', Mr. Pesci!