1. No -- they fail you!
   


2. As if they don't, as well, sometimes also fail you, too. Sometimes.
   Bore Vidal.
   


3. Just fuckin' with you, man.
   


4. Yeah? Well, self-defense fails you.
   


5. Fat lips fail Gore Vidal. [Note: could lead to retaliatory kiss.]
   


6. Maybe, but my fist is a success!
   


7. Just wanted to see if a black eye twinkles.
   


8. Nice try, Myra Breckenridge.
   


9. I don't need that many as long as I've got my favorite two: "knuckle
   sandwich."
   


10. Yep - and as soon as you get up, they're gonna fail me once more.
    

Mommy's Not Going to Heaven and Neither Are You! By Christopher Hitchens Amazon.com Sales Rank: #18 in Books Most Recent Customer Reviews: "Finally! This is the definitive atheist and antitheist polemic teaching tool for children! A must-have for any contrarian who views religion as a devastating manmade conceit with which to subjugate the masses and suppress independent thought! Beautifully illustrated!"

The Adventures of Billy the Rapist and His Zionist Henchmen By Christopher Hitchens Amazon.com Sales Rank: #324 in Books Most Recent Customer Reviews: "I'm not really sure that this is suitable for children and, regardless of pages and pages of exhaustive pontificating about the occupation of Palestine ... I don't think my kid should be reading about a bunny character who rapes his interns! (Besides, what bunny rabbit has an intern?) This book is strictly neo-con pejorative allegory and I don't think it's suitable for the suggested ages of 4-8 let alone anyone. Also, at 432 pages, it's a little long for a bedtime story."

Hiccup Harry and the Order of Leprechauns By Christopher Hitchens Amazon.com Sales Rank: #457 in Books Most Recent Customer Reviews: "Even though this is a flimsy knockoff of J. K. Rowling, Hitchens has crafted a whimsical fairytale about a teetotaler with chronic hiccups who goes off the wagon after his parents are killed, and falls in with a group of leprechauns from the mythical Kingdom of Briarlande. These Leprechauns are trying to reunite their fractured country after a group of evil separatists (lead by the nefarious Lord Galloward) launch a revolution and divide the country. The story gets a bit lost in Harry's drinking adventures (he tells the leprechauns that he drinks to make others more tolerable) and some of the language is a bit strong for young readers; but it's a great read and sets the tone for the series as Harry embarks on a quest to unite Briarlande."

Dear God, How Come I'm Not Funny? By Christopher Hitchens Amazon.com Sales Rank: #502 in Books Most Recent Customer Reviews: "A series of diary entries told through the eyes of Tiffany Flustercluck, an angst-ridden Christian teenager coming of age in Scottsdale, Arizona. Tiffany struggles with peer pressure, her newfound femininity and her genetic inability to make people laugh. How will she ever get a boy to like her? Almost hilarious!"

Smokey Smoke-a-licious! By Christopher Hitchens Amazon.com Sales Rank: #700 in Books Most Recent Customer Reviews: "This amazing picture-book follows Smokey around the country around as he smokes in public places, candy stores and milk bars! His parents warn him about the dangers of smoking, but Smokey doesn't get sick--he gets smarter! Soon he's studying Trotsky and Jefferson and palling around with hot college girls at Georgetown! But what will he do when faced with a nationwide draconian law banning smoking in milk bars? What else? Appear on a million talk shows denouncing the archaic puritanical mollycoddling of the fascist germophobes, (or germofascists), who seek to rid the world of pollution by littering the streets with their uninformed pro-life screeds on health-care initiatives! Absolutely enchanting! My three-year-old loved it! We can't wait for the Broadway musical! A must-read for kids and disenfranchised smokers of all ages!"

Other Entities That Are Not Great, According to an Inebriated but Still Quite Formidable Christopher Hitchens

Alexander the Great
A thieving, fanatical Albanian dwarf. Wait. That's what I said about Mother Theresa. My usually encyclopedic memory has perhaps been muddied a bit by that third bottle of Black Label. A buggering, megalomaniacal Macedonian midget. There, that's much better. Though one must concede that Alexander could famously imbibe gallons of the wine-skinned swill of his age and still remain standing--nay, defiant--a trait I wholeheartedly admire and endorse.

Raping and pillaging ones way across half the globe hardly qualifies one for greatness per se, though one could say that at least Alexander did something proactive, unlike the cringing, odious cowards of the Left. They seem content to acquiesce and appease, like fucking Chamberlain kowtowing to das Fuhrer, while real men of courage like George W. Bush and Dick Cheney stand and fight--nay, volunteer--for service in ... er ... well, regardless, I'm still right about Iraq. Fuck off.

The Great Wall of China
This supposedly impenetrable structure hardly kept those fucking unwashed Mongols from invading and subjugating their supposedly "divine" middle kingdom. Speaking of divinity, the Chinese insistence that their emperor was the "son of heaven" smacks of that most corrupt and pernicious of all evils, religion.

One could say the Chinese almost deserved to have the Mongols overwhelm them. But saying so would infer the existence of the aforementioned divinity, in its infamous guise of "retribution." This quaint notion is of course paradoxically disproved by the success of immoral abominations as Henry Kissinger, Jerry Falwell, and that true pillar of fraud and malfeasance, Mother Theresa.

Alas, the impractical battlement is utterly porous when compared to the stalwart adamantine barriers against Islamofascism erected by the intrepid and prescient Mr. Bush, much to the chagrin of my spineless antagonists on the Left, especially the intellectually stunted sycophants at The Nation.

They'd like nothing more than to verily throw open the gates of western civilization to terrorists and jihadists--nay, invite--them in for fucking lemonade. Virgin of course, lest they offend their guests fragile religious sensibilities. As the great W.C. Fields once remarked, "Never trust a man who doesn't drink"; the obvious corollary to this is always trust one who does, especially one who can drink enough for three stout men, yet still remain lucid--nay, triumphant--scattering his bleating rivals before him.

Wayne Gretsky
A simpering Bambi narcissist. Wait. Damn, that's what I called Princess Diana. Seriously, can one be considered "great" based on one's excellence in a gross physical activity? Or in anything regarded by the unwashed masses as "sport"? True fucking sport involves the verbal evisceration and humiliation of one's sputtering and overmatched foes, preferably in a charged public forum, before a gasping throng of cowed but fawning spectators.

Also he never had to contend with the vicious cross-checking and man-marking that Mario Lemieaux suffered through on a nightly basis. One is reminded of the constant barrage from the caterwauling liberal press on the indefatigable Mr. Bush.

Alas, the peace-mongering Canadians' insistence on deifying "the Great One" is simply replacing one false god with another, though at least Gretsky has video evidence of his "greatness", unlike Jesus or Mohammed, or that thieving bitch Mother Theresa.

Frosted Flakes
The rabid frothing of their pathetic anthropomorphic tiger mascot notwithstanding, these "flakes" decompose in seconds into an insipid, over-sweet slurry, not unlike the sugarcoated pap generated by the insipid dolts infesting the cubicles at The Nation.

Now if you'll excuse me I have to get something solid to eat to help forestall an imminent buggering hangover. Sod off.

Mommy's Not Going to Heaven and Neither Are You! By Christopher Hitchens Amazon.com Sales Rank: #18 in Books Most Recent Customer Reviews: "Finally! This is the definitive atheist and antitheist polemic teaching tool for children! A must-have for any contrarian who views religion as a devastating manmade conceit with which to subjugate the masses and suppress independent thought! Beautifully illustrated!"

The Adventures of Billy the Rapist and His Zionist Henchmen By Christopher Hitchens Amazon.com Sales Rank: #324 in Books Most Recent Customer Reviews: "I'm not really sure that this is suitable for children and, regardless of pages and pages of exhaustive pontificating about the occupation of Palestine ... I don't think my kid should be reading about a bunny character who rapes his interns! (Besides, what bunny rabbit has an intern?) This book is strictly neo-con pejorative allegory and I don't think it's suitable for the suggested ages of 4-8 let alone anyone. Also, at 432 pages, it's a little long for a bedtime story."

Hiccup Harry and the Order of Leprechauns By Christopher Hitchens Amazon.com Sales Rank: #457 in Books Most Recent Customer Reviews: "Even though this is a flimsy knockoff of J. K. Rowling, Hitchens has crafted a whimsical fairytale about a teetotaler with chronic hiccups who goes off the wagon after his parents are killed, and falls in with a group of leprechauns from the mythical Kingdom of Briarlande. These Leprechauns are trying to reunite their fractured country after a group of evil separatists (lead by the nefarious Lord Galloward) launch a revolution and divide the country. The story gets a bit lost in Harry's drinking adventures (he tells the leprechauns that he drinks to make others more tolerable) and some of the language is a bit strong for young readers; but it's a great read and sets the tone for the series as Harry embarks on a quest to unite Briarlande."

Dear God, How Come I'm Not Funny? By Christopher Hitchens Amazon.com Sales Rank: #502 in Books Most Recent Customer Reviews: "A series of diary entries told through the eyes of Tiffany Flustercluck, an angst-ridden Christian teenager coming of age in Scottsdale, Arizona. Tiffany struggles with peer pressure, her newfound femininity and her genetic inability to make people laugh. How will she ever get a boy to like her? Almost hilarious!"

Smokey Smoke-a-licious! By Christopher Hitchens Amazon.com Sales Rank: #700 in Books Most Recent Customer Reviews: "This amazing picture-book follows Smokey around the country around as he smokes in public places, candy stores and milk bars! His parents warn him about the dangers of smoking, but Smokey doesn't get sick--he gets smarter! Soon he's studying Trotsky and Jefferson and palling around with hot college girls at Georgetown! But what will he do when faced with a nationwide draconian law banning smoking in milk bars? What else? Appear on a million talk shows denouncing the archaic puritanical mollycoddling of the fascist germophobes, (or germofascists), who seek to rid the world of pollution by littering the streets with their uninformed pro-life screeds on health-care initiatives! Absolutely enchanting! My three-year-old loved it! We can't wait for the Broadway musical! A must-read for kids and disenfranchised smokers of all ages!"

Other Entities That Are Not Great, According to an Inebriated but Still Quite Formidable Christopher Hitchens

Alexander the Great
A thieving, fanatical Albanian dwarf. Wait. That's what I said about Mother Theresa. My usually encyclopedic memory has perhaps been muddied a bit by that third bottle of Black Label. A buggering, megalomaniacal Macedonian midget. There, that's much better. Though one must concede that Alexander could famously imbibe gallons of the wine-skinned swill of his age and still remain standing--nay, defiant--a trait I wholeheartedly admire and endorse.

Raping and pillaging ones way across half the globe hardly qualifies one for greatness per se, though one could say that at least Alexander did something proactive, unlike the cringing, odious cowards of the Left. They seem content to acquiesce and appease, like fucking Chamberlain kowtowing to das Fuhrer, while real men of courage like George W. Bush and Dick Cheney stand and fight--nay, volunteer--for service in ... er ... well, regardless, I'm still right about Iraq. Fuck off.

The Great Wall of China
This supposedly impenetrable structure hardly kept those fucking unwashed Mongols from invading and subjugating their supposedly "divine" middle kingdom. Speaking of divinity, the Chinese insistence that their emperor was the "son of heaven" smacks of that most corrupt and pernicious of all evils, religion.

One could say the Chinese almost deserved to have the Mongols overwhelm them. But saying so would infer the existence of the aforementioned divinity, in its infamous guise of "retribution." This quaint notion is of course paradoxically disproved by the success of immoral abominations as Henry Kissinger, Jerry Falwell, and that true pillar of fraud and malfeasance, Mother Theresa.

Alas, the impractical battlement is utterly porous when compared to the stalwart adamantine barriers against Islamofascism erected by the intrepid and prescient Mr. Bush, much to the chagrin of my spineless antagonists on the Left, especially the intellectually stunted sycophants at The Nation.

They'd like nothing more than to verily throw open the gates of western civilization to terrorists and jihadists--nay, invite--them in for fucking lemonade. Virgin of course, lest they offend their guests fragile religious sensibilities. As the great W.C. Fields once remarked, "Never trust a man who doesn't drink"; the obvious corollary to this is always trust one who does, especially one who can drink enough for three stout men, yet still remain lucid--nay, triumphant--scattering his bleating rivals before him.

Wayne Gretsky
A simpering Bambi narcissist. Wait. Damn, that's what I called Princess Diana. Seriously, can one be considered "great" based on one's excellence in a gross physical activity? Or in anything regarded by the unwashed masses as "sport"? True fucking sport involves the verbal evisceration and humiliation of one's sputtering and overmatched foes, preferably in a charged public forum, before a gasping throng of cowed but fawning spectators.

Also he never had to contend with the vicious cross-checking and man-marking that Mario Lemieaux suffered through on a nightly basis. One is reminded of the constant barrage from the caterwauling liberal press on the indefatigable Mr. Bush.

Alas, the peace-mongering Canadians' insistence on deifying "the Great One" is simply replacing one false god with another, though at least Gretsky has video evidence of his "greatness", unlike Jesus or Mohammed, or that thieving bitch Mother Theresa.

Frosted Flakes
The rabid frothing of their pathetic anthropomorphic tiger mascot notwithstanding, these "flakes" decompose in seconds into an insipid, over-sweet slurry, not unlike the sugarcoated pap generated by the insipid dolts infesting the cubicles at The Nation.

Now if you'll excuse me I have to get something solid to eat to help forestall an imminent buggering hangover. Sod off.

his e-mail will serve to inform you that your subscription to Netflix has been canceled. We found out what you did, and we think it's disgusting.

This e-mail will also serve as notice that you are no longer a member of the Y.M.C.A. The Y is a community organization and has served families in this area for more than a hundred years, while encouraging healthy lifestyles and active citizenship for all. Naturally, we don't want someone like you hanging around.

Additionally, the state D.O.T. is revoking your driver's license. In the event of your death, you will not be allowed to donate your organs. No one wants them anymore.

The session of jury duty you served last year has been stricken from the record and the case on which you served will be retried. Had we known then what we know now, you would not have been called.

While your health insurance cannot be stripped from you, even under these circumstances, your provider has created a plan designed specifically for you that will not cover any expenses but will deduct a significantly higher amount from your paycheck every two weeks. It's better than you deserve.

On second thought, you're fired.

Not to mention: Your dry cleaning has been incinerated, the remaining value of your gift cards and gift certificates has been electronically deleted, your contributions to various charities will be returned, your electricity will be shut off in three days, no one will compliment your appearance, all your jokes will fall flat, someone will vandalize the front door of your apartment, and you will forget how to whistle.

Also, your mother has disowned you.

Finally, this e-mail will be your last e-mail. People like you should not be allowed to communicate on the Internet. You'll just make things worse than they already are.

We just thought you should know.

Sincerely,
Everyone

Apostles: The Original Entourage

Matt Sullivan

TEASER TRAILER

Entourage Chat Room

Brendon Lloyd

arygold666: hey E vince might not get the movie pls hold
[_E_]: O NOEZ WHAT R WE GOING TO DO DAMN TERTELZ QUIT SPENDING ALL THE MONEY WTF
tERTELZ: man why u gotta h8
*** VINCE_CHASE has entered
VINCE_CHASE: hey u guys whats wrong
[_E_]: nothing
DR4M4: i made nachos
VINCE_CHASE: kk lets go to the party
*** VINCE_CHASE has left
*** [_E_] has left
*** tERTELZ has left
*** arygold666 has left
*** DR4M4 has left
*** VINCE_CHASE has entered
*** DR4M4 has entered
*** [_E_] has entered
*** arygold666 has entered
*** tERTELZ has entered
arygold666: hey n/m about what i said vince got the movie
[_E_]: OMG I THOT HE WOULD NOT LOLOLOLOLOLOL!!@#!@
VINCE_CHASE: NEW MOTORCYCLES AND SEX WITH LADIEZ 4 EVERY1!!!!
DR4M4: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
tERTELZ: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Denial
652 pages. Six hundred and fifty-two. After Order of the Phoenix's 870 pages, I suppose this is light reading. Then I remember that I forgot the entire content of the blue-covered book having whipped through it two long summers ago. I can't go back to it, yet I'm having problems moving forward. Harry is no longer my sweet little boy wizard and I cannot deal with this. He is captain of the Quidditch team and discussing his future as Auror. He is starting to have very teenage daydreams about witches. This isn't happening. One day he is innocently scarfing Chocolate Frogs, the next he must battle evil incarnate or die. And then, 596 pages later, as I've slowly moved towards acceptance of our Harry on the cusp of adult wizardhood, THE death occurs. My eyes repeatedly scan the words "Avada Kedavra!," the death curse uttered by Snape to Dumbledore. Surely, it is a mirage. Ms. Rowling is playing tricks with my mind. Those words only appear because I've been reading for seventeen straight hours and my mind can no longer process the English language. Our beloved headmaster isn't dead; he's just sleeping.

Anger
Our beloved headmaster is dead. Now I'm pissed. Regardless of Snape's hateful attitude toward Harry and preference for that snot-nosed, bleached-blond pretty boy Malfoy, Dumbledore trusted him. I TRUSTED HIM. How, for the past sixteen years, has Snape followed Dumbledore's gentle yet firm orders, only to ruthlessly murder this most loyal and highly skilled wizard? A wizard that gave him a job and a home at Hogwarts when he could have, should have turned him away? Snape infuriates me: I always thought he was way too creepy cute in the movies not to do his part in eliminating evil. This seriously screws with my view of controlling, sullen, slightly disturbing, deep-voiced men. I start to question everyone who has ever promised me anything and snap at anyone who asks if I've finished the book yet.

Bargaining
If anyone can bring Dumbledore back it's you, Harry, our hero. Didn't you learn some anti-jinxes in Defense against the Dark Arts? Can't you get that brainiac Hermione to mix up a potion? Conjure a Patronus, channel your dead dad, do whatever it takes for five more minutes with Dumbledore! Go get Fawkes, the beautiful phoenix with the healing tears! He can blubber all over Dumbledore until he rises again, stronger than ever. Dumbledore's silvery beard will glisten in the moonlight; his eyes will shine behind his half-moon spectacles. With boundless authority he will impart on us his wizardly wisdom so we can rest easy, knowing full well Hogwarts is safe under his watch.

Depression
I am never reading again. Harry has nobody. First, his parents are killed and he is left in the negligent care of the Dursleys. Had Harry lived in America, Child Protective Services would have most definitely removed him from that household. Then Sirius, Harry's godfather and the only parental figure he has ever known, was knocked off. Dumbledore is gone, and before long Ron and Hermione will give in to their adolescent desires and catch up on six lost years of snogging. All Harry has left is to single-handedly save the entire world without getting himself killed. This reminds me of how dreary our non-magical universe is and how we face mostly grim prospects by trying to help our fellow man. Damn you, Rowling.

Acceptance
Dumbledore did not die in vain; we can seek comfort in our memories and well-worn copies of the first six books. Dumbledore coached Harry through some of the darkest periods of his young life. Perhaps Snape will even prove himself good somewhere in his seemingly blackened heart. After all, he had ample opportunity to kill Harry and never did. Maybe Snape will even penetrate the circle of dark wizards and use this knowledge to help defeat them. I accept that J. K. Rowling wants to put us, faithful readers, in her trusting embrace of Harry's future, where there is always hope. I accept that even though this is the only series of sci-fi/fantasy books I have ever read, I became somewhat of a sci-fi/fantasy dork because of it. I accept that Book Seven may be the answer to our questions. I don't know if I can accept that I may have to wait three years to find out.

Memo: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Guy.

O

.K., O.K., O.K., I know it's five o'clock, but seriously, they needed this yesterday. This will take less than a minute, I swear to you, so let's bang this out real quick right now, O.K.? Great--hold on--(Into cellphone:) Jimmy! Hi! I was just going to call you! Yeah, she's faxing it to you right now, right this second. Of course I'm sure. O.K. (hangs up) O.K., so what do we have so far? Right, O.K., so. Ahhhhhhhhm. Ahhhhhhh, O.K., so we got Voldemort, right, the Death Eaters, you got that part already, right? What do you mean? Haven't you been listening? O.K., fine, so Voldemort and the death eaters and the Dementors, terrorizing London, yada yada. Make it sound really good, really creepy. Everyone's scared, you know, make it scary. O.K. Ahhhhhhhhhhm. Uhhhhhhhhhh. O.K., then, or, first, before that, Ralph Scrimihumma, right, Rufus, that's what I said, becomes the Minister of Magic--Oh, and you got the thing with Weasley and What'sherface, Hillary? Right, Hermione, that's what I said. We've got to make this good, so do you think you could please try to pay attention? Oh, but first, we gotta get in the thing about Harry's textbook, all the special spells, the Half-Blood Prince thingy, right, transcription, fine. See, at the end of this, it's going to be great, there's the Dark Mark over Hogwarts, and What'shisface gets killed, ooh, you'll love it, very scary, it's great. O.K., O.K. You know, you really should have had this to Jimmy already, like, yesterday. Ahhhhhhhhh, oh you got the thing about schmeckle, right, you know, whaddycallit, Snape, Severus Snape, right? Jesus, Shirley, are you even listening? Could you try to get this down? (Into cellphone:) Jimmy! You didn't? I'll have Shirley fax it again--she's useless! (Hangs up.) I'm kidding, you're great. O.K., where were we, ahhhhhhhhhhm, O.K., do a chart here. Can we do it Excel? O.K., so it's Voldemort's four horcruxes that must be destroyed, and then like a chart and pie chart or something. Fine, O.K. Ahhhhhhhhhhh. Ahhhhhhhh. Then, it turns out that Fleineyfloo, Whatshisname, Alan Rickman, he's the Half-Blood Prince. Brilliant, isn't it? And then, wait, you got the part with the Malfoy kid and how he's in cahoots with, you know, Schmuterbub, Whathisname, right? That's crucial, Shirley, please try to pay attention. O.K., get Jimmy on the phone right now. O.K., and you're getting this, right, so Hogwart's all messed up, it's perfect, we leave room for another sequel. I'm good, right? Good enough, fine, O.K., so read that back to me.

H

E BOARDS THE TRAIN, and shoves through the pulsing and chattering river of students to his compartment. Ron is there. Hermione is there. Ron is too long and too tall for his robes and Ron is hungry because Ron is poor. Hermione studies. Somewhere in a summer land infertile for lessons Hermione has found something to study and so she studies and she does not look up. She does not look up. Outside the sweets trolley bangs and the train begins to move. Wheels slot to rail scream like a mother screams protecting her infant from murder as she is murdered in turn. The wheels scream like a man struck by a curse reversed. The trolley bangs and a prefect glowers but the attendant has long put away respect for the badges of children.

The Houses gather and meals appear and the sausages' skins are split down to their essence of greasy dead flesh. Fricative shoulders and the babble of students but Harry is alone. He rubs the scar he carries that is a portal to the Dark Lord himself and he is alone. Neville has managed to transfigure his fingers into gardenias and he shrieks as if the Crucio curse has driven him insane. Hermione flicks her wand and Neville is happy because Neville now has fingers and he plunges them into the greasy dead flesh of the sausages. Luna's eyes bulge and Harry sees the world reflected there, stretched and maimed nearly beyond recognition.

Harry stirs his cauldron but does not understand and Snape stalks his class and is pleased that Harry does not understand. Ron whispers about quidditch because Ron always discusses quidditch. When the Dark Lord returns he will pluck Ron's liver with his gory talons and Ron will scream. He will scream about quidditch. Hermione is perfect and her work is perfect and the potion within her cauldron is perfect. It stirs itself as she stares at it and she does not blink. She does not blink. Snape arrives and he glances into Harry's cauldron. Snape sneers. Fifty points from Gryffindor. Draco and Goyle gibber laughter. Goyle's head is a pumpkin carved by an idiot and Draco's teeth are wealthy and white and should be fangs but they are not fangs. They are not fangs.

Dumbledore is dead. Sirius Black is dead. Harry's parents are long dead and the dead outweigh the living. Voldemort was once dead, but is no longer dead. The grass is dead but it is winter and the grass will return. It will return. Cho passes and says why are you out here alone? Harry can not explain and Cho is pleased he can not explain because Cedric Diggory is dead and in her onyx heart she blames Harry that Cedric is dead. Harry's eyes tilt skyward to the gathering dusk and he says Voldemort is coming and Cho says that's why I no longer snog you because you are such a downer.

Harry Potter is a gay cutter who does hard drugs and has flings with all of his teachers.

Harry and Draco Malfoy are in a relationship. They frequently have anal sex. Draco is the "bottom."

At one point, Lucius Malfoy--Draco Malfoy's father--is in denial about his son's sexuality, and takes him to a strip club to make him "straight again."

Harry is the son of Dracula, and also Batman, making him one-quarter vampire, one-quarter superhero, and one-half boy wizard.

Bunnyfucking Harry Potter artwork by Bryan Danknich, FM Magazine.

Severus Snape--a talented potionist--perfects a concoction that allows men to become pregnant. Harry Potter, after drinking said potion, grows a womb and bears his first child, Alex (sired by Draco Malfoy).

Magneto from the X-Men comics plays an important role in the novels.

Harry sleeps with Seamus Finnigan, an old classmate who's renting a loft in New York City above a flower shop. Since his time at Hogwarts, Finnigan has become a junkie.

In order to find a cure for lycanthropy, Severus Snape is forced to have sex with a werewolf.

Harry Potter, after traveling back to the 18th century, sleeps with a crew of pirates. He then transports to the Korean War, where he is wounded by shrapnel and taken to the Mobile Army Surgical Hospital 4077. There, he interacts with characters from the popular television show M*A*S*H.

Lord Voldemort (some evil wizard) casts an obscure sex-slave curse over Harry Potter after imprisoning him.

Draco Malfoy, at the age of 24, is married to a woman and well respected within his upper-class community, but is in denial of his homosexuality.

Harry and Severus Snape frequently shower together.

After a few weeks of excruciating stomach pains, Sirius Snape takes a pregnancy test and finds out that he's going to have Remus Lupin's child. Four months later, he gives birth to a black puppy. This is because Remus Lupin is a werewolf.

Ron Weasley, after a one-night stand, knocks up Draco Malfoy, who, after eight months of pregnancy, knocks up Harry Potter. The two ensuing children become best friends, wizards, and finally, lovers.

Harry Potter has breasts.

I've Decided to Start Acting More French

i, honey. We need to talk.

So I've decided to start acting more French, and you're going to be seeing some changes in my behavior. Exactly what this will entail is difficult to determine, particularly because I have never been to France. But it's my decision, and I'm sticking with it. Anyway, I've got some general ideas on how to do so. Hence the beret.

Why have I chosen to do this, you ask? In celebration of my heritage. I've recently been made aware that my last name is probably French in origin. This is not certain, but fairly likely--maybe 60 percent. It's either French or German. Anyway, I don't really want to act more German, nor would I know how to do so even if I did. So French it is. Want some baguette?

Please don't object to this. And don't fight it. If you want to fight about it, I'm going to have to run away. It is widely acknowledged that French people don't fight. We are lovers, not fighters. Perhaps I could get someone to do the quarreling for me, if you're insistent on arguing. Anyway, I'd rather not fight about it, as it's not in my nature. Let's just have some wine and a long skinny cigarette.

What do you mean it's too early for wine? Not in France, it isn't. French people are drunk 24/7. I'm really going for full-on Frenchness here. So when I drunkenly turn my superior nose up at everything you say, please don't be offended. It might help your situation some if you wore this Canadian flag patch on your backpack. French people dislike Canadians to a lesser degree than they do Americans. Wear this and hopefully I won't spit on you. Thanks.

So I was thinking we could head over to the Louvre this afternoon, and then maybe go to the café for some cuisine--perhaps crêpes à la carte. Sound good? How was my pronunciation, by the way?

Are you ready to go? We'll need to allow ourselves plenty of time for the meal. French people take exceedingly long meals--often nine or ten hours in length--because they savor every nuance and flavor of what they are eating. It is also not uncommon for two French diners to go through 27 bottles of Bordeaux at a single meal, so pace yourself, O.K.?

Sacre bleu! I suddenly find myself conflicted, because as a French person, I am also culturally obligated to enjoy and be amazingly skilled at cooking. I stand for hours on end over an old Wedgewood stove in my Parisian flat, pouring spices and wine into large pans and cauldrons, often sniffing deeply and approvingly as I do so. Usually I am making stews or escargot. Do you want me to cook for you? I guarantee you'll sleep with me after. French people are that good when it comes to food.

At some point here, I have to stop by the dry cleaner to pick up my tight-fitting, horizontally striped shirt, so there's that to squeeze in to our day as well. Honestly, though, time really doesn't matter all that much to me. We can go whenever. I'm pretty nonchalant about punctuality, which it is my understanding non-French people often mistake for ennui.

In case you were wondering, I'm not going into work today. You Americans work too much. It's ridiculous, your capitalist society. All you think about is money. Maybe you should try cutting your work week down to just two days and relaxing a little. That would leave you more time for the finer things in life, like long meals, copious amounts of wine, and long, skinny cigarettes.

That Jerry Lewis! Oh, my God, what a wonderful man! Remind me to do some research on that guy. Can't exactly seal the old "I'm French" deal without a deep appreciation for Jerry Lewis, can I? Is he still alive? What was he, a tennis player?

Well, O.K. I'm tired now. I'm going to take a nap. Pretty much all of my days now are going to be devoted to two things: eating and sleeping. Of course there will be some drinking and smoking in there too--usually in conjunction with the eating. But you need to understand that naps are a huge part of my culture. Please be quiet while I'm napping, O.K.?

Object all you want, but it's who I am. This is what life is going to be like from now on, dear. If you don't like it, you can go back to Canada.

oh, jim, take a picture. No, not of the Tower, you dunce--we already have a million of those. Turn around. All the way. Use your eyes! Well, I'm not going to point it out for you. Yes, finally. Isn't that just the most adorable little beggar gypsy boy you've ever seen?

Give him a euro, Jim, then take a picture when he plays that precious organ-grinder of his. No, I don't want to get too close to him--I've got our passports in my fanny-pack. And ask him to play . . . I don't know, "God Bless America"? Wait, that might offend his religion. How about our song?

I can't believe you don't know what our song is. I suppose you don't remember what happened the night of February 18, 1979, either. I'll give you a hint . . . the Foxy Mama Discothèque, you were out with the other junior partners, I was with my Kappa Kappa sisters, and I came up and asked you to "take a chance on me."

Yes, you idiot, our first kiss. Now, tell him to play some Abba.

Of course he'll know it--everyone knows "Take a Chance on Me"! So, if he doesn't, hum it and he'll pick it up. Those people are so musical.

"We can go dancing, we can go walking, as long as we're together . . ." Now I'm in the mood for some dancing tonight--and maybe a little merlot! For God's sake, live a little, Jim--we're on vacation. Look in the Rick Steves for where the good nightclubs are. You left it at the hotel? What do you mean, you wanted to "explore on our own"? Um, O.K. . . . answer me this. Do we know our way around Paris? No. Do we speak French? Non. Smart thinking, Flaubert. I just can't understand for the life of me how Bob won the promotion over you.

I'm chilly. Gimme your anorak.

Jim, don't turn around now, but--I said "Don't turn around," you moron . . . O.K., now. A real prostitute! We must be in the red-light district. Bob and Suzy are going to be so jealous when we tell them! Ugh, look at that cellulite. You'd think she'd cover herself up a little--they look like Suzy's thighs. I may have three kids under my belt, but I do my Pilates and Atkins. Jim, stop staring.

Oh, look at that cute top! The green one! I've been looking for one like that all over San Diego. I should've known--only in the Gap in Paris! Give me the MasterCard, Jim. I know I just bought pants this morning--this matches with them, dummy. And how do you think we got the frequent-flyer mileage for this trip, anyway?

Wow. Do you think that salesman is also a model? I bet he is. He looks like Marco. Oh, just some guy I dated my J.Y.A. in Florence. He just looked in my direction! Boy, if I weren't married . . . I'm kidding, Jim, lighten up! Are you jealous-wealous of all the attention your pretty wittle wife is getting in Paris? Hmm? What's the matter, a little ticklish?

Eww. Nothing. Just . . . you should probably lay off the cheeses and desserts while we're here, honey. And think about switching back from golf to squash. Then wear a knee brace, you wimp.

Let's see, we can shop for another half-hour, then we're meeting Bob and Suzy at the hotel for lunch at two . . . or, should I say, "fourteen"! Yes, it's a late lunch--remember, we're in Europe, you caveman? I don't care--grab a frappuccino at Starbucks or something. The kids are dying for McDonald's. The bellhop told me that here they call it "McDos." Isn't that wild? It's like a different world. Coming here was my best idea yet. Give me a kiss, you big, useless lunk. Of course you should ask the salesman to take a picture--why else would we do it? God, sometimes you're really so fucking stupid.

Useful Phrases for the American in Paris

Je recherche un talonneur appelé Marie. Elle peut avoir ma pochette.
I'm looking for a hooker named Marie. She may have my wallet.

Ce goût du vin comme la pisse de chien. Où peux-je circuler un Pabst ici ?
This wine tastes like dog piss. Where can I get a Pabst around here?

Je l'aime bizarre-modèle.
I like it freaky-style.

Madame, vos seins sont remarquable : grand, bouncy, et parfaitement en rond.
Madam, your breasts are remarkable: large, bouncy, and perfectly round.

Et vos quartiers arrières ne sont pas gâtés non plus.
And your hindquarters are not bad either.

Est-ce que, la manie inexplicable de camionneur-chapeau de maille me dit a balayé votre nation aussi bien, pétillant aussi rapidement qu'elle a mis à feu?
Tell me, did the inexplicable mesh trucker-cap craze sweep your nation as well, fizzling as quickly as it ignited?

Yo, maisons, vous savez où je peux marquer de l’énergie hydraulique?
Yo, homes, you know where I can score some hydro?

Je veux donner une fessée à cette chienne méchante.
I want to spank that nasty bitch.

Par la “chienne,” naturellement, je me référais au carniche femelle qui a chié devant mon hôtel. Je ne me référerais jamais à une jeune dame française comme vous-même employant de tels termes vulgaires.
By “bitch,” of course, I was referring to the female poodle that has crapped in front of my hotel. I would never refer to a young French lady like you using such vulgar terms.

Cette merde est whack.
This shit is whack.

Elle a des décharges comme un camion.
She’s got dumps like a truck.

Est-ce que ceci viennent avec "une fin heureuse"?
Does this come with a "happy ending"?

Monsieur, je voudrais avoir le sexe avec votre épouse, chien-modèle.
Sir, I would like to have sex with your wife, doggy-style.

Mon anaconda n'en veulent aucun à moins que vous ayez obtenu des brioches, hon.
My anaconda don't want none unless you got buns, hon.

Pouvez-vous recommander un bon hôtel avec des taux par heure ? J'ai seulement l'heure pour rapide.
Can you recommend a good hotel with hourly rates? I've only got time for a quickie.

Cette prostituée a pu avoir en fait été un homme. Veuillez tenir mon chapeau pour moi tandis que je vomis.
That prostitute may have, in fact, been a man. Please hold my hat for me while I vomit.

INT. KITCHEN

(ALAN and JAKE are dressed and eating breakfast. CHARLIE, disheveled, wearing robe, enters and pours himself coffee. He joins them at the table.)

CHARLIE: Sex.

ALAN: Sex?

JAKE: No sex. Pancakes.

(CHARLIE shakes head in dismay at JAKE, then looks at ALAN and grins.)

CHARLIE: Sex. Sex sex sex.

ALAN: Sex sex sex. Always sex sex sex. Why always sex sex sex?

CHARLIE: Why not always sex sex sex? (Pauses, sips coffee.) Sex sex sex sex sex.

ALAN (mocking): 'Sex sex sex sex sex.' More to life than sex sex sex sex sex. See me always sex sex sex sex sex?

CHARLIE: You? No. Me? Yes. Me: sex sex sex. You: no sex sex sex.

ALAN: Me sex sex sex on occasion.

(CHARLIE looks at him skeptically.)

ALAN: Me sex sex sex! Sex sex sex sex sex sex sex!

(BERTA enters carrying a basket of laundry. She lifts a pair of child-sized boxers.)

BERTA: Poop stains! Jake poop crap toilet.

JAKE: Me no poop crap toilet.

BERTA: Then who poop crap toilet? Charlie? Charlie just sex sex sex.

CHARLIE: Sex sex sex.

BERTA: See? Poop crap toilet is you!

JAKE: All right. Poop crap toilet is me. Poop poop poop.

CHARLIE (challengingly): Sex sex sex.

JAKE: Poop poop poop. Fart fart fart.

CHARLIE: Sex sex sex sex sex.

ALAN: No fart fart fart! No sex sex sex! Me trying to eat!

(They calm down. BERTA walks out.)

JAKE: Burp.

CHARLIE: Burp?

JAKE: Burp burp burp. Fart fart fart.

CHARLIE: Sex sex sex!

JAKE: Fart fart fart! Crap crap crap! Poop poop poop!

CHARLIE: Sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex!

(ALAN sighs amid the noise. Sets down fork. Wipes mouth daintily with napkin. Farts.)

End.

I’ve said before, I’m a very good man; I’m just a very bad wizard. So, when people expect magic from me during the holidays, I have to get creative if I want to avoid disappointing my loved ones or taking out a second mortgage on the Emerald City. I mean, even if you set aside the ethical concerns, which I’m perfectly willing to do, it’s expensive to get a Brain or a Heart on the black market, and if someone can sell me some Courage, I'm going to save it for my personal stash. With so many people asking for so much stuff, I need to have a comprehensive gift strategy. My secret: when people ask for expensive and impossible stuff, I give them cheap trinkets and priceless life-lessons.

For example, my nephew wants an Xbox 360 with new Kinect motion-control system for Christmas. That costs $350, and there’s no way I will be laying out that kind of cheddar. I’m still paying off my giant, gem-studded throne. The guy who sold it to me said there’s no interest for six months, but the finance charges are just killing me. So, no video games for that kid.

Instead, I’ll find a cardboard box about the same size as the one his Xbox comes in, and I will wrap it beautifully and leave it empty. When my nephew opens it, I’ll tell him it’s filled with the boundless wonders of his imagination. After all, kids don’t need gizmos and gadgets and whirligigs to have fun. The coolest hardware comes standard with the human mind, and the greatest joy is the kind you find within yourself.

Fun doesn’t come in an Xbox, or in any kind of box; fun defies containment by its very nature. Fun is a thing that reaches its purest form through the preservation and cultivation of a constant sense of childlike wonder. By not buying my nephew that infernal contraption, I’m saving him from its depredations and offering him a whole, better world, in 3D and high-definition. When I explain that to him, he’ll have no choice but to thank me.

Anyway, I saw some people playing that Kinect, and it just looks like a bunch of spastic twitching and thrashing. If my nephew wants to flail around like a monkey with its wings cut off, he shouldn’t do it in front of a television set. He should do it outside, in the sunshine, where it doesn’t cost me anything.

With that out of the way, at a net cost of roughly zero, I can move on down my list. My brother has been dropping hints about this racing bike he wants. I’ll show up, instead, with a six-pack of High Life and tell him a bunch of crap about the immeasurable value of the fraternal bond. Maybe I’ll give him some Munchkin porn DVDs, you know, as a gag. I’m sick of watching Lollipop Guild 4 and Follow the Brown Brick Road, so I guess he can have those.

My girlfriend, meanwhile, has been asking for designer shoes. She’s green with envy over the ruby slippers her sister’s jackass husband shelled out for last year. Just because that guy is bad with money doesn’t mean I have to go deeper into hock to keep up, though. I can only afford one major purchase right now, and I have my eye on a flat-panel television.

When a woman asks for jewelry designer shoes, what she’s really saying is she wants to be made to feel desirable and valued. So this year, I will give my girlfriend the gift of my adoring gaze, in the hope that she will realize she’s been beautiful and worthwhile all along, and that she never needed symbolic baubles as proof of her transcendent loveliness. And if that doesn’t work I’ll have somebody throw some cold water on her, and maybe drop something heavy on the sister.

December already? IT’S CHRISTMASTIME! I wonder if any radio stations have switched to Christmas music yet. I should go caroling this year. How does that work--are there clubs? I definitely need to put up a tree. A real tree, one I cut down myself. And I should send out a Christmas card. None of that e-card crap. I hope it snows soon!

To do:
-- Chop down Christmas tree.
-- Send out Christmas cards.
-- Get ironic holiday sweater out of cedar closet--wash.
-- Start thinking of gift ideas.
-- Buy eggnog.
-- Bake something with cloves.
-- Google "frankincense."

Christmas is in two weeks already? It seriously comes faster every year; old people must think it's Christmas all the time. No, this year it definitely came without warning. It hasn’t even snowed yet. And where were the Christmas-themed Sears catalogs in October? Is that a death-of-print thing? Maybe a death-of-Sears thing. I should go to Sears and get my picture taken for a Christmas card. That's a thing real people do. Is it something single people do? Pathetic single people, sitting alone in the mall. I should buy regular cards. But how am I supposed to shop when the stores are so crowded? I don’t think I can stomach one more “Blue Christmas.”

To do:
-- Order cards online--use two-day delivery.
-- Unbox plastic tree; think of gift ideas!!
-- Buy Holiday Snack Cakes.
-- Kill Elvis.
-- Google “Sears.”

It’s next week?! There's still time for it to be a white Christmas. Now, how long does mail take to arrive, really? Three days, tops. If I mail the cards by five o'clock, they'll definitely arrive before the 25^th. I’m probably too late to reach Tripper's family in Canada. I'll send them an e-card. Will his kids think novelty T-shirts are lame? I should get them something really cool. I’m going to find one of those old-timey toy stores, the kind with wooden toys handmade by a kindly old pedophile wearing a vest. I am going to be the BEST UNCLE EVER.

To do:
-- Find a good toymaker.
-- SEND CARDS TODAY!!.
-- Download Photoshop--make e-card for Tripper's family.
-- Put star on the tree--don't bother with ornaments?
-- Wait a week for Holiday Snack Cakes to go on sale.

It's Christmas Eve Eve Eve already? Shit. Who am I kidding--there are no old-timey toy stores around here. And kids hate wooden toys. You can't give a ten-year-old a Jacob's Ladder! I should get them video games. Do they already have Call of Duty? Is that appropriate for children? I wonder if Mom and Dad realize I've given them DVDs six years straight. It's never going to snow. I hate this stupid holiday. Where the hell are those snack cakes?! Oh right.

To do:
-- Buy more eggnog, rum.
-- Load up on gift cards--kids love Walmart?
-- Finish MS Paint-ing e-card--send TONIGHT to EVERYONE.
-- Ask Steve and Tripper what they're getting Mom and Dad.

Is it starting to snow? I hope Walmart is open late on Christmas Eve. On the other hand, kids love cash. And I bet Mom and Dad haven't seen any of my DVDs anyway. Will they notice this one is scratched? Factory defect. Merry Christmas, everybody! This sweater smells like wood.

To do:
-- Ease up on the eggnog.
-- Look out for “black ice."
-- Avoid eye contact with the pastor.
-- Be nice to Tripper.
-- Google “black ice.”
-- Be on top of this shit next year.

1. Let's settle on the spelling. No more of that "ch" crap. No one who doesn't get the whole "chaaa" pronunciation thing is really going to follow. The real Jews will know, and that'll be like a cool secret; but let's drop that for the flyover states. I think it should be spelled with two N's and two K's. It just looks more "rock." Then there's nine letters and it has some symmetry. Also, it should always be spelled with an exclamation point at the end (to give it that kind of super-excitement it really needs): HANNUKKAH! It looks like the name of a metal band from Sweden. Very cool.

2. Market the latkes like Cadbury does with chocolate eggs. We need cartoon characters: "Larry the Latke"-- stuff like that; maybe get some backing from the potato industry. Get Ore-Ida on board; start canvassing people in Idaho. Latkes could be the new Tater Tots ... get them into a school-lunch program ... meatloaf, latkes. You see where I'm going with this? "Hey, Larry--l'eggo my latke!"

3. Are any of the guys on Entourage Jewish besides the agent guy? Get them to start eating latkes and lighting candles. Talk to HBO, maybe they can come up with a "Jewish Sopranos" and work in the nine letters.

4. More songs. I mean good songs. Adam Sandler was right on the money; but let's get something more interesting going on. All that song really does is name-check Jews; that seems kinda Nazi to me. How about a song extolling the virtues of the beauty of conserving oil. That ought to be big with the Hot Topic crowd; all those emo-kids and whomever else. I mean, look at the price of gasoline; this could be Al Gore-big. How about the kid from Moron 5 (yes, they're terrible but the kids love them).

5. Someone needs to figure out a way for everyone to get eight days off in December and the week between Christmas and New Year's. This would do wonders for the economy, because then there would be all kinds of crazy holiday spending. All those Wall Street bonuses; holiday-themed articles; shows on QVC; Regis and Kelly-Lee ... Seriously, am I the only one who cares about HANNUKKAH!?

6. We need to figure out a way to get Rankin/Bass reanimated (so to speak). Do some kind of HANNUKKAH!-themed Claymation half-hour thing sponsored by Cadbury. The only obstacle is Casey Kasem: that guy is about killing the fun. (He killed CBS playing The Little Drummer Boy, so watch out for him!) What if there was a Claymation thing with some animals? Animals and kids! People love that! I don't know what kind of animals are in the desert--some cute and furry animals! Camels aren't cute and I know pigs are all treyf and whatever--but consider this: PANDAS! Cute and furry, harmless Jewish Pandas! And they save oil! Helloooo!

7. We need to get FHM and all those lad mags down with the holiday. I'm talkin' babes here, you know what I mean. I could go on and on about this, but let's face it: we need babes in bikinis. (And, um, not to be intolerant ... but waxed all over.)

8. These kosher wines ... are they any good? I don't know. But what about this: kosher Jack Daniel's! You heard me. Take that idea and run with it ... Kosher Amaretto Disaronno! That cute Bon Jovi bartender in the commercial? "Kosher Amaretto Disaronno on the rocks!" etc., etc. This holiday is so happening!

9. Has that New York Times restaurant-guy gone to any kosher restaurants? No? AND WHY NOT? IS THE NEW YORK TIMES ANTI-SEMITIC?? Uh-huh. (I am so on this. Where is my fucking parade?)

10. A PARADE!!! A HANNUKKAH! PARADE! On Fifth from 14th to 96th... Think about it: The Today Show live coverage--Matt and Roker; Regis and Kelly; Macy's can double up on sales ... even Bloomberg couldn't say no to this! We could get Donny Deutsch and David Lerner (from David Lerner Associates) to do color commentary! And Marv Albert from Jersey! YES!

11. Just one more thing: take a look at #7 again ... I'm thinking a Vogue retrospective: Fran Drescher, Gina Gershon; chicks like that, but way younger. For the kids. Me, I like those two, but I know all about this marketing thing. Do it for the kids ... and really, what is this holiday all about anyway?
    
    Enough with the fasting--let's live a little!

John Madden's Favorite Thanksgiving Day Feasts from Around the World

Kangaby:
Kangaroo (any number)
Wallaby (any number)
1 Cup Lard per Wallaby
1 Tablespoon Salt per Wallaby
2 Onions per Wallaby
1 Red or Green Bell Pepper
2 Tomatoes per Wallaby
2 lbs Chorizo (optional)
Spice to taste: Cilantro, Lime juice, Jalapeños

Cooked right, this dish will taste like good tasting should taste: good! Remember, kangaroos and wallabies both have pouches, so add one to the other. My personal best: 12 wallabies in 13 ’roos. When you make this you'll need to marinate all the ’roos overnight since their flavor is like the ’76 Bucs when they didn't win a game: all the fans left right in the middle of the game, and that'll happen if you forget to the marinade. No fans at all. Pat Summerall likes a green chili sauce and I like Señor Garza's Fiesta Sauce for the flavor boom! Don't forget to put one cup of lard in each wallaby pouch. Cook these babies on the grill and you'll throw a cookin' touchdown!

Hippeleraffe:
1 African Elephant
1 Small Kenyan Hippopotamus (or 2 Pygmy Hippopotami)
1 Medium-sized Rhodesian Giraffe
500 lbs Cayenne
400 lbs Chili Powder
150 lbs Salt
Paprika to taste (about 220 lbs)
120 lbs Brown Sugar

This dish is delicious and leaves a great taste in your mouth, like when Doug Flutie threw that Hail Mary in ’84 against Miami for the win! That was sweet. Now, when you make this, the elephant can go in the hippo or the hippo can go in the elephant. Personally, I think it's easier to stuff the hippo in the elephant. Remember to remove the hippo's outer fatty husk. Blend all dry ingredients in a small cement mixer and rub a thin layer over each animal. I like to wrap the giraffe's neck tight before you put it in the hippo. Tight like the 1970 Pittsburgh Steelers' defense. They had the Steel Curtain, you know? That curtain wasn't lacy. Now, you should gently force the hippo into the elephant's ribcage with a bulldozer. After the hippo's in the elephant, use that dozer to dig a huge pit. Get some rebar and make a scaffold. Cook this baby to a char all around with flamethrowers--or as I say: all-da-way-around touchdown!

Humanzee:
1 Common Chimpanzee
1 Average Human (120-140 lbs)
5 Bottles White Cooking Wine
15 Cups Flour
2 Cups Herbs de Provence
1 Cup Rosemary
2 Sticks Butter
4 Heads Garlic

This meal is as dangerous as it is sweet--like a flubbed field goal that doinked in! But let's get serious for a minute, folks, because cooking people isn't easy; even a day-old person will give your meal a gamey taste and overpower the chimp's delicate character. You see, the chimp's flavor is like John Elway's arm, it's got the character to last sixteen years in the N.F.L. and win you two late-career Super Bowls. Black-market corpses are all over the place in quality, so it's best to murder someone with your own bare hands. Hey, it's what I do. And if I do it, you know it should be done. Don't worry about whapping the person to death since humans aren't like bananas--bruises only make ’em better! Mix the wine, flour, butter, and spices into a smooth sauce. Using this sauce, braise the Humanzee under moderate heat--about 5 hours at 325°F. A Humanzee cooked right will remind you of ribs at a tailgate. Don't forget about the marrow either. Hey, I've eaten a lot of humans, and the experience is always like getting a first down, which give you a whole new set downs to go down the field and get a touchdown!