MANHUNTER.

I think this is going to be my most quickest and pointless post ever. Yeah, you can argue that everything I've written up to this point has been uniquely and adequately pointless in it's own way, but this is the winner that takes all. This is my ode to red toys. Because I really like toys that are red.

Enter MANHUNTER, a cosmic robot created by the Guardians of the Universe in the land of all that is Green Lantern and shit. They help the Guardians, but soon turn against them, creating all sorts of dramz and stfu's. I will confess, I'm not entirely too into Green Lantern lore, and would prefer to keep any personal involvement to a minimum. I know, I'm hatin', but as soon as I found out there were millions of Green Lanterns traversing the galaxy, on top of the fact that Earth has, like, a few to begin with (doesn't each planet only get one?) TOPPED OFF by the multiple colored Lanterns now making their modern day grand debut, I just can't be a part of this circus. It's a dense world of endless ideas and imagination, and that's all great and wonderful, but I'm rightly confused and still don't understand a damn thing about it, even after monotonous attempts and long bouts of shameful sobbing. Plus, Ryan Reynolds? Really? ENDGAME, BITCH.

So, basically, I like red colored toys. And robots, but that's a given.

I got this at a Toys R Us, completely searching out something bigger and better than what lies before you. I'm unsure as to what that originally was, because I was blinded by MANHUNTER. All red, bulky and pumped full of heart and soul. He also has these wild blue wristbands and his head looks like those statues on Easter Island. You cannot tell me that you aren't blinded, too.

I'm not sure what the origin story is to my affliction for ruby-hued action figures, and I'm not even sure I could make one up. That's why this post sucks. But you know the Imperial Guard in Star Wars? I've mentioned it before, but I really like that guy. In real life, I'm sure he's a swell dude in rosey robes, but in toy form? Now we're talking.

It's just so red and perfect and highly chewable. The inclusion of soft, felt robes makes it even better, bringing all sorts of happy thoughts and good times to my brain, but that's a whole 'nother secret fetish. Knowing that a double-dose of fun exists in my life and in a glass case that-you-cannot-touch makes me wanna celebrate or something. Just stop typing, get up and head out to the nearest bar to go wildly apeshit over life. If anyone asks why I'm so intent on being intoxicated on a Wednesday night, I will say I got a huge promotion at work. I will also be carrying a socially acceptable briefcase and have a business tie wrapped around my forehead the entire time.

Also, red-lust extends to Shy Guys from Mario video games to anything Akira related. He had such a cool outfit.

Is this Manhunter figure, this glorious sculpture of plastic and power, making a perfect Wednesday Night Toy Party for this lonely, hollow man? Better be. Shit was, like, twelve friggin' bucks.

He comes with a lantern, too, to do all the things that Green Lanterns do, I guess. I kinda like it. In my infinite display of flip-floppery, I've flip-flopped once again. I feel like I've conned myself into liking Green Lantern crap, simply based for my love of this shimmering, magnificent Manhunter. It's all about each superheroes Rogue's Gallery, though, and this guy is a pretty awesome rogue. Part robot, part manhunter and...suspiciously edible.

SOLVED:

In the end, I suppose it boils down to the idea that my toys could be eaten one day, or at least look like they could be. Red is such a delicous looking color, and I probably wouldn't mind shoving this into my mouth sometime down the road. I like my toys to resemble Starburst. I like my toys doubling as food. I like toys!

Let's party!

Dunkin' Donuts Grand Opening!

So a Dunkin' Donuts just opened up in my neck of the woods. Almost literally, a few hundred feet away from where I'm at. My life is awesome, you can suck it and die.

The week after it's doors opened, you were offered a free, medium coffee per your request. Hot or iced, it didn't matter. The lines were so long you'd think everyone was waiting to watch a dinosaur egg hatch. The place was madness! Streamers flapping in the wind, massive blow-up coffee cups swaying and and an infinite line of addicts just waiting to get nasty with a hot cup of joe. I was definitely one of those nasty people, and through this entire debacle, managed to walk away with over eight free cups of coffee. I feel I did a good thing there.

That week is gone, but the memory is still fresh. I feel like I am this Dunkin' Donuts. After being one of the first to enter this orange and pink beauty, I feel like I need it to be mine. I want it to be mine. I want it to be my "Cheers," I want to enter without worry, I want them to smile and be glad I've arrived, I want them to know my name but never really use it, 'cause that could get awkward and weird.

So, confession time...

Behind all the celebrating and dancing in the streets, there's a guilt I harbor deep within. Before it bloomed into the beautiful and magic donut shop it is today, it was once a different entity entirely. Well, not really.

It was another donut shop. It's current location used to be occupied by a place called "Cherubini's," and they sold coffee and donuts. It had a warm atmosphere and a surprisingly decent menu. I used to go there a lot, actually, strictly out of it being super close and teeming with caffeine and sugar, all necessary to keep me alive. The service was slow, the owner made it awkward by shaking hands and striking up conversation with anyone who accidently glanced his way, but it was alright. It had a certain charm, it contained a kind of flair you don't usually find in a lot of food chains and big restaraunts. Yes, what I'm trying to say here is that the place was locally owned and operated, AND I DAMNED IT TO HELL.

Every time I stepped in there, I always wished it was a Dunkin' Donuts. Truly, I supported it's cause, because owning and operating a coffee spot would be really cool, but it kinda just sucked. The place had a cool, Italian-villa kinda look to it, but it didn't quite save it from never having enough donuts to serve the general public. Seriously, who owns a donut shop and runs outta donuts? Yeah, global, conglomerate coffee joints are just sometimes better, I guess.

So I'm here! I'm in!

Over the years, me and Dunkin' have had a sinful affair. I love it and it loves me back. It's never bad and it's always under two bucks, assuming you don't go buck wild and order the extra-large. If you're that far deep, you might as well order a few Bear Claws while you're at it. Hell, start looking for a motorized scooter to carry you around, too, you lazy bitch.

I bought a medium coffee.

Beautiful. The color scheme, the potted plant to keep me company, what can be better?

Whenever we're on tour, you can always find me out searching for a cup of coffee. I'd prefer the warmth and flavor of a good ol' Dunkin', but gas stations and taco stands will work just fine. As long as it exists, it will be in my mouth. If we were mega-rich and famous enough to have a rider at shows, I'd say forget the bottles of Cristal and color-coordinated bowl of M&M's. I'd demand nothing more than a pot of Folger's brew and a toilet. The toilet doesn't have to be clean or fancy, in fact, it doesn't even have to be a toilet. A locked room with a bucket and some crumpled up newspaper would work well enough for me. Just somewhere I can sit and relax, chill out and just be. The pain and grief of traveling all over the world is minisculed by the thought of a shitty shitter with no door, no toilet paper or a line of dudes pounding on the walls demanding you hurry the fuck up.

Add the stress and nerves of a show with a cup of coffee...you're damn right I want a bathroom.

Like I said, it really was a party. Too bad I missed my chance to photograph the giant coffee cup the size of a building. It really was spectacular, rivaling the best inflatable gorillas you've ever seen.

Since it's grand opening, I've only been back twice. Once to take these photos and the other to waste some time. I'm not sure what point I'm trying to make, but it sounded like a fantastic closer to end with.

Anyway, Dunkin' is great -- drink it up!

"Endless Night" Beer. THAT'S RIGHT, BITCHES.

My dreams have come true! My life has meaning! The world is mine!

Just last weekend, we played in Anaheim, CA at the always amazing Juke Joint. It's the kind of place where everybody has zero qualms about being lost in inebriation and the toilets are covered in shit. Shit isn't in the toilet, it's on the toilet. Whether it be a case of classic projectile poo or the Hover Technique gone astoundingly afoul, I do not know. The base facts behind the operation is that the place is electric. It's charm runs through it's booze soaked walls and dimly lit bar, the solid selection of spirits, the decent soundsystem allowing for a proper juke in the joint.

It's the kind of place that'll take pride in it's underpriced crap-beer, offering the poor man a chance to escape for a few hours by zapping a slew of braincells. It's wonderful, decent and fun. Also, I almost got felt up by a shemale outside the venue. Really, you should stop by. Classy joint.

Anyway, we played there. It was awesome. Before the show, though, we were given a box of our own brew, complete with backstory and general present-giving happiness. People like to give, I like to receive. It's a win-win situation. I'm unsure, but I'm thinking it was a bribe to help them get into our eternally-postponed video shoot, but I like to think it was out of the goodness of their hearts and into the goodness of my liver. Yeah, they're so getting into our next music video. Filming begins June...of 2017!

This was given to us by a few friends who've been to numerous shows, shown tons of support, etc., so giving us a 24 pack of bathtub-beer was way unexpected. The unbelievable scenario of owning your own brand of beer is just as good as starring in a blockbuster film or beating up a really big, buff guy. In front of a group of hot girls.

We thank you, Bathtub Beer Barons.

Calabrese's "Endless Night" beer, a smoked honey porter straight from the south and into your mouth. Technically, we're currently from the southwest, but "southwest" doesn't rhyme with "mouth." You understand my query and frustration. BECAUSE THIS NEEDS TO BE PERFECT.

I'm so insanely into this. Although I didn't have a hand in making it (in the future, if anyone were to care, I wouldn't mind adding my own special "touch") I'm still overwhelmed. My own beer? It's as if my dream to melt my mind into goo has finally come to fruition, because clearly, owning a beer gives you the right to just get fucked up whenever and however you want, and your mind will turn to goo. This is, like, my own Cabo Wabo. But I'm not as sucky as Sammy Hagar.

It looks so good!

To keep my OCD under control, I would have loved to photograph this with all twenty-four bottles, but Davey nabbed one for our "Shelf of Everything Everyone's Ever Given Us," or at least that's what I really, really hope he did. A single, pink cocktail will get him dancing on tabletops and asking girls if they go to college. A glass of coke just lightly spritzed with alcohol will have him giggling and wobbling uncontrollably. If he drinks that bottle of beer, if he even thinks of drinking that bottle of beer...MAY GOD HELP YOU.

But yeah, this is something I SO hope I'm gonna like. Because this is gonna get really messy and complicated if it blows.

There's no label, which is fine, because if there was, my head would explode. I'm admitting it's current, incomplete form, but beggars can't be choosers. When you have your own beer, even if it doesn't come with a shiny, pretty label, you kinda need to shut the fuck up.

If I had my say, and there was a label made, I'd like to see us in kung fu action. High kicks left, low blows to the right. Maybe chopping up boards of wood and concrete slabs with our hands and heads. If that's not possible, then something way more simple and crisp will do the trick -- Calabrese riding vampire-motorcycles with samurai swords and chainsaws. Duh.

This was ready to be posted days ago, but I was forewarned to wait a few days to let sit, so the carbonation would set in. Could be truth, could be a fancy way of saying, "wait until the poison is at it's peak." Even then, after waiting and wanting for a week, everytime I wanted to top it off with a taste test, I had other things to do, like drive a car, or talk to someone. Bobby dumb when drinks. Bobby type no more and drink for test. Bobby taste. Then Bobby write. Watch:

Delicious! I'd be hardpressed to say it sucked, since my name is attached to it, but honest to goodness...it's tasty. Definitely has a "smoked honey porter" flavor to it, as promised, even though I'm unsure as to what "porter" tastes like. I always assumed it was salty. Like a sailor.

Overall, super stoked. Even if it did end up being the worst thing I ever tasted, I'd always have documented proof that somebody loved us enough to cook us up some beer. Are you jealous? I really hope I made you jealous.

It's kinda my "thing."

HENRY & GLENN FOREVER.

I'm back. Already. My records indicate that I'm either struggling with writer's block or overflowing with inspiration, unable to put any thoughts into any tangible order. Tonight, I overfloweth.

Nutshell = this is too good to not blog about RIGHT NOW. I've been thinking about it all day, smiling and singing and gushing. I don't usually gush. It's usually reserved for teacup pigs and dollar stores, and neither one is here. Probably a good thing, 'cause the combo would no doubt be really smelly.

But today? Today, I have a new gush-worthy fun-thing.

Today, an act of fiction is brought to life. Today, an act of art is alive. Today, my two, male musical idols fall in love.

"Henry & Glenn Forever."

I was gonna include this in my next post, which will be paragraphs upon paragraphs of how amazing Amazon.com is. I never thought I'd be so behind the times, but the site is...beautiful. I never realized it's been morphed into a wonderful mix of ebay, craigslist and everystoreever. I figured, since it really was just a giant megastore of bullshit, they sold everything from books to clothes to toys. That was it. Now I find out that you have an option in searching for what you want, then selecting which price you'd rather pay, from sellers all over the US. When did this happen? How did I not know about this? I LOVE THIS.

I found movies I couldn't track down in years, music that was seemingly rare and untraceable on record, toys that were cheaper than I could ever find...and I so totally had myself a little shopping spree. It was gluttonous and absolutely undeserved, but I walked away with enough horrible movies and Guitar Wolf junk to shame even me, and I'm the guy who's got a full corner of my house dedicated to nothing but "things I haven't opened yet." Nevermind that. Mind this:

I got this book!

There's not a whole lot to be said about a flimsy book of punk rock romance, so don't mind me blowing through this. It found it's way on my Amazon wishlist and some dude was selling it for a few bucks. Shit got real, real fast, right there.

It's about a fictitious love affair between Henry Rollins and Glenn Danzig, illustrated by what I assume is multiple artists, each adding a slice to the liaison pie. The damn thing can be read in under five minutes and most of the drawings are crude and confusing, but there's definite humor in a lot of gags. Lots of lyrical jokes, puns and fake diary postings. I'm not sure how I feel about Fake Glenn writing about how mad he is at Fake Henry, how Fake Henry is advising Fake Glenn to be himself, etc. It's all so sexual yet heartfelt. Like I said, I'm not sure how to feel, but it doesn't feel bad. Weird, kinda. But fun. Mostly weird.

I've already lost interest. I'm throwing it away now. I hate you, book.

Look how cute he is!

Pretty great find, even if the greatest part is simply the cover. I can live with never opening this up again in favor of framing it for my living room wall. What a conversation piece. That and the 983 toys scattered about.

Love on, my brothers.

Retail Therapy.

Yesterday, I had a serious case of the Mondays. I'm in a position where I don't have too much to be bummed about on a Monday afternoon, but I started the day strong and I ended it in uncomfortable sadness. I blame the permanent scar of school and forever ruined Sundays by way of forced church attendance. The only way to turn things around was to move around and get active. I had to get up, I had to set out, I had to spend.

In all seriousness, I had to go grocery shopping, and as it goes, grocery shopping can suck a dick. There's nothing ever fun about it, and the most joy I get out of the situation is thumbing through the magazine racks and candy aisles. Now, I love food. I love to eat and get fat and all that shit, but I'm hardly ever pleased with the whole time-consuming ordeal, aimlessly pushing around a cart until my mind is urned to mush. Also, I absolutely demand to be entertained where ever I go. So, in theory and conclusion, grocery shopping can truly suck a dick.

So, to counteract my own personal descent into anger and boredom, I bought a little something. A little something to make all the hard work of supplying food for my face worth it.

Ta-da!

Truthfully, this was at the Target down the street. I forgot to pick up toilet paper, and there would be no way I'd circle back to once more confront my worst enemy. I'd feel betrayed, defeated and outright enraged if I had to go back and do it all over again, even if for one essential item. So I trudged forward, secretly wondering how many hand towels I'd blow through until I was forced to return for the Sacred TP.

Thank God for Target. It eased the anxiety and offered a unch more pretty things to look at. Mainly, "Power Rangers Samurai."

When I was a young kid and Power Rangers were at their peak, Power Rangers were not cool, and any kid who was a fan, were generously made fun of and berated on the daily. Maybe an older brother though it was decent, so then you thought it was pretty decent, too. Looking back, I wish I was into it more, 'cause I can really pick up what was being put down. Underneath the guise of such horribly dorky teenagers battling inside animal robots, the show was pretty cool, featuring scenes of giant fighting monsters in what was clearly shot in Japan. I'm not sure when I realized that the show was varying shots of American actors acting like idiots, cut in with Japanese actors doing tumbles and highkicks. I have no idea how I didn't even notice that Rita Repulsa was clearly Japanese! And had her voice dubbed over the entire time!1!111!!

Anyway, I kinda dig this thing. My choice out of the gang was based on the quantity on the shelf ("Modger" was the rarity out of the rainbow colored crew, I assume he's more awesome) and obvious betterness of the lot. Even though I haven't a clue as to how Power Rangers have become samurai, who does what or who does whom, I do believe an eyeless face-guy with giant teeth beats out the chick with the pink helmet. See:

It was cheaper than most modern action figures, but still lacked any kind of oomph to set me and my credit cards ablaze. I knew I had to have it...but I wasn't sure why. Was it the samurai influence? The fish-like head? My love affair with Japan might have helped the cause, though. Bandai, I assume, is Japan based and the creator of many fine toys, most notably the Power Rangers line, and many more of which I have no interest in whatsoever. It's all Ben 10 and Kamen Riders and Tamagotchi. My claim that "Bandai is Japan based" is entirely based on nothing, and entirely on assumption, but that's good enough for me. I want my Japanese toys to be the real deal, man. I want them straight from the source, or at least sorta from the source. Example: POWER RANGERS.

It's not the easiest thing in the world to collect Japan based goods, I'm sad to inform you. Most Godzilla toys under five inches in height cost over a hundred bucks a pop. How's a Joe Blow like me gonna amass a collection of Devilmen and squidgirls? I need something that my friends will be jealous of, something that looks imported and rare and magnificent!

The magic revealed itself to me. This would be it, the source of my power in beating the Mondays. I bought it and I love it. I'm so far behind Power Rangers lore that this could have been labeled "Dog Poo Warriors," and I wouldn't have doubted it, but it still looks cool and that's all that counts, man.

I started to read the back, maybe learn a thing or two as to how samurai's have infilitrated Power Rangers lore. I read the first sentence, "A new generation of Power Rangers..." and called it quits. All I needed to know. Which is that anything goes when a "new generation" of anything is ushered in. Why do I even care? Do I even care? I have no idea. I love this and it loves me.

The directions are amazing, too. Amazing that there are even directions included, really. Obviously, it's a drawn simulation in how to apply his death-sword to his death-hands, but I like to imagine it's telling you how to make him summon shit with his mind. Particularly, his sword. Or maybe a lightsaber. While hanging upside down in a Wompa cave.

There's already been enough photos to get any point I'm trying to make across, but I added this because I thought it looked cool. Kinda artsy, ya know? And I'm so gonna leave it at that.

Thank God it's Wednesday.

"A Nightmare on Elm Street Part 2" Poster Power!

Dear Blog, I hate you.

I'm usually full of ideas and inspiration when it comes to keeping this blog up to date, but I'm totally lost right now, and am pretty much wingin' it right now. My fingers are Goddamn dancing over this keyboard. All form and technique is thrown out the window and my brain is taking over. It's pretty magical, really.

I'm really trying to post something at least once a week, but when I put a goal and timeline on anything I do, seven days seems like the quickest seven days in history and all creativity has disappeared. Knowing I have to write something sucks the writing-fun-juices right outta me.

So here's the deal. I'm just gonna write about a really rad poster that just fell into my life. It's all I can do at this point, since it's the only thing running through mind and the only thing my eye wanders to when staring off into one-bedroom-apartment-space. The title of the blog pretty much reveals the source of my newest happy thing, but that still won't stop me from writing it in menacing caps and italics:

"NIGHTMARE ON ELM STREET 2, FREDDY'S REVENGE" POSTER!

Man, it's really hard to photograph a shiny, reflective poster frame. My apologies.

But yeah. This is really cool, man. I mean, okay, I do realize that I talk about how something is "really cool" a lot around here, but this time it's for real. This trumps everything I've ever written about and drooled over. I've sailed through action figures and blown over movies like a freight train, but this objet d'art is special to me and this world it resides in. This is the single most fascinating and wonderful thing that has entered my life.

Wait, I just noticed a small rip near the the left hand corner -- I'm gonna burn this pile of shit.

Now, I'm a pretty casual fan when it comes to the "Nightmare..." series, relying on marathons during Halloween and a universe of merchandise to carry me through most of the finer points. At this stage in my life, I've seen all the films over a random period of time that it's all blended into one giant and confusing film. For a million bucks, I couldn't relay a single storyline from any of the flicks, relying more on my lengthy wordplay and charming wit to win that cool mil. Now I'm depressed that I don't have a million dollars. Can I have a million dollars?

The truth behind this poster is that I had no hand in obtaining it. Like a good older brother, I used and abused Younger Brother Davey to do my dirty work. Ahh, sorta.

Yesterday, one of our favorite go-to comic book store hotspots was having a one day only/do or die/"everything for one dollar" sale. This place shall still remain unnamed, for fear of it being pillaged and abused by all you weirdos reading this. We go there to rummage through everything from loose and broken toys to massive bundles of coffee-stained comics. We walk away with so much junk, you'd think we were convinced that He-Man figures and Jawas were currency in the near-apololyptic future. To most, this can be an intense waste of money, and in all sense of the meaning, it completely is. It's shameful, actually. I absolutely DO NOT need some of the stuff I throw money at, but what's the point of money if you can't spend it? This is my bullshit excuse for when the rent's due, I have zero money and I'm gettin' the sweaty, OHSHIT shakes. I hate it when I get the OHSHIT shakes.

Anyway, they had a sale, Davey went and I missed out. We've been planning this for weeks, but I completely messed the entire plan up by pouring copious amounts of alcohol into my mouth. It was one of those lazy, boring nights that turned into a party that wouldn't stop until we closed out the bar. Also, completely not worth it. You know how you can sometimes look back and think, in the harrowing depths of a killer hangover, that the previous night was worth it? It was fun and intense and all the pain and suffering you're currently going through is nothing compared to the incredible time and experience. Well, not this time. In fact, I wish I could take it all back, but I'm still unsure as to what even happened. To fix the past, you must remember the past, and right now, all I remember is visiting various bars, lots of money pumped into dirty jukeboxes and cold appletinis. I have sinned.

Basically, he was kind enough to pick this up for me, which is code for "sold it to me for five bucks."

But I love this. I love the way Freddy's face looks, I like the color and presumed texture of the fedora, I dig the "vagina thing" he's doing with his knife-glove, etc. It's magical, enlightening and full of life. His demon-eyes and snarled, yellow teeth will either ruin my walls or make them happy. Yes, this is kinda terrifying and awesome at the same time. I'm such a wuss.

Completely satisfied with this wheel-and-deal. My insides are still bleeding from the liquid sludge I gladly put into it, but this eases the ever-burning. Too bad I'm still kinda scared to look at this, though. Fuckin' weirded out by that Silly Putty face, but hey, I finished a post before the end of my seven days, so I'm just tickled pink. And it's all because of you, Freddy and Davey. You know, you two do kinda look alike. Just sayin'.

COOKIES IN MY MOUTH.

Happy New Year! I'm hoping 2011 will bring you good tidings, happy thoughts and winning lottery tickets. May all our heart's desires come true and yeah yeah. Just stay away from me and we'll be cool, alright?

I mentioned it before in one of my last blogs, but we get things. Whether it's sent through the mail or at a show, we're always gracious and humbled. It's not every day that someone hands off their treasures and goods just because you strum a guitar like a sweaty gorilla.

Now, I've blogged about some of the cool shit I've been able to swindle, but there's a whole 'nother world when it comes to what Calabrese gets. Artwork in blood, customized Calabrese Ouija Boards, etc. It's amazing and oftentimes delicious. Case in point:

A mystery box of cookies. Yeah, it's not much of a mystery when last month I was messaged, "I'm gonna send you cookies, what's your address?" and I already knew they were gonna be cookies, but my life is boring and I demand mystery. So for now, I have no idea what lies in between the confines of this red-tin-prison.

I know it's gonna be hell having to stretch four sentences into twelve paragraphs, but I'm gonna give it my all. Alas, there's a lot of pictures. That helps. Let's roll:

Well, there you go! If I was somehow still baffled, my eyes have now been opened and I see the light. The chocolate chip, gingerbread, coffee/kahlua light. In bold, attitude filled words, we're told we've just been offered a grand lump of homemade edibles.

This is from our pal, Lexy Monster, a fan and friend from the grand state of California, who knows just how to tickle us pick. Well, me pink. The bit about her letting us know that there wasn't any arsenic baked into the cookies is in reference to our uneasiness about eating unmarked food sent throught the mail. I can understand the apprehension, but at least 2/3 of Calabrese will puss out half of the time when it comes down to shoveling gamble-food into our mouths. Math whizzes, you figure that lest sentence out.

Personally, I can disregard any second thoughts when it concerns my general health, so food is a nice surprise I welcome home with open arms. I like the idea of eating food and desserts and booze made for us from our fans and friends -- it's like gathering and storing and consuming some kind of rock and roll energy from around the world. Or I just like the idea of eating cookies, anytime, anywhere. Probably that one.

Davey likes to throw Jolly Ranchers into the purchases we get from CalabreseRock.com, and when he's in one of his moods where fan-food is tainted and we're about to have our own "Selena moment," I point this out. I argue that those could be tampered with, those tiny chunks of artificially flavored nuggets (which can be easily dipped into any poison and sealed back up) and that eating someone else's food will only balance out the karma he presents. Even if it's just a single piece of wrapped up candy...if he's gonna play, he's gotta pay.

The natural order of life will be in immediate jeapordy, the universe that was once alligned will be knocked out of orbit and into complete disaster and doom. The sun will explode, planets will cease to exist, life will be obsolete. If he refuses to eat these mystery cookies, WE WILL ALL DIE.

Time to crack this bitch open:

Not gonna lie, this is horrifying. I first saw the bats, I saw the black mass of Halloween plastic-stuff smashed in there, too, and was turned off. Like, a total blast of uncertainty and moral uneasiness. For that instant where I first opened it up, it looked like a big, black mess of shit. No offense, Lexy, but you had me scared for a moment. Like I was being punked with dog crap and licorice puke. I just kinda expected to see nothin' but cookies, all up in my face, like I owed it money. But this...this was an abomination! A grab bag of nonsense and hate! Good thing I like digging through animal crap on the weekends, because I stayed the course, I heeded forth, I dug deep.

Underneath...salvation!

Yeah, upon further inspection, I was delighted and thrilled to see a bunch of toy bats to go along with my upcoming sugar intake. I really should stop jumping to conclusions.

Also, the bats are now on top of my fridge. They are members of an elite squad known as the Special Vampire Unit. These are their stories. DUM DUM.

Okay, I'm not sure what they're intended to look like, but I'm guessing and secretly hoping it's four, overworked stunt-doubles on the set of "Sean of the Dead." I initially thought, "Hey, it's Calabrese!" but soon realized there's one extra brother on hand. I wouldn't mind that scenario to be true, though, 'cause it would be awesome to have a second guitarist on stage. Bigger sound, powerful backups and someone else to berate and push around.

Also, unlike the cookies, we don't wear pocket protectors. Well, not to shows, anyway.

Oh, and top of that, these cookies are on top of another pile of cookies. They're faceless and boring, but they're still cookies, and that's alright with me. Plus, they make the previous layer of cookies all that more appealing. There's a certain ying and yang to it all. I feel like a ninja.

In the end, I'm stuffed and in a state of abdominal pain and discomfort, where the only thing I can manage is the DVD player and an extensive coma.

Thanks, Lexy. You rule.