Archive for the ‘Mitchieville Marathon’ Category

Sucky Huggy – And This Concludes The Mitchieville Marathon

Tuesday, December 7th, 2010

From November 8, 2006.

When you are in a serious, committed relationship, it is damn near impossible not to have a few pet names for your lover. Most of the times, like in my relationship with The Little Danish Girl, not only do we both have pet names for each other, but we also have cute sayings that we constantly say to each other. We like to think of them as *cute*, but most people would say they are simply sickening.

However, sometimes the cute sayings lead to misunderstandings and anger. Resentment quickly follows and a massive fight can break out. Like tonight, what a humdinger of a fight the Danish Girl and I had. And it all started over a few innocent, cute names…

Danish-Hi honey, how ’bout a sucky huggy for your berry best bear?

Mayor-Sure my berry best bear, here’s a sucky huggy. How ’bout a sucky huggy for the Mayor bear?

Danish-You bet. I love my baby beary weary sucky bubbly buddy.

Mayor-What did you call me?

Danish-I called you a baby beary weary sucky bubbly buddy.

Mayor-That’s strange, cuz I could have sworn you called me a fag.

Danish-Why would I do that? My snuggly bubbly buggly buddgy wubbly bear.

Mayor-You said it again, you just called me a fag…you slut.

Danish-What the hell did you just call me?

Mayor-I called you my buddy bubby snuggly wuggly piggily wiggily mubbly pubbly snuggle bunny…cough *slut* cough

Danish-bullshit, you called me a slut, you impotent, useless sack of shit.

Mayor-Really, I’m not so useless that I can’t lift my leg and kick you in your barren uterus, you two-bit hog.

Danish-Hey, bite my ass, snuggly buggly wuggly piggy wiggy fee fie fo figgly bunny tubby.

Mayor-I want a seperation.

Danish-Go to hell and die. BTW, I had sex with your brother.

Mayor-He has AIDS, haha on you.

Johnnie Cochrane is Dead, and I’m Eating a Sandwich – Mitchieville Marathon Continues

Tuesday, December 7th, 2010

Mitchieville shoooore was a lot different back in March of the year of the Lord 2005. For better or worse, The Mayor can’t answer that. One thing that has not changed though, is Mitchieville’s attitude toward social responsibility. We have one. For better or worse, The Mayor can’t answer that.

I guess everyone knows by now that the race baiter Johnnie “rappin’ rhymin’” Cochrane is dead. As a tribute to Johnnie, I have composed a little poem that I’m sure will touch even the coldest of hearts.

Johnnie Cochrane was found dead,
He had a tumor in his head,
They found him laying in his bed,
His skull caved in, his nose it bled.

I wonder if anyone cries,
When they hear that a lawyer dies,
Water won’t flow from these eyes,
but that should come as no surprise.

Some people say Johnnie was great, you see,
Nicole and Ron might not agree,
Cuz Johnnie let a killer run free,
he’ll burn in hell for eternity.

Many people will attend Johnnie’s funeral day,
kind words will be spoken, here’s what they’ll say,
that the rhymin’ lawyer helped those in East L.A.,
I always thought he was kind of gay.

Bury him deep in a great big pit,
if he’s still alive who gives a shit?
Put him in the coffin, and if he won’t fit,
Too fucking bad, God won’t acquit.

Rest in pieces, fuck face.

The Onion of Social Responsibility

Tuesday, December 7th, 2010

While it is true that Mitchieville is very concerned about crime, it is also true that Mitchieville is more concerned about the victims of crime: specifically, the victims that cause the crime. Fenris explores this in the Onion of Social Responsibility, a post written on March 28, 2006.

I started crying when I looked at the police website listing on Toronto’s fourteenth gun and gang related homicide. There is a big picture of the victim, Romaine Lawrence, on the site. Just like the big pictures of the other fifteen innocents gunned down so far this year on the racist, sexist, anti-environmentalist streets of Toronto. Two others, Wayne and Jermaine, died that night too.

Politically correct diversity activists demand that the killers be brought to justice. Two others died that night, too: Homicides thirteen and fifteen. I started to visit the police website after Jane Creba was gunned down over the Christmas holidays. The Toronto Star, certainly the authoritive voice for fact based, hard hitting and unbiased mainstream newspaper coverage, does not explore all the possibilites and ask all the tough questions. I want answers!

Who is responsible? Is the man who pulled the trigger that fired the five slugs into Romaine’s torso, neck, and face responsible? Of course not. It is widely known that it is Jamacian street gangs that are the victims of this Holocaust, this Genocide, this Ethnic Cleansing, this War for Oil. And, the unthinking sheep of the Canadian public, the same dullards who voted for the evil Stephen Harper, wrongly believe that the Jamacian street gangster that pulls the trigger is the same as the person responsible for pulling the trigger. Not so. The people responsible for killing Romaine, Wayne and Jermaine are not the gunmen from rival gangs, but rural Christian farmers from Alberta.

Politically Correct Diversity Activists know this is true. It is called the Onion of Responsibility. Guilt for this crime does not rest with the actual finger on the trigger, but travels outward like layers of the onion, to those people who are unlike the triggerman. Especially to people who live far away, who oppose progressive causes, who delude themselves that abilty is necessary for employment, who support Christianity, who pursue pre-Feminist morality, who have jobs and question unaudited spending on social programs, and who think that human life begins before the abortion doctor says so. Like layers of the onion, the blood of Wayne, Romaine and Jermaine flows from the hands on the pistols and shotguns that cut them down outwards to the Conservative voters of rural Alberta. It is all your fault.

Wayne, Romaine, and Jermaine did not choose a life of crime and did not choose to die over a so called dispute over drug, pornography, and under age prostitution profits linked to a secret criminal society cemented with bisexual sex rituals. Heck no. Victims thirteen, fourteen and fifteen were forced by the absence of social programs, the lack of a caring society, and the shortage of money for low fat milk in public school lunches for the children of single mothers. Wayne, Romaine, and Jermaine, the Martyrs of March 28, did not even live in Canada when the Hitler of Ontario, Mike Harris, ended social spending. They came to Canada because of a lie. The state failed in its responsibility to replace their absentee fathers. There was no vegetarian banquet option for the three years of their grade seven schooling. No one thought it important to teach the History of Hip Hop. It is all the fault of society … and society is You, the Ungrateful Taxpayer, especially if you are from Alberta and vote Conservative. It is all your fault, because you are at the outermost layer of the Onion. You disgust me.

I, Fenris Badwulf, wrote this, because I care.

The police website is at: http://www.torontopolice.on.ca/newsreleases/

I Stabbed A Mall Walker Just To Watch Him Die – Mitchieville Marathon Continues

Tuesday, December 7th, 2010

**Dial this one back to May 1, 2008. Hey, that was May Day, comrade. There is a Part Deux to this story which can be found here.

It’s not as if the son of a bitch didn’t have it coming.

I had the misfortune of having to go to a mall the other day. It was only 9am and the stores don’t open until 9:30, so I thought I would go into the mall and just hang out for a few minutes. What I saw there forever changed my life: There were scores of old people in running shoes walking the mall.

There is something about an old person wearing running shoes that disgusts me. It is a medical fact that old people are better off physically when they stay at home and talk to the TV. A mall is no place for an old person, they could get trampled, they are, after all, very slow. In this were the animal kingdom and we were in Africa, old people would be gazelles.

At first I wasn’t sure why there were so many old people in running shoes at the mall so early in the morning, so I asked an old bitty. She told me that the people there were mall walkers, they were walking for physical fitness. After my laughter died down, which took about 12 minutes, I decided to study the mall walkers, I tried to get inside their heads.

The mall walkers came in all shapes and sizes, all colours and creeds. One thing I surmised right away though was that I didn’t like any of them. They seemed very determined and uptight, they seemed a little snooty, with a dash of snotty, peppered with a pinch of asshole. I decided to follow one particular, non-descript couple who, if i was to take an educated guess, had a combined age of 400.

I didn’t want the mall walkers to see me watching them, I wanted to be, in detective terms, “Incognito”. I figured I had a pretty good chance of not being seen as I knew ahead of time that old people have bad vision and terrible hearing. I believe I got that information from the Maury Povich show (You are not the father of Laquisha Pt 1, I believe).

The couple started out by the Orange Julius and headed west towards the Yarn Barn–and that’s where the trouble started….

Squirrel Fights – Mitchieville Marathon Continues

Tuesday, December 7th, 2010

It was July 9, 2008 when Mitchieville was introduced to Squirrel Fights. Wow, July 2008, The Mayor was just a little girl. Anyway, the constituents’ of Mitchieville demand their bread and circuses, and The Mayor aint nuttin’ if he aint a panderin’ to his constituents’ trivial pursuits.

Click on the Squirrel Fights tab above these words to find the whole series. It’s totally worth it.

Last night I promised to bring a contest to you that was so exciting you would urinate in your dungarees. Well prepare to pee, because Mitchieville presents: Squirrel Fights 2008.

The object of this game is simple: you bet on the outcome of each individual squirrel fight and the winner of the most fights after all is said and done will be declared grand champion and will get a few crappy prizes. Hell, I’ll even let you keep the squirrels if you want, Fenris doesn’t need them.

Nancy, our friend from Naples, gave me this idea when she sent me the first squirrel you see in the line-up: The Mango Muncher. I looked at Nancy’s squirrel, looked at my squirrel, looked at Nancy’s squirrel again, looked at mine, and decided that these two squirrels would do well to kick the living crap out of each other.

I can’t guarantee that the squirrels won’t get hurt, most likely they will. It’s the survival of the fittest out there, if a certain squirrel isn’t in fighting shape, then there is a good chance it will be taking a dirt nap at the end of the competition.

Every few days I will put two of the shown squirrel’s in a pillow case and let them fight it out until one of the squirrel’s concedes defeat. The night before a fight, I will feature on these pages, which squirrels will be duking it out. It is up to you to guess the winner. At the end of the competition, the person with the most victories will be declared the champion.

Let’s have a look at our competitors:


The Mango Muncher: 32-3-0 27 ko’s. This fella has a stellar record on the squirrel fighting circuit and is a vicious competitor. Owned by Nancy, and trained out of Naples Florida, MM is the favourite to win this competition. Odds 5/2. Finishing move: The Cranium Crunch.


Hailing from Calgary Alberta and fighting out of the Godless Commies garage, Kolonel Kill has a professional record of 23-6-1 21 ko’s. Kolonel Kill has never been knocked out and has been known to suck the blood from his opponents face after winning a match. Odds 3/1. Finishing move: Shoots opponent in skull with a bazooka.


Bug Eyed Jack is from Detroit and is trained by MACCO. She is 24-5-2, 17 ko’s. The only red squirrel in the competition, but many feel her colour is due to a bad dye job. Bug Eyed Jack has a terrible temper and was once seen mushing her opponents head into a mulberry bush while urinating on him. Odds 4/1. Finishing move: Spine twist with a suplex mix.


Igor the Russian Drunk may not look like a serious contender, but at 21-4-2, 18 KO’s, you would be a fool to not take him seriously. Hailing from that great commie paradise of Seattle, Igor is the European heavyweight squirrel fighting champion. Trained by KTon, he comes in at 5/1. Finishing move: Borscht Smash.


Elephantitis Eli is 43-10-0, 28 KO’s. A technical and veteran fighter that trains out of Denver, EE may not be the favourite, but to overlook her would be folly. EE once held all three squirrel fighting crowns at one time, the only squirrel to ever accomplish that feat. Trained by Darren, EE goes off at 6/1. Finishing Move: Testicle drag across the face.


Freddy the Happy Squirrel may quite possibly have the gayest name of any professional fighting squirrel, but don’t let gay monikers fool you, this son of a bitch is all fight. Training out of Guelph, Ontario by Jonmas, FTHS is 33-6-1, 29KO’s. Odds: 8/1. Finishing move: Poke in the eye with a sharp stick.

And there you have it, the six competitors that are going to duke it out starting next Tuesday. Why are we waiting so long for the first fight? You need to be patient, squirrel training takes time, you just can’t throw these fuckers in a pillow case without the proper training. I’m surprised you know so little about the art of squirrel fighting.

I will preview the first two competitors next Monday night. You will have your chance to make your predictions then. For now, study these fighters, learn everything you can about them. Google them.

I have every reason that this isn’t going to turn out well, don’t I?

Elizabeth Barrett Browning gets jiggy with it – Mitchieville Marathon Continues

Tuesday, December 7th, 2010

The first thing most people think of when they think of Mitchieville is its rich culture. The Mayor finds it hard to disagree. Here’s some urban poetry The Mayor jotted down one night while watching Man vs Food while all hopped up on percocets and Valu-Rite vodka. From January 11, 2005.

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways, Yo.

I love thee like a two bit hoe loves a warm crack pipe on a cold winters night,

I love thee like a restraining order loves Michael Jackson, shit.

I love thee freely, cuz I can’t afford to pay for booty;

I love thee purely, cuz dog don’t want no Aids and shit.

I love thee so much that I would give you shit back that I never stole in the first place.

I love thee like I love my kids Shakisha, Momeaka, Lodeisha, Rhodesia, and Paprika.

Smiles, tears, of all my life!, and some Value Rite Vodka so we can get lit, yo.

I shall but love thee better after death, cuz if you fuck around on me dog, I’ll cap your ass.

Scarborough east side, represent. Peace out yo.

Joe shits in his bed, twice – Mitchieville Marathon Continues

Tuesday, December 7th, 2010

Here’s a little tribute to my buddy Joe. Joe had a stomach flu around Christmas time, and told all his friends a charming story about how he shit his bed, twice. From January 9, 2005.

Joe didn’t feel well this Christmas night,

He even missed dinner, he ate not a bite,

He said his tummy wasn’t feeling right,

So he went to bed, and turned out the light.

He felt like it would be better if he was dead,

His stomach was grumbling, his face it was red,

His temp it was high, there was a pounding in his head,

Then he fell asleep, and shit in his bed.

When he woke up, he was covered in goo,

Messy and sticky, rolling in poo,

It was on his face, his arms, his back, that is true,

I think even Domenica was laying in it too,

He went to the washroom to clean off the crap,

All the poor fucker wanted to do, was to go back and nap,

So he changed the sheets and climbed back into the sack,

Hopefully that was the last of his bowel attack.

But on this night, God was not his friend,

He should have gone to sleep wearing depends,

I guess his nightmare wouldn’t quite end,

Cuz he shit his bed, again and again.

The difference between Joe and his dog is certainly deep,

I suppose that his dog wouldn’t shit where it sleeps.

Joe should sleep on some newspaper, instead of his sheets,

Cuz those things cost money, they sure aint cheap.

The moral of the story is plain to see,

Wrap a bag around your body if you’re feeling diseased,

Take ammodium for your gut, and aspirin for your head,

And maybe you wont shit in your bed.

I Lost My Virginity at the Ikea – Mitchieville Marathon Continues

Tuesday, December 7th, 2010

This post is from December something 2006. It’s hard to believe it’s been three years since The Mayor lost his virginity. It’s ever harder trying to explain that to two legitimate teenage boys.

I first spotted Aria in the bedroom section of Ikea, she was looking at the hoofenfruegals and I was admiring her perfect jurstameistins. It was kärlek at first sight.

She looked at me knowingly, first staring into my eyes, later staring at my bulberfluren. I fell into her gaze, thinking she was the most perfect tik I have ever seen. I wanted to lose myself in her tjuvofyra, I wanted to taste her gaspelund. I would have settled just to eat the gruffels from her åsna.

She walked up to me, her plump norsefund wiggling like a bowl of hogbo. She said she had never seen someone as skön as I, she told me that I made her hjärta tremble. I returned the compliment and told her that she made my kran hurt. We embraced each other, completely oblivious to everyone around us. She whispered in my ear that she wanted me to malm her vlookenhibber right in her sweet tookemburri. I told her sure, as long as she sucks my magiker until it spurts lepenheimer.

I threw her on the Svandal (only $399 after manufacturers rebate) and stripped off her kläder. I was amazed to find that she had three yubertishlers. I didn’t care, I spleted them all equally. She reached down between my legs and put my gupensteinlers in her hand. She told me that my floofenpupter was as big as a whapenjuster. She was right, I do have one hell of a floofenpupter.

We couldn’t control ourselves any longer, we started to make love right on the Svandal. As we were making crazy älska, an old lady walked by and screamed that she could see my floofenpupter. I was about to yell at the old bag when Aria informed me that it was her mother. When I heard that I squirted my semelister all over her vloorinwippem. There is nothing worse than premature grupenjister.

The old hag dragged Aria away by her pubedjoosten, and I haven’t seen her since. That’s the way life is, sometimes the world is your oyster, and sometimes life kicks you right in the bluckalbunster.

Yahoo Personals Interpreted – Mitchieville Marathon Continues

Tuesday, December 7th, 2010

As most of my constituents are aware by now, The Mayor has been a Yahoo Personal Ad Whisperer from way back. The Mayor can take a Yahoo Personal Ad and find the exact truth of that ad. It is not only a hard skill, it is also an art. The Mayor isn’t so humble that he can’t admit his greatness. This post dates back to May 9, 2007.

Just about everything that goes into a personal ad is a load of crap, everyone with a functioning bladder knows it. If we actually said what was true, there wouldn’t be personal ads, there would be tons of restraining orders, but very few personal ads.

Here is a real personal ad that was posted on Yahoo personals by some chick:

OK, here goes…. I love music, animals, the outdoors, a good lightning storm, simple innocent acts of kindness that for the most part go unnoticed. I read a lot of literature.
i.e. Byron, Jung, Sagan, Goethe, The fountain head, James Allen’s “as a man thinkith”
I like to challange my mind. I recently moved back to Pa. I am originally from
Potter County. I play guitar and write music and poetry. I write alot of stuff i think about. blah blah ….. jeez, i’m not to sure what i just wrote back there but it kinda just all came out.

Here is that same personal ad truthfully interpreted:

I can’t shut my fat mouth, I drive everyone crazy. No one likes being around me because I smell of eastern European cheeses and beer farts. If I told you I had sex within the last 22 years, I’d be nothing more than a filthy liar.

I’ll tell you that I read Jung and Sagan because it makes me look smart. However, the only thing I have ever read is the back of a Frosted Flakes box and the scale in my bathroom…which says 265.

I love animals. Actually, I really only enjoy eating them. I have a nipple torture fetish and I like to pretend that I have no arms. I use to write poetry until I found out that I am a worthless poet. So then I tried to write a poem about how useless I was, but that didn’t work out because I’m so fucking useless.

I love jamming deviled eggs into my rectum. My underarm hair is so long you could play it like a harpsichord. My ears have hair in them and I can’t see my feet. I haven’t wiped my bum in 12 years because my arms can’t reach back there. I often smear peanut butter on my vagina and me and my monkey play, “Smooth or crunchy?”

I need a man to shoot me in the head.

Light my Wiccan – Mitchieville Marathon Continues

Tuesday, December 7th, 2010

**Here is a post about surveillance and intrigue. A little detective work, if you will. This dates back to the glory days of 2005, Jan 11 to be exact. What a great day that was, I remember everything about that day, including the smells and the sounds. It smelled like tapioca pudding.

As my New Years resolution, I decided I was going to join a local group in Mitchieville, to expand my horizons, if you will. I checked out a few places, but I wasn’t really interested in what they had to offer, until I stumbled across a unique group called the Wiccans Of Mitchieville’s Birthright, or WOMB.

It wasn’t easy getting into the WOMB, I really had to force myself in. I had to grease the WOMB first, and after I penetrated it, I went to my first meeting tonight. What a mistake.

I’ll have to be honest with you, the only reason I even entered the WOMB was to meet women. You see, being the Mayor of Mitchieville is a 24/7/365 job. It consumes most of my time and leaves little room for a social life. I figured if I could shove myself into the WOMB, I might be lucky enough to meet a good woman and settle down a bit, fill my life so to speak.

They asked me to bring a sacrifice to the “meeting”. No problem, I brought a box of Pot O’ Gold. I barely got through the door when the women basically attacked me and took the chocolates and started devouring them. It was like watching bad porn. They had chocolate all over their faces, and were making these animal grumblings and moans. It was kinda sickening, but I’m hardly a judgmental guy, so I let this slide.

Since I didn’t have anything to eat for dinner, I figured I’d hit the buffet table first and grab some cold-cuts and a whiskey. Turns out that the Wiccans are vegan, and they don’t drink booze. Strike one and strike two. I couldn’t figure out how women so fat could survive only on vegetables, it was a mystery to me. I don’t like vegetables, they seem like a tool of the devil, so I just kinda waited by the pentagram and put out some cool vibes.

The “meeting” was called to order, and we were all asked to take a seat on the floor and recite some script that all the Wiccans seemed to know. Since I didn’t know it, I sang Black Magic Woman and played the air guitar. I fucking rock.

Things just didn’t seem to be going well. For one thing, the WOMB were all dressed in black. I asked one of the little freaks beside me why don’t they put on a splash of colour, tidy themselves up a bit, maybe even spray some perfume on themselves. That didn’t go over too well. She told me that they are all unique, all individuals and don’t conform to traditional society. I said to her, if you are all individuals, and are all unique, why do you all dress exactly the fucking same then?.

Next came the pentagram ceremony. What a real yawner that was. Get in the pentagram, get out of the pentagram, put your left foot in the pentagram, take your left foot out of the pentagram. I thought we were doing the frickin’ Hokey Pokey.

The WOMB isn’t for me, I thought I’d love being in the WOMB, but the WOMB sucks. I’d like to smash the WOMB, the WOMB is cruel.

For any woman thinking of getting into the WOMB, you better think twice. The WOMB isn’t for everybody, only a select few should be allowed to go into the WOMB. I thought I’d be a good member in the WOMB, that I could take the WOMB, that I could suck it up and beat the WOMB, but sadly, they won, I found I couldn’t lick the WOMB.

For everyone out there who is stuck in the WOMB, get out and get help. If we all band together we can eliminate the WOMB.

Saving Money with the Mayor – Mitchieville Marathon

Tuesday, December 7th, 2010

The Mayor has a series devoted to getting stuff for free. It is amazing the bargains that he finds. From March 16, 2009 * .

One thing you can always count on in any Global Economic Meltdown™ is the inevitable stupid lists that tell us mere mortals how to save money. These type of lists seem endless. And the one thing all these lists have in common is the complete lack of any new or original idea as to how to save money, or any creative idea as to how to make any money. They are lame from the head up and the neck down and are trying on my soul. I weep.

Take this article I read today (please) from Yahoo Finance–Back to Financial Basics, 10 ways to save money. Among some of the gems to help us save some of our hard earned cash include:

  • Get some fresh air — Walking is good for you, and it’s cheaper than driving.
  • Give up your car altogether
  • Limit the luxuries — do you really need over 500 channels?
  • Skip the little things — make your own coffee in the morning. Instead of spending $5 a day on gourmet coffee, take it with you from home.
  • Eat out less

As I said, the list is typical in its lameosity (and yes, that most certainly is a word).

So I was figuring, since every arsehole and his semi-retarded cousin has a stupid list out on how to save cash, and seeing as I’m semi-retarded and a pretty ginormous arsehole, I’d give you ten useless and obvious ways to save money. It may not be a good, or even fun list, but it will give you something to read while you wait for your buttered scone to nuke.

Meet me after the break for some jolitity (yes, that most certainly is a word)

(more…)

Romantic Mitchieville – Mitchieville Marathon

Tuesday, December 7th, 2010

Yes, you can turn to Mitchieville for the caring times, too. From December 6th, 2005 * :

As I sit with my beloved in the warm embrace of our loving home, I look into her eyes and then we join in a shared sacrement of our eternal love: Our lips share the goodness that is The Bran Muffin.

Yes, Good Citizens of Mitchieville, as our arms are entwined, we eat natures perfect food, the Bran Muffin. This simple baked good, celebrated in song and in sonnet, praised by poets and proctologists alike, is correctly equated with virility among men and fertility among women. Baldness is rumored to be cured by a daily diet of a single morning muffin of bran, Potent erections return with renewed iron resolve when your colon smiles with a steady flow of bran, depression flees before it’s fiber goodness.

The author of The Lord of the Rings used The Bran Muffin as his model for the life giving food of the elves. Yes, lembas, the way bread of the fairy folk, is indeed the simple and nourishing Bran Muffin! The Orcs, their sallow complexions and pinched dispositions are bitter charactitures of the chronically constipated. So, Good Citizens, with whom do you march? The smiling colons of the Elves? Or the tormented intestines of the Orcs?

Let this be your thought of the day, this day. Gobble down a Bran Muffin today. Look forward to fulfillment and self-actualization. Surely toil and stress fade before the rising sun of healthy goodness. Be filled with the life force! Enpower yourself with a Bran Muffin today, tomorrow, and forward into eternity!

I love children. As the tiny tots are readied for return to their parents after a day in daycare, I dispatch my tiny charges fortified with a bran muffin. As a treat, they also get a Cadillac, a beverage blend of a cup of coffee with a chocolate bar dissolved in the hot liquid. This is consumed only minuites before the happy energetic charges are reunited with their workforce parents. The tykes love it. No one has ever complained.

The Bran Muffin is your sword and shield against distemper and plague. Let your visits to the proctologist be filled with joy and singing and poetry. Let the unwise Orcs face the Rectonaut Probe. Be an elf and eat your daily Bran Muffin. There is no better way to tell someone you love them. Give the gift of life that fills them with love … The Bran Muffin.

I, Fenris Badwulf, wrote this, thanks to a generous grant from the Septic Tank Pump Truck Owner-Operators Association of South Western Ontario