The Ongoing Adventures of Dolphinus the Drunken, Lecherous and Rapacious Porpoise, Pt. 2:
The Revenge of the Brief Pictoral Interlude
He Would Give Manatees a Run For Their Money,
If Manatees Could Run or Had Money

Because anything I have to say is eminently less interesting than what Dolphinus has to say, I'm just going to move right along to Part 2 of the ongoing tale...

And Now, A Brief Pictoral Interlude
Well, It's Not So Much "Brief"
as "Brain-Implodingly Long and Drawn Out
Over a Continuous Series of Entries"

Because nothing says "Okay, so I haven't updated for nearly a year, but it's not like it was my fault a small South American village held me for months on end because they believed me to be the Holy Reincarnation of The Moderately Large-Skulled Spinal Correction Agent...and oh yeah, Happy Holidays" quite like a retelling of a legend told me to by one of those South American villagers. 

So in the interests of preserving the grand South American oral tradition, and in order to keep this tale alive, I am retelling it to you in the way it was told me: the centuries-old South American tradition of Legos and Lego accessories.

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When outsiders and neighbors wander by the opulent mansion that sits off the dusty country road, they see a place of tremendous luxury, a place of imported palm trees and parasols.  As if to highlight just how aristocratic the place is, it even comes complete with a dolphin swimming in the pool.

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But...when the neighbors leave, and the prying eyes of the less civilized world look away, it is the rise....THE RISE OF DOLPHINUS!

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Witness...DOLPHINUS,  IN ALL HIS GLORY, AS HE IS ACCOMPANIED BY AN APPROPRIATELY OMINOUS MUSICAL INTERLUDE!

~BumbumBUUUUM!~

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STAY TUNED FOR THE CONTINUING ADVENTURES OF DOLPHINUS,
THE CROTCHETY, DRUNKEN, RAPACIOUS, POWER-MAD DOLPHIN!

Horribly Evil People Get Lonely Too
The Romantic and Physically Painful
Misadventures of a Supervillain

I hadn’t really wondered what the Psychic Eyeball had been up to lately until I woke up to find my face on fire.

Turns out ol’ Psychic Eyeball has a case of the Supervillainous Blues (he also has a fairly unpleasant case of Dutch Groin, but it’s best if we don’t discuss that any further), which would be kinda cute if it weren’t for his tendency of igniting my face every time he gets lonely.

Trying to get this man a date is actually a lot tougher than it sounds. For starters, the supervillainous singles bar downtown, Johnny K. Evil’s Pit of Despair and Free Cocktail Weiners, was recently closed down by the Health Department due to the unfortunate Ostrich Mayonnaise Incident, and all the regular singles bars in town have banned him for they refer to as "Excessive Radioactivity," which, to the Psychic Eyeball's surprise, is apparently frowned upon when meeting women, men, or any living thing not wearing lead pantaloons.   

What’s worse, Psychic Eyeball has temporarily abandoned his usual methods of "kidnapping the woman of your desire and holding her in some remote and ridiculously easy-to-escape facility" thanks to the fact that the last eleven women he’s kidnapped were all found to be romantically incompatible with him within first hour of captivity, at which point he let them go voluntarily, though not before surgically grafting random barnyard animals to their scalps.  He might be evil and supervillanous, but -- as Ferrethead Sally Jenkins would be able to tell you had the ferret grafted to her head not been filled with a burning desire to travel abroad, spend some time on Broadway, start a career as a debonair gentleman spy, and, oh yeah, to eat Sally's enticingly delicious face -- he’s also discriminating.

So, in light of these recent troubles, I’ve tried to hook up the Psychic Eyeball with some online dating services such as CriminallyEvilAndHungry4Love.com and UndulatingThrobbingPulsatingThrustingLustForPancakes.com and I-Swear-I’m-Not-Some-400-Pound-Old-Guy-
From-Wisconsin-Posing-as-a-Nubile-Teenager-Named-Terri.com.

After some prodding, I even managed to get him to post his own profile:

*****

The Psychic Eyeball

"Dream of sipping from a tall, cool glass of llama spit under the shade of an enormous dead horse while fending off hobos with various farming implements?

Then stow aboard the S.S. Psychic Eyeball, where there are only a handful of carnivorous budgies, and only rarely are passengers forced to ingest large amounts of sawdust for the amusement of the crew while the captain hides in the broom closet, masturbating furiously.

Sadly, this metaphor is slightly misleading; the only boat I ever owned was hijacked by a pack of unruly grandmothers all dressed as Emilio Estevez. I cursed all 39 Mighty Ducks movies as that boat sailed off into the sunset, pirate doilies flapping in the wind.

These days, I travel exclusively on motorized toast because I have no car, I have no car because I have no money, and I have no money because I regularly spend all available funds on balsawood sculptures of David Hasselhoff’s skull.

So, just remember…
Life is like a steroid-enhanced mutant donkey; you never know when it’s going to storm into your bedroom late at night and attempt to eat your entire collection of antique barbecue tongs."

All he’s gotta do now is sit back and wait for the responses to roll in.

Suckers.

Nature Has a Glass Jaw
What? It Does 

So there I was, walking through the fields behind Uncle Jed's Toxic Waste Disposal / Baby Food Production facility, in search of discarded tacos, when it happened.

A deer came up to me.

A lovely doe with big, pretty eyes.

It quietly, peacefully, serenely began to chew on some of the native flowers that grew at my feet, the wind whispering faintly as I watched.

It was a moment of tremendous beauty.

It was at that moment that I punched the deer RIGHT IN THE FACE.

"Chew on THIS, Bambi!", I screamed.

Jerk deer.

Justice is a Four-Letter Word
Especially if You Have Brain Damage 
And/Or a Series of Speech Impediments

Despite what Jean-Claude Van Damme and his series of "Death Barn" movies would have you believe, Fleeing the Country To Escape Law Enforcement Officials Who Are Awfully Interested In Asking You Questions About A Recently Paroled and Now Very Dead Horse Who Was Last Seen Alive With You is a lot more difficult than it looks.

I mean, once you’re out there, treading water in the Pacific Ocean while clinging to an inflatable donkey, surrounded by carnivorous sea poodles, you come to realize that there are important lessons that they didn’t exactly teach you back in your old "Escaping From Justice 101" classes.

For instance, it’s apparently Not a Good Idea to try and smuggle living things into Bolivia, especially not 82-year-old living things named Carl whose organs you were planning on selling on the Bolivian black market, partly because he owes you a favor after you lent him your "Weekend at Bernie's 4: Corpse Fiesta" DVD but mostly because you just don’t like him very much.

However, not only does the Bolivian Government frown on it, they also tend to angrily spit upon it and angrily arrest it and angrily force it to do three months of hard labor in Bolivian Yogurt Mines.

The worst part of my Somewhat Successful But Mostly Failed Attempt at Fleeing Justice, though, is that I come back to find that, during the last couple months, the Floating Head of Zog has been using my apartment to host his new business: a branch of the popular franchise, "Uncle Jed’s Ostrich Breeding Ranch / Avian Pornography Outlet."

You would not believe how difficult it is to sleep amidst the ungodly screams of fornicating ostriches and the Cheez Doodle smell of lonely freaks hungry for some sweet, sweet ostrich porn.

Jerks.