The Story of Rufus 'Hornswagle' Capon

Chapter 1: Origins



Part 2: The Headmaster

When we asked about Rufus's school days, he got a wistful, contemplative look coming from the area around his rectum. Fortunately he was sitting down, so we didn't get to see it, and the look on his face was far more appropriate for the circumstances.

"My school? My school!? I've never forgiven those syphilis riddled rat finks for the torture and humiliation they put me through!" His eyes burned with an angry fire and his hand, which had found its way to his genitals, was flicking his right testicle repeatedly. "Those people, if you can call them that, I prefer to call them scum breathing, shit stained, ass widening, thigh sucking, wart fondling, Twilight reading, low lives who masturbate into hand lotion and play 'who's in my mouth' with doberman pinschers that- Deborah! Saliva vacuum!"

With that Rufus was escorted out into the waiting room, injected with Pepto Bismol and heroin, and wiped. Fortunately for us, we have entered the time of his life when actual records have been kept, and we can now do independent research regardless of his personal feelings. We dug a bit, and found his headmaster, Heinrich Aribertheim, was still alive and living in Swaziland.

When we found him, he kindly invited us in and had us sit down on some quite comfortable, if oddly leathered, recliners. He fetched us tea, gave us some cookie dough, and showed us the school uniforms he designed for his students. They were a lovely shade of tan, with red arm bands, a white patch, and a window made of mostly black stitching, but with what looked like permanent marker connecting the arms. "Bloody patch makers forgot to stitch the arms of the swast... er... window together. The window stands for the window to the soul that we open in educating the youth. That and glass." He then went into his desk, past crunchy copies of "Chunky Druids Fucking Cookie Jars" magazine, and pulled out a picture of his best friend from his school days, whom he only referred to as "Dolphy."



He finally sat down and removed his eye, placing it in our journalist's cup of tea, which was oddly salty and smelled vaguely of ammonia, but we didn't want to insult him. He sighed and recounted his time with Rufus...

"Ah, Rufus. He was a very special boy. Sure he did well in all his classes, Zyclon-B, advanced ditch digging, walrus kissing, ob cetera, ob cetera, but where he really shined was the specialist classes, such as Plumbing and Germ warfare... I mean mineralogy.

"I remember when he came to me and forced me down onto the floor, saying what he wanted to do was give me some tea, or a tea bag, or whatever. He then pulled down his pants and put his scrotum on my head. I had expected this, of course, so I started thumping his testicle with my right hand while I punched his nose with my other fist. He tried to get up and that's when I stapled his scrotum to my forehead. I can still see the scars when I look at his patented 24 hour scrotum cam. Wait, that wasn't me..."

Aribertheim then passed out, mumbling something about the master race. When aroused, he continued his recollection...

"Mr. Aribertheim..."

"Mein Gott! How did you know my name?!?"

"You told us your name was Heinrich Aribertheim."

"Oh! Yes, of course, I'm sorry. I forgot that my name was Heinrich. I am not a criminal. I am normal."

"Of course. Mr. Aribertheim, when we told Rufus that we would be contacting you, he panicked and started foaming at the mouth and his teeth moved about and he got very moist. Why was that?"

"Ach, that must be because of the pants."

"Pants?"

"Ja. He once made a special pair of pants for me. I was his underwater firestarting professor one year, and I was paid handsomely for this privilege by his father, who expected Rufus to get a good grade. I was sitting in my fourth period class, threatening my students when Rufus came in, carrying a pair of pants. He presented them to me and I put them on, briefly exposing my hairy buttocks. When I put them on, I felt giddy, joyous, like I had never been exposed to pleasure before. What I didn't know was that he had laced the pants with some type of drug. I don't know the correct term, but the slang for it was 'cat pee.' So there I was, feeling gemuchlichkeit, and the next thing I remember I was standing on a field, ordering the marching of the students into battle. We then invaded Poland. He was reprimanded and a mark was made on his permanent record."

"... that's it?"

"Ja. He was pissed!"

"We'll check with him on that. And finally, headmaster, what does Hornswagle mean?"

"...Verlassen sie hier, sie jüdischer rohrmonteur!"

Epilogue: Upon further interview, we have turned Heinrich Aribertheim over to the authorities. Apparently, his real name was Kennith Grunderson, wanted for artificial lubricant fraud.

Epilogue 2: It turns out that the testicle thumping anger was brought about by his having a permanent mark on his record. We still don't know why.

Next time, Part 3: The Love of his Life...

My weekend? Fine!

Honesty is not always the best policy...



“Ah! Friday five o'clock! I'm ready to kick my heels up and relax for a change! I think I'm gonna go camping.”



“Ah! An end of the one misery and a beginning of the other misery! Spending the week locked up in a fluorescent box staring at a computer is now going to give way to me spending the weekend in my poorly lit apartment staring at a different glowing box, maybe pausing long enough to put pants on as the overworked delivery boy delivers me my greasy Chinese food, but probably not, and definitely not tipping him. This sedentary existence will be punctuated by me grabbing my heart and panicking in vague cardiac pains occasionally, quickly realizing that it's only my body trying to make me seem more important than I know I am.”



“What you guys got planned for the weekend?”



“I know my weekend will be the far superior one of what anyone here will do, so I will force you to lie to me about your plans.”



“Well, Kyle, I'll probably catch that Pinter play at that theater on twelfth, then finish that book I got about the early American revolutionary thinkers. Have you read A Problem of Culture? It's fascinating. Anyway, on Sunday I'll take a walk in the park and clean up my apartment. I got my brother coming to visit on Monday.”




“I haven't actually read a book in years. My real intentions are to get a case of Mexican beer and take all the sheets off of my bed, lie in it in my underwear which I won't change until Monday morning, and contemplate the ceiling fan above my bed while a comedy show plays silently in my darkened bedroom, probably something British, like Mitchell and Webb. Eventually I'll be drunk and sleepy enough to realize the juxtaposition of my miserable life and the humor glaring at me from the silent television, and cry for about an hour before falling asleep, spilling my beer onto my naked mattress and entangling myself in my stained, crunchy duvet. I will wake up, urinate into the kitchen sink, and eat a sandwich I had prepared for this past Monday's lunch but forgotten about, and spend the rest of the weekend clutching my stomach in gassy agony when I realize, yet again, that things really can go bad in the refrigerator.”

“Awesome, Gordon! How about you, Debbie?”



“Well, I think I'll take that weekend trip to DC. I've always wanted to see the monuments and museums, and we only live an hour away, it's a shame to only see such an important place once or twice a year. I'll check out the museums tomorrow and the monuments on Sunday, it's supposed to be really sunny then. And I really want to check out that new vegetarian restaurant that opened last month!”



“On my way home tonight I will buy the cheapest wine I can find, pizza rolls, ice cream, and fill up my stolen xanax prescription. I will spend tonight eating horrible things, drinking as much as possible, and spiking it with the pills. Tomorrow I will continue this pattern, but I will add the toying with razor blades, first just holding the packet, then opening them and removing that strip of brown paper from one of them, forcing me to stare into the gaping maw of my own interminable depression as I gaze into my bloated, puffy face in their gleaming metal. On Sunday however, I will starve myself as punishment and scream at my own reflection, angry that I can't force myself to do the simplest thing in the world, ending this charade that is my existence and finally putting myself out of my own misery, either eating the whole bottle or finally slicing my arms open in my bathtub. I will print out and burn my suicide note no less than four times during this period.”

“Excellent! Bill, what do the young people do on the weekends these days?”



“Well, I'll probably head over to Hilligans, flirt a while, maybe chat someone up. I'm not attached to anyone, and I enjoy playing the field, so I may find myself... getting a bit lucky. Hehehe!”



“I have no interpersonal skills. But that's OK, because I am currently downloading twenty gigabytes of hardcore pornography, mostly about the degradation of females, but I have chosen some German shepherd/woman porn to watch as well. As my increasing arousal mounts, I will masturbate like a crazy chimp on speed, first watching a woman take over fifty loads of semen into her mouth until she gags and vomits, is then forced to eat dog food, and finally watching her being forced to perform oral sex on a dog, presumably the one she stole the food from. I will climax, my excitement will subside immediately, and I will be consumed by such shame and hatred for both myself and the female sex that I will delete the porn from my computer, which I will download again about six hours later after I view something mildly arousing on HBO. I will weakly masturbate yet again, with slightly more acceptance not only of my own sad, sad life, but also of the degradation that some women put themselves through to fill out a contract that they had been duped into signing, and by virtue of that contract gotten a horrible drug addiction. However, when viewed against my life, a drug addiction seems like a basket of sunshine and roses and needles.”



“You dog you! Bill, what I wouldn't give to be young again! Well, you guys have fun! I'm off to my apartment. See ya monday!”



“The only thing that will save us is either a zombie apocalypse or a nuclear bomb that one of us has hidden up our noses. Someone please set it off! No? Fuck.”

Song of teh post: Liar, by The Damned
Hope of teh post: Hope? Seriously?

I give up...

There are a few things that I hold as constants in life. The sun rises in the east and sets in the west. Molly Ann Cupcake will be cute when she's not screaming. My cats are beefcats who sleep in sausage gravy. There are four lights. These things are more than consistencies to me, they are anchors that influence my day to day living and dictate the whims of my conscience. Over the past few weeks, I've found that several of these anchors are rusted, loose, or otherwise not real. Here are a couple of them...


I'm actually mostly a vegetarian, so this one shouldn't be too bad. I mean, after all, one of my personal, musical, and comic heroes has joined my side (more like a pescatarian, as he does eat fish occasionally) so I should actually be happy. But I'm not...

Look at that guy. He makes it a point to be as strong on the outside as he wants to be on the inside. He is the definition of definition. He is like a side 'o beef with eyes. He didn't get that way eating tofu, you know. One of his quotes from one of his spoken word albums went something like (when describing eating at a Russian restaurant) "... there was vegetables for the vegetarians and meat for the real people...", so he was serious about being at the very least omnivorous to a huge degree. Why does this bug me? It means he's getting old. That means I'm getting old.

"But he's merely listening to what his body is telling him to do, and since he can't lift weights with as much vigor as he used to, he doesn't need the extra calories or protein." I know, I know. But Black flag came out with their first album the year that I was born, so he's been around all my life in one way or another. He's an angry, alpha male type, and to think of him violently tearing into a bag of lettuce rather than the side of a still breathing beast is kinda sad.

So what, you say? That's a stupid reason to feel like a paradigm has been subverted! You're probably right. But it still feels weird. Moving on to something that we can all agree is an abomination...


When Molly, my niece by friendship, says "Gabba gabba" and points expectantly at the monitor, and I pull up some Yo Gabba Gabba from the computer and play it for her, she is enthralled. Watching her is hypnotic, because she dances and hums along and basically interacts with that silly, trippy "lets-make-a-kids-show-about-the-dangers-of-mixing-psylocybin-with-pcp-and-then-sing-about-it" show like it's a real person. She was over here last night as her mommy was looking up Yo Gabba Gabba stuff for her second birthday party, when I heard a familiar voice say something like "I'm doctor Tony!"

That voice clicked in my head, but I couldn't make myself look. I didn't want to believe it. I glanced up, and there he was...



This man combined the cooking chops of LaRousse, the foul mouth of that guy who sleeps by the dumpster outside the China One King Buffet, the writing style of Hunter S. Thompson steeped in Jack Kerouac, and the drug taking ability of four Keith Richardses. He has traveled the world eating things that you and I would never even consider edible. He was almost kidnapped by the Cambodian military. He's shot automatic weapons with the Yakuza. He ate a god damned duck fetus AND the still beating heart of a live cobra on the same day! Of all the people in the world that I would say would never be allowed within five hundred yards of a kids show, he's in the top three (the others being Mao Zedong and Max Shreck).

This stings like peeing vinegar razors.

But at least there's no weirdness like this happening with other people, like, foul mouthed comedians...


Well, then, there are no respected satirists...


... sex-humor peddling musicians?


... someone who was in an adaptation of something by Douglas Adams?


... Ok, how about anyone who appeared on Jackass?


... Does anybody else feel weird about this?

At least some things are sacred. I mean, it's not like hell's freezing over, right?


Oh, BITE ME!

Song of teh post: Billy Bad Breaks, by The Damned.
Cupcakeface of teh post: Molly Ann Cupcake.

KAFFAH KAFFAH KAFFAH!!!!11!ONE!1!

Have you ever had an enlightenment experience? I have. I'm currently in Louisville, KY, at Sunergo's Coffee having an iced espresso. I know, I know, one must be considered a coffee snob of the highest order when one orders a coffee with more than two syllables and that ends with an "O" vowel sound. It calls into question one's masculinity and makes people who find Waffle House the height of culinary achievement sneer over their four teeth and down their noses on their tiny faces in the center of their giant heads. Well to those people I can only say...


I reached this level of enlightenment by the Haight/Ashbury method: chemically. Sometimes Caffeine can give you just the edge you need to attain true Buddhahood (not the pansy way of sitting in front of a wall and staring at it for hours until your brain decides that it'll give up the goods). This coffee is amazing. Imagine being wrapped in a warm blanket fresh from the dryer on a cold winter day in front of a fire with your face gently buried in soft cushions, your mouth being slowly stuffed full of your favorite chocolate dipped fruit and something wonderful happening to the area between your knees and navel. That's what this coffee does. It steals your mind and makes you happy while being politely firm about the joy you must receive.

I am loathe to be brand loyal, but damn. This is a microroaster in Kentucky and they ship their product anywhere in the world!!!

All those who love coffee and know me will be expecting a shipment of enlightenment soon.

Song of teh post: Coffee House Blues, By Lightnin' Hopkins
Roast of teh post: Tanzanian Peaberry

The story of the Hawk...

I've been asked about my hairstyle several times. Here is the true story of the events that have led up to my most severe style...

Thousands of years ago, long before Flo ever said "Kiss my grits," and in an area of the galaxy that the most fashion conscious people on earth will one day call "the area that brings new and dreadful meaning to the word 'gauche,'" a supernova occurred, vaporizing a planet with only two continents whose inhabitants had, through evolutionary pressures, evolved wheels on the ends of their legs. These beings were called 'Derbs.'

The Derbs were a peaceful race, far removed from the concept of war and destruction. Their two continents were called Wftda (pronounced WOOF-duh) and Wbtda (pronounced WOOB-duh), and in millennium they had never fought each other for supremacy. They reached this nirvana-like society by strange means; most notably by the Shirley Jackson short story "The Lottery" style social purging. Once a year every society would hold a lottery and twenty female Derbs from each continent (the females ruled the planet) would get together and race around in a circle, trying to pass each others countrywomen and slamming into each other. The women who passed more of their opponents won, and their continent would be declared the ruling continent. Since their society was peaceful, this was all the violence needed in their world.

But when the planet was vaporized, particles of it flew through the cosmos at near light speed. One of these particles flew into Earth's orbit, entering the atmosphere and passed through the brains of two men, called Leo Seltzer and Damon Runyon. They then created the sport of Roller Derby, subconsciously naming it after the Derbs. Eighty years later, in Bowling Green, KY, two women decided to create their own derby league. Their history is too fanciful to believe, but let it be known that even though they are immortal, they do find themselves susceptible to bribery by whiskey and hot dogs.

This roller derby league was created and two teams emerged. The Vette City Vixens and the Bowling Green Hot Broads. These two teams were fierce and powerful, but they had no way of knowing when to perform their miracle stunts on their amazing track. They needed a 'timekeeper,' or by its Latin name (name removed as it may actually summon C'thulhu). Then my phone rang...

I was asked if I could be their time referee. I accepted and was informed that my picture should be taken for their website and fliers. I contemplated this situation and, upon consultation with Lay 'Em Lola, a Hot Broad who, unknown to her, had been invaded by another particle of the planet of the Derbs, decided that I wanted her hairstyle. She has a Mohawk as well, and one fine May afternoon in early April, I was given this hairstyle by one who HAS THE VERY SPIRIT OF THE DERBS INSIDE HER!

I hope this clears up any confusion...

Song of teh post: Roller Derby Queen by Jim Croce
Rollergirl of teh post: Lay 'Em Lola

The Story of Rufus 'Hornswagle' Capon

Chapter 1: Origins

Part 1: Those who knew him when... The Nanny.

Smiling to the root of his vas deferens and improperly placed intrauterine devices, Rufus “Hornswagle” Capon laughed that tinny laugh that drove Margot Kidder around the bend all those years ago. “My childhood? You'd have to ask the woman that I called Nanny. I'm sure she'd give you a much better and more accurate portrayal of OH JESUS WHY DID I DO THAT?!?!,” he said as he stubbed his cigar out on the head of his penis. It's true, of course. His childhood, shrouded in secrecy mostly by the federal government of Paraguay, is a subject of extreme debate among modern historians, as ancient historians would never have known about him.

Acting upon his suggestion, we did locate his nanny, now living in a leper colony in Cornwall, England. Her lips smiled, fell off, and were stapled back on as she described his true origins. Here now, unedited, is her entire story.

“Ah, Rufus! Is he still around? Still putting cigarettes out on his penis?”

“He's moved on to cigars now.”

“Hah! He's been doing that since he was six months old, bless him.”

“Could you tell us a bit about yourself, miss...”

“Oh, please, call me William. I was born into a coffee bean roaster on the south side of France. After rescuing me once I reached a light city roast, I was put in an orphanage at my parent's request. There I learned the skills I needed to be a nanny for such a wonderful little lama beast such as Rufus. Skills like tattooing, savage beating with a monk fish, large vegetable insertions into the... uh...”

“The nostril?”

“Oh yes, that too. Anyway, such a lovely boy he was. Eyes were never his strong suit, but who needs eyes, I told him, when you've got your wealth. And he lorded that over all others! Oh boy, was he a dick. He used to take his pocket money and pay best friends to fight to the death. He'd import croutons from the tropics and use them as urinal cakes. But he was a kind boy occasionally. I remember one day I was enjoying a cup of meat tea in the sitting room which doubled as the feces storage facility when he walks up to me, completely straight faced, and said “Nanny, why do people fight? Why are there wars? Can't we all just be friends?” Seeing a budding glimmer of compassion and empathy in this wide eyed little boy who so recently had been terrorizing his friends with whips made of poison oak bark, I smiled at him, patted him on his tiny little toes, and said “Shut your fucking mouth, little shit drawer, or I'll smack you so hard you'll get pregnant.” I booted him in the teeth just to make sure he got the message, and he ran off screaming, later to attack me properly with a machete. Such a lovely boy he was.”

“What's your most vivid memory of Rufus's childhood?”

“Oh lord, that's a butt plug of a question. I'd have to say it was the time we got him back from Magic Space Camp Camp.”

“What's that?”

“It's a summer camp where all the children dress up as the members of ABBA and are led by the headmaster, who's dressed as Oscar Wilde, to recreate the musical “Phantom of the Opera” on the moon while sawing ladies in half. It's a bit of a specialist camp, of course, but it was either that or juvenile hall for that murder charge, and his father was rich. Anyway, he got off the shuttle and ran up to his father's servant's mistress's chauffeur's father's mistress's servant and leaped into his arms, sobbing. I asked him why he was crying, and he said that during the finale he stumbled over his lyrics and shat in someone else's pants. He was just about to explain how he got his poo into some other person's underwear, and just stopped stubbing that smoke out on his tadger, when the Russian ICBMs started screaming overhead, and the bombs started falling. When Hitler's tank rolled up to our limousine, Goering got out and started having sex with (large section removed due to CIA request). That's how he got that scar underneath his skull.”

“Just a couple more questions, William. What was the best thing about your time with him?”

“Oh that would be the day that I left his sorry ass and never looked back. I shot him in the face with a large flaming potato gun...”

“The potatoes were on fire?”

“No, the gun was. Anyway, after I shot him in the face, I turned in my notice and hung him by his toes as a parting gift. I never saw him again, but then that's a good thing. I'm still receiving money from his family as a settlement out of court, and the doctor says that if I ever get over this leprosy, I may regain the use of my extremities and bodily sphincters. I have to hand it to him though, that specifically engineered virus was very clever.”

“And lastly, William, what does 'Hornswagle' mean?”

(long pause) “You get the hell out of here right now. Get out and I never want to see you again!”

The authors would like to thank William for her kind interview.

Next time, Part 2: Those who knew him when... The Principal.

Books I'd like to read, if only they existed...

Every summer I find myself with lotsa free time to occupy my already ADD riddled mind. I love to read, but rarely find right books. I'm kinda picky like dat. If someone would write these five books, I'd be grateful. I'll buy multiple copies and give them to all my friends and certain members of my family.


REVIEWS

"It's an obscure book. I doubt you've read it."
-Hipster standing outside the bar smoking

"Whatever. It's pointless anyway."
-Emo kid shopping for razors

"A non-stop informational storm which made me want to wear a Genesis shirt ironically and drink lousy beer, for FASHION!"
-Fiendly Grimmish




REVIEWS

"I laughed, I cried, I prayed!"
-Alan David Berlin

"Disgusting, immoral, repugnant, and falling short on every family value that we as Americans hold dear!"
-Mark Sanford, Governor, SC

"Lets you into a magical world in which nobody but gay people don't exist. I give it two engorged phalluses up!"
-Fiendly Grimmish








REVIEWS

"Finally one of our own speaks out. This has been a long time coming, and can only open dialogue among all people."
-That friend of a friend that said that one thing that time.

"We have concluded that this is, scientifically, the best book in existence."
-Those doctors that did that study one time.

"I had no idea it was so hard. This is quite a load. I'm glad it came."
-Fiendly Grimmish




REVIEWS

"I had no idea everyone loved my work so much. (starts sobbing) I'm so deeply touched by this... thank you for including me in this tome of... (incoherent speech through blubbering weeping).
-Glenn Beck, Contributor "Gays Have Married? Now I Can Do My Sister!"

"While I'm not... I can't read this. There's no words on it. I ca... FUCK IT! WE'LL DO IT LIVE! NO, FUCK THIS!! SHUT THIS MICROPHONE OFF NOW!"
-Bill Orally, Contributor "Excerpt from 'Those Who Trespass'"

(Vomiting sounds)
-Fiendly Grimmish




REVIEWS

"I say, quite the eloquent book. I'd give it two thumbs up, if I had knuckled digits."
-Charlie the cat

"Ball ball ball ball ball ball ball ball ball ball ball ball ball..."
-Fido

"OMG I loled! It are teh awesum! Wuts going on? Y dat kitteh has a knifey? No! Don be stabbin mah hed!"
-Fiendly Grimmish






Song of teh post: Reading Rainbow theme song.
Book of teh post: A Liars Autobiography, by Graham Chapman