7 / 24 / 05 - The crowd at "The Salivating Labia" fell deathly silent. The man onstage froze, in a paniced stance. Sweat instantly pooled on his worried brow. Frantic thoughts and doubts swirled in a cacophonous stew in his mind. His verbal faux pas cut a palpable swath through the atmosphere. Where once laughs and chortles comingled in a fanciul embrace, only eerie silence remained.

And then the first wave of fruits and vegetables struck him. He stood firm against the tomatoes, but the wiseguys who brought grapefoots broke him. Buckling under the torrent of nutritious misiles, he meekly - yet hurriedly - crawled offstage.

Such was the chance one took when taking up the microphone on the stage of The Salivating Labia. The customs at The Salivating Labia are nearly as strange as its name. There is no monetary cover charge for this illustrious establishment. Instead, patrons need only bring some fruits or vegetables inside of a tupperware container. Also, instead of applauding or booing the comedians, the customers are instructed to do the following:

If the comic performs poorly, they are assaulted by means of projectile produce. That might seem like a familiar, or at least plausible concept. Well, it is. I guess that's not really strange at all. Read on, gentle consumer!

If the comic performs well, instead of clapping for their performance, one should instead seal their tupperware. The noise of dozens of tupperware containers being sealed at once creates a vortex of pleasure that overwhelms the senses, and embiggens the performer's performance.

There are all sorts of reasons for why this is. Probably.

Still reading? That sucks.

OK, fine. Though I am irrevocably flummoxed by your persistance, I will tell you more.

Tupperware is made from plastic, right? Still with me? THAT'S GREAT! As we all know, plastic is a synthetic material. In ancient times, the great dinosaur society faced times of peril. There were great rifts and fissures dividing their noble society. Some dinosaurs wanted only to frolic and make merry. Other dinosaurs insisted that hard work and diligent study were the ways of the dinosaur. A great and terrible war ensared both sides. The hard working dinosaurs forged weapons of great might and strength. The playful dinosaurs made weapons out of plastic. Long story short, there was a terrible massacre of the playful genus of dinosaurs. They were slain, and their plastic armaments often fell right beside their corpses. Then the nerdy species of dinosaurs left on a reverse meteor. And that's where we get plastic.

So, you see, through the simultaneous might and folly of our common ancestors, the dinosaurs, we have the miracle material we call plastic. Plastic tupperware containers make awe-inspiring noise when they are shut. Noise that echoes the legacy of the dinosaurs. That's why it's so cool.

Also, bringing the food in tupperware keeps it fresh. That way, neither you or the comedians will get hyper-mega-ecoli mach 2 if you eat the food that you brought. Practicality meets the dinosaurs!

7 / 17 / 05 - I ain't dead yet! I've got a few buns in the oven as far as writing goes, and I've got a hankerin' to retool this cess pool of website. There might even be different hosting. Whoa! Hold on to your hats, kiddies! Nothing else though. *splat* Be sure to stay tuned and check back here every hour or so. Anything less will give you the clap! Venerial internet!

5 / 3 / 05 - Dear Dream Diary, I had another one of those scarring nightmares. I only pray that I am now awake, and thus released from its eerie clutches. I hope that in writing this, I can regain sanity from another glimpse into the madness held within the dream state. Otherwise, I fear for the future. Unless I can deal with the hideous and twisted reality found in my dreams, I shall never sleep again. Hoping against hope, I write to you, o friendly dream diary. Let me cry on your leather-bound, gilded shoulders.

I strolled into the Salieri bar half an hour late. Naturally, I could care less about Donald's antiquated lateness policy, as Donald himself was too drunk to tell time, much less dress himself. Besides, Donald seemed to have a soft spot for me, as if we were peers. All of that aside, I ambled into the back room, where our "business meetings" are held. The usual cast of surly losers and degenerates I had regretably grown accustomed to hovered around the table like ugly moths drawn to a flame. Half-heartedly glancing across their bedraggled faces, I acknowledged each of them with a noncomittal nod. The stoic imbicile Sam stared straight ahead, refusing to communicate. Donald hiccuped and struggled to maintain conciousness. Frank, the only halfway normal one, greeted me politely. I still hate him, though. They sicken me. I sometimes wonder if the money I make is worth the struggle of coexisting with them.

Paulie - the ghoulish crack-fiend of the bunch - was overjoyed with my presence. The throbbing sacks under his eyes swelled up and his jagged face contorted into what I assumed was a smile.

"Oh Tom! Maybeee we should go to Lunaaeeerrr Paach latuh tonight. You know, foah old taiiime's sake. As a couple... Oh Tom."

A typical start to my days. Sometimes I don't know where reality ends and the nightmare begins. Lately, they seem synonymous to me.

"Go drown yourself, Paulie."

"Oh Tom! You've made me the hapiest maaan on duh... uhhh.... um... Oith. This marriiidge is a byuuuu-tiful thing. Oh Tom! Wherarya?"

I hate him. He doesn't listen to me. He thinks we're married to each other. I almost envy him, though. He may be an ugly, abominable sewer of inhumanity, but he at least seems to be happy. It's probably a perennial euphoria enduced by the constant cocacine. It's amazing: he gets payed fractions of a penny on the hour, but still manages to inhale a herculean amount of blow every night at one of the gay coke bars he haunts. Do they actually repect him there? I dont want to find out. Maybe I don't envy him. Constant misery is better than one instant of his life.

Donald, whom until now was locked in an alcoholic trance, raised his cocktail glass in a shaky salute, and called the meeting to order with an unintelligible gurgle. Through slurred speech and overenthusiastic gestures he articulated the details of what was to be the day's work.

Today I am supposed to assault some local street-toughs. Paulie just had to put in his idiotic two cents about the situation.

"Tom, this is so uh..... um... err.... um.... hot. We'll go out latuh tooo-nite. Git some bees."

Rational thought gets shoved to the wayside as the urge to beat Paulie to death takes control of my body. You know how it is - another typical day down at the Salieri watering hole. The first punch is on route to connect with his neck. It's an ugly thing to do, but it feels so right.

"Wouch! Oh Tom, stop dat!"

Somewhat surprisingly, the drones circling the famlieri table do nothing to stop me. The next punch is ready. I'll hit him harder this time.

"Oh Tom! Youuuu're stahtin to piss me off!"

Again, as if nothing is amiss, the famlieri sits motionless, indifferent to the scene of violence before them. No reason to stop now. The next jab doesn't go quite so well. As I strike at him, Paulie lurches backwards, bending himself in ways that human beings are not meant to bend. He recoils, spiderlike, and stares me. The scowl that has been scrawled across his wretched face is all the more reason to bludgeon him again.

"Oh Tom! One more time you aint get up again."

An idle threat. I'm undeterred in my efforts. Time for punch number four. This one's going to be a doozy.

No sooner had the fourth punch delivered itself into his kidneys, the whole room erupted into a baffling chaos. Sam and Donald sprung to their feet, pivoting on an imaginary central axis to face me. "With me it ain't no games," chirped Donald.

Sam cooed, "I'll stamp on your face!"

What an idiot. Frank simply prostrated himself on the floor at Donald's feet.

It was about that time that Donald had drawn his pistol and taken aim at me. As if by magic, the gun spat round after round at an incredible rate. The muzzle looked as if flames were being spewed forth. Gallons of blood poured out of my rapidly accreting gunshot wounds. I reacted with pained yelps, despite the fact that somehow I didn't feel hurt, or even stunned by the bullets. I continued to assault Paulie, who had spontaneously produced a knife in his meat paws. The battle continued. As I rained blows upon him, the mood for music struck me. Dashing over to the gramaphone, I turned it on with a few cranks. The obnoxious music that fell out of it felt somehow fitting to this scene of chaos and stupdity.

I returned to the task that drove me: ending Paulie's life. Vincenzo, the famlieri's oafish manchild, had in the meantime burst into the room, his shotgun singing his praises. His aim square and true, Vincenzo felled me with a somber blast of lead. Screaming in pain, I collapsed, everything fading to black. No less than a second later (I was sure of it), Paulie and I were transported to Vincenzo's workshop. Paulie was standing next to me, blindly slashing at the air in front of him. He kept hacking away, unaware that I was no longer in front of him. Before I could figure out why, he stopped in mid slash, and, arm still streched out in front of him, jerked his head in my direction. At that instant, I saw the devil himself in Paulie.

And that's when I woke up. I hate Modays.

2 / 4 / 05 - Well, it's aught five now. You want some content? You ain't the daddy. You get some anyway. Here's a short paper I wrote for my writing class. It's a quality class!

12 / 11 / 04 - The people's republic of Boulder is an anomaly as far as rustic backwoods provinces go. People here come from all sorts of different backgrounds and social dispositions, and the comingling of all of these variances forms a frothy, pungent brew. We call that brew Boulder, and we like it. Just don't drink deep the cauldrons tepid waters before operating heavy machinery. Pregnant women should abstain from Boulder. Side effects vary, but may include severe bloating and intestinal cramps, vomiting, and a slight discoloration of the rectum. In severe cases, you might Polio or Salmonella poisoning. Oh, and there was that one batch that contained a strain of the Plague, but our PR kept that under wraps.

As for the ingredients of the soupy brines known as Boulder, they include, but are not limited to the following delicious and not delicious ojects:

The wealthy are inheritly arrogant, superficial, and generally irritating. Kind of like the sentient rash that is slowly conquering my backside, but with money. Why, just today, I saw one of these so-called "wealthy". As I was riding the bus home from campus, I happened to see one. This genus of wealthy was an adult male, ~6 ft tall, approximately 50 - 60 years aged, and wearing clothes. He was riding one of those ridicluous Segway human transporters, and what's more, he was riding it down the middle of a street. First of all, there is no justification for anyone to ever need to use this device. If you're too lazy to walk, then you don't deserve your legs in the first place. If your legs don't work very well, you shouldn't be standing in the first place, so get a wheelchair. Ironically, the scooters cost an arm and a leg to buy, so using one just after those amputations is just asking for trouble anyway. Anyway, to simply label this man as "stupid" would bring shame to the great name of stupid. This revolting cad has transcended stupid, and reached a self-serving narcissistic nirvana. This ethereal plane that he now dwells in is shared with other rich jerks and their leg substitutes. They are free to mull about on their Segways, wandering the dewey meadows and enchanted plains, and pet unicorns made of solid gold. Mother of God.

Keeping with the vibrant tradition of quality mental diseases being used as ingredients for soupy broth, we have the insane. They come in various flavors and brand names, such as old coot (sponsored by Nike), the wandering derilect (sponsored by Old Navy), and, your friend and mine, the incoherent babbler (sponsored by Ronco). On the very same bus ride that I saw the Segway and its parastic master, there chanced to be a nut job, species insane, genus babbler. Oh, and the wonderous stories she did tell. Maybe. I could hear her perfectly clearly, but I could not for the life of me understand what she was saying. I glanced over a couple of times to make sure she wasn't talking on a cell phone, or reading a book out loud. No, she was definitely an insane babbler. And what's the deal with insane people always wearing heavy coats? Is that "in" with the crazies? They always have heavy coats, ususally an old hat, and mittens. They love mittens. Well, that's terrific.

The district of Boulder, and its subsequent vat of nourishing elixer has always been known as a hovel for hippies to dwell in. I think two thirds of my neighbors are hippies. The other third is bones and organ meat. Unlike the ingredients above, hippies are at worst tolerable, and at best extremely nice. Hippies were invented in 1859, though they were originally intended for slave labor and coal mining. Most hippies are covered in a fine film of silk. Hipies are naturally nocturnal, and are made of ghosts and tar.

These are the most noticable of objects that congregate in the cauldron. There are also the slothful, the elderly, the scholars, and the raccoons. But, damn it; that's what America is about! No, not the raccoons! It's people and sub-people from all sorts of different backgrounds, with different religious beliefs and shoe sizes, coming together in a melting pot. The pot is then thrust into the preheated oven, and left there until its greasy contents are a savory golden-brown. And then you put on the garnishes. Serves 6.

12 / 9 / 04 - It seems that I have developed a non-masochistic fondness for really terrible television ads. I just couldn't get enough of those terrible Dodge ads (featured in the rants section of a quality website) way back when they were still in the rotation. There was also that terrible car ad that was mentioned just last week at a very reputable website. Also on said website was a thought-provoking and suspenseful tear-jerker about McDonald's Big Dunkers. Just recently, Seiko decided to remind me of my guilty pleasure. During a rather hilarious South Park last night, the Seiko ad was seen not once, not thrice, but twice. The same ad was on twice in 30 minutes. That seems to be a pretty typical stunt for the lowbrow clods that run these drawn-out charades they taxonimize as "entertainment" to pull nowadays.

Anyway, for those who didn't see the ad: it's premise was that, without a Seiko watch, you are nothing. You are a lie. There were several smug "actors" employed in this abomination, each with a short, trite one-liner. By their powers combined, the overall message was that you and nothing about you is relevant unless you have a Seiko watch in order to justify your life. Torah, The Quoran, The Bible, various Sutras and doctrinations are all lies. Seiko is your creator, and you are going to suffer eternally if you dont have one of their watches.

To compund further the stifling atmosphere of arrogance, the watches have several inane features. On the face of one of the watches, there were several unlabeled meters and gauges. All we know for sure is that one is an altimeter, and one is a GPS location system relay. With all the trifling extras behind the hands of the watch, it has got to be a chore trying to tell what time it is. There's all this junk behind the hands (which are inidentally, stupidly small and thin to begin with) that just obscures the hands. It'd be like tring to locate a speck of dust while you're the sun is behind it. I urge anyone that buys one of those watches to go try that.

Who cares that much aobut a watch anyway? Probably Ronco, but robots find shiny things like that to be rather sexy anyway.

Oh well. There are other terrible ads to watch, such as that one with the dancing octagenarian pedophile that lures children onto his bus, which will transport them to his garden of pleasures. Or the ones with Ronco, the robot that is the harbinger of an apocolyptoc decay of society. There's also those "artistic" commercials that never seem to have a point. And what kind of jerk tries to make an ad into art? Amateurs.

It looks like its time to wrap up this unfunny rant with an inappropriate nonsequitor. Lather, rinse. Repeat.

12 / 2 / 04 - I realize that Bic mechanical pencils are not expensive. I'm also aware of the maxim that tells us that you, "get what you pay for". But I'll be damned if I didn't expect a little more from a relatively well-known brand name. The lead deployment winch works just fine, and those weird clips that are supposed to be for attaching the pencil to your person (you know, because EVERYONE does that) are comprised of a somewhat quality material. Hey, even the hexagonal shaft and lead capsule are not without their charm. Even the little spring inside it does its job - and does it quite well - with a cheery smile on its cheap aluminum-whatever anthropomorphic visage. You'd think that with all these redeeming qualities, I ought to reward my pencils with a promotion, or take them out to a fancy dinner or what have you. I'd consider that if it weren't for their insanely fatal flaw - the eraser.

A very plague upon all existance, the eraser corrupts and decays everything in its cursed path. The eraser is like Andy Dick: it goes out of its way just to be a vile, humorless, and irritating wad of composite rubber. The foolish mistake of trying to use the eraser to erase an errant pencil stroke is analagous to trying to put out a grease fire with water, except the water is really laced with nuclear waste and every strain of disease, so it spreads the fire and then makes the area uninhabitable for centuries to come. Oh, and just because it still has a lot of spite for you, it'd also yell racial slurs at you while using your credit cards to purchase hummel clown figurines. The eraser is best friends with Trev Alberts, Stalin's ghost, Ron Popeil, Carrot Top, and the zombified Strom Thurmond, and secretly invites them into your house for rave parties and farting contests when you're not around. Everything wrong in your life is the eraser's fault, and it can't wait to make things worse.

Do you remember the TV advertisements that had the premise that touching a certain brand of car would let send you into a fit, and flood you with the "experiences" that the car went through? And that makes you somehow happy, and eager to buy it? Oh come on, you know, it was that ad that was terrible. I'm trying to be as specific as possible. Touching the eraser causes a similar intrusion into your mind, except it shows you episodes from "The Drew Carey Show" with the volume all the way up, while spraying caustic juices into your eyes. And that's what it does when it's on vacation. The eraser is in a constant euphoria that it derives from you making any mistakes in writing. Your failure delights it. Your very rage and loathing at it tickles its rotten core in a way that can only be described as perversly sexual. The eraser was used as a torture device during the Spanish inquisition. The eraser reads The New Yorker with genuine intrest and a sense of smugness.

There is aboslutely nothing good about the eraser. It's not even something you can love to hate, such as Paulie Dot-Owl, or a jovial zombie Teddy "Teddie" Roosevelt. The eraser is hate incarnate, and that's when it's on your good side. Fabian Forte is the unscrupulous lovechild of the eraser. The eraser posses your soul, and will force you to write trite, meaningless "articles" that are to be passed off as comedy.

The eraser also made this jerk write a review of a bic pencil. If I could turn my bitter enmity for the eraser into a corporeal manifestation, I would order the sentient goliath of loathing to bludgeon the author of said review into a briney pulp, and destroy her terrible website with its ethereal fists.

12 / 1 / 04 - When the epic tandem of Lynchworm and Chump Bailey forged a dazzling alliance with epic legend Matt Mauck, good things began to happen to the fair province of Denver. The stifling miasma that filled the feeble lungs of a weak economy was purged by the noble triumverate. Small businesses blossomed into profitable crocusses of corporate strength. The atmosphere of economic flowering was enough to rouse trustbuster Teddy "Teddie" Roosevelt from the crypt. Tiger Yard advocate and yacht enthusiast Barney "Barnacle" Cotton was heard to remark, "throttle down." Though seemingly meaningless and baffling, I think he has a stern point. However, before he could expound upon it, he was overtaken and devoured by the zombie Roosevelt. In spite of it all, there was a lesson to be learned.

As recent trends would indicate, it's not who you're voting for; it's who you're voting against. And, as such, I urge you to exercise your right to vote against Ron Popeil. Unless you're a fountain of ignorance or a vidday of ignorance, you'd be aware that a very important election is soon to be held. I am of course refering to the "Man of the Year Awards". Though the precise date of the straw pole is yet to be determined, it's never to early too start lobbying.

In order for you to be an educated voter, I have compiled a brief history of this prestigious award. The following is the history of the Man of the Year Award, and all the prestige that surrounds it. It should serve as a reminder to keep with a proud tradition of excellence that has come to be associated with the title of Man of the Year.

A few years back, eugenics practitioner and genocide enthusiast Luke Perry won the proud title for his heroic deeds. The following watershed year, the "Men of the Year" were notorious murderer Thomas "Oh Tom" Turkey, and the first recipient of the wookie head transplant, Donald "the Don baby Don Don Ronald R. Q." Salieri. Again, the Man of the Year award stood for murder and lawlesness. A nation again cried tears of joy.

But soon, all that could change. Ron Popeil desires to ascend to the plane of excellence that is reserved for those who actually deserve to be Men of some Year. Ron Popeil has never killed anybody. Ron Popeil never had a childhood. Ron Popeil is a robot. Ron Popeil only works in extortion and financial loopholes. Ron Popeil is alergic to vinegar.

Now, I'm not some big city lawyer, but seemse to me that those are not appropriate attributes for a Man of the Year to posses. If Ron Popeil were to win, the Man of the Year awards would be stained and damaged worse than a set of Ronco knives.

And we can't have that.

9 / 17 / 04 - My life is a mess, a never-ending spiral of drug binges, confusion, and a crippling dependence on Big Dunkers. I needed help. So I did what any rational, freedom-loving American would: I asked a dog for help. When I first sought out Cindy, the noble hound of boundless love, she seemed confused and nervous. Perhaps I appeared as a crazy man before her; perhaps she was just usually a paranoid jumble of nerves that would collapse in a shivering ball of unknown terrors just as soon as she would tip her hat to you in a neighborly manner, but she wanted me to meet her in her top-secret cloister, which she fondly referred to as "the bunker".

Wellsir, I was just as pleased as I could be in hopes that this kindly little dog would confide to me her wisdom and set me on the path of salvation from my strife, so I of course agreed to meet her there the next day. Naturally, as soon as she hobbled out of sight, I emptied my secret stash of Big Dunkers into a blender, and injected the bony mass of jumbled generic bird parts directly into my stomach. I had to do this. Not because of my addiction, but because my esophagus had swollen shut in an attempt to stop me from eating the Big Dunkers I so desperately needed, and I'm not one to let a rebellion start inside of my own body. It reminded me of that time when my carotid artery and heart teamed up in order to stop my brain. It was a match of wills and endurance, but I still think I would've won without the interference of the freelance surgical team and the pig heart.

All the same, I was biding my time until Cindy the eccentric mutt of gorgeous appearance and righteous deeds would listen to my tales, and sort out the ruins of my life. While waiting for my conference with that benevolent 91 year-old dowager (dogs orbit the sun 7 times faster than people, that's why she's not really 13 years old), I decided to stop over at the local McDonalds and fight some children for their Big Dunkers. Wellsir, I ambled over there, with all the ambition that a young Christopher Columbus must've had on his way to discovering McDonalds. I found a gaggle of children there, their faces smeared with secret sauces, cackling with glee over their happy meals, groping at all manners of things with their impossibly sticky hands, and generally being ill mannered little wretches. No sooner had I taken a few steps toward them, then they trotted into what I could only assume was their nest, taking with them their harvest of Big Dunkers. Foolishly, I decided to chase after them. In a drug-related delirium, I crawled into one of their tunnels that made up the network of their hive. The sign outside of it said it was a ball pit, but I knew better. This was no ball pit. No, no, it was the foul results of the queen's labor of species-propagation: the egg chamber. Hundreds, thousands, millions of colorful eggs, each simultaneously carrying in it new life and a curse upon the very Earth these little beasts stalked. Having had my mind having been violated on all possible levels in a manner of picoseconds, I crumpled into a terrified ball, sinking beneath the surface of the larva.

I awoke in a soggy heap the next afternoon. Still nearly paralyzed with fear, I dragged myself out of that abominable pit of unspeakable evil. In the blistering September heat, I lurched towards my only hope left in the world: Cindy! Wellsir, no sooner then I arrived at the entrance to Cindy's bunker, she galloped out, ready to help me in my hour of desperate need.

Now, I'll spare you the details of her first healing session, but she realized that I needed constant support and encouragement to purge myself of my troubles. She also knew that she could not always be at my side to comfort me. In her infinite wisdom, she gave me her cell phone number. I had no idea that a dog would have / be able to use a cell phone, but these people: PetsCell did believe in that beautiful dream. Now, whenever I feel alone and helpless, I can talk to her, and her good graces and rapist wit can pull me through the bad times. Thank you, PetsCell, for now I can talk to Cindy any time I want. This revolutionary invention will change the world.

Just kidding. It's the worst invention ever, and believe me, I know a thing or two about bad inventions. Keep it real, internet!

6 / 22 / 04 - The withered visage of Ron Popeil might inspire such feelings as hope, desire, and slight inner-earache in some of you. Some look upon his unwavering, pensive stare, and see a self-made man, a famous inventor, and who could forget -- an American hero. For these people, to even hear is name is to laugh merrily, skipping through fields of posies and dafodils, forgetting all their cares, troubles, worries. These people are dangerously insane and, frankly, not to be trifled with; for these people, these fanatics, are marionettes dancing to the sick desires of an insane tyrant. While little is known about R.O.N.C.O. (Relentlessly Offering New Crappy Objects), we do know a few factoids about their leader, Ron Popeil, and his zealous and dark machinations:

Ron Popeil, the grand wizard and C.E.O. of R.O.N.C.O. is not what he seems. He is, in reality, a kindly factory-dwelling robot. At least, he used to be. I don't mean to say that he used to be a robot -- he still is. It'd be kind of hard for a robot to change anyway, unless he was one of the Transformers or Decipticons. And if he was, I would have said so instead of saying he was a robot. Incidentally, if he was a Transformer, he probably would've been able to change into some sort of crustacean or genus of flounder. What I meant to say that he's not "kindly", or "factory-dwelling" anymore. Now he is "sinister" and "coven-inhabiting".

Back in his carefree and not-evil days, Ron the kindly factory-dwelling robot was a kind robot that dwelled within a factory. His tasks included cleaning the factory floor, welding together tin cans of varying size, and generally behaving in a manner that one might surmise a kindly robot would behave. Ron did this, day in and day out, for nearly 2 years before he changed. Being the only robot on the factory floor, Ron would at times become very lonely. He tried to find company in his human co-workers, but they were sad, and would have nothing to do with Ron. Ron, being desperate for their attention, decided he would do something to change their minds about him. But Ron didn't know that "to change one's mind" was only an expression, and set out to actually change their minds.

After several messy, failed experiments involving brain transplants, Ron finally abandonded the mind-changing idea and settled for a simple brain-washing campaign. To get revenge on the humans that shunned him, Ron decided it would be great to trick them into wasting their money on trite, poorly-crafted tools that they didn't need. After duping his co-workers into buying terrible devices such as the "Solid Flavor Injector", the "Food Dehydrator", the "Pocket Fisherman", the "GLH Formula Number 9 Hair System", and the "Gull Raper", Ron decided he would try to pull the wool over the world's collective eyes. After poor sales figures from his "Wool Glasses and Eyepatch Kit", Ron decided that it would be simpler to trick the world into buying his other cursed inventions instead.

Since then, Ron has built his foul headquarters and created a plethora of worthless garbage to peddle to the unsuspecting masses. He prices these objects of the damned so low that his profit margin is nearly a twentieth of a cent. As a robot, I guess he doesn't really have much use for money. He just wants to destroy humanity, and, by golly, he's doing pretty well. The poor saps who buy this junk customers get more than they bagain for, though. And by more, I mean a lot less. Take the "Six Star Cutlery Set" for example. 25 knives priced at $40. Given manufaturing, advertising, and shipping costs, Ron must've cut corners (not with the knives though, they couldn't cut air!) in production, assembly, quality etc. to sell them for such a stupidly low price. And, since I've born witness to these wretched abominations first-hand, I can verify the hypothesis of their poor quality. They were purchased not too long ago, and are already notcibly water damaged. I can only guess as to wether or not they're extremely dull yet, as I try not to touch them or use them.

If you're feeling particularily suicidal or if you've been itching to throw your money away, you should visit Ron's website. As you'll notice, it is full of lies. Take the upper-left corner, for example. It alone decieves you twice! First of all, Ron is a robot, and therefore does not have skin. It's a fake humanoid Ron! Second, it says, "Ron Popeil, America's Inventor", but Ron Popeil did not invent America! Everyone knows that Columbus invented America, shortly after inventing baldness and beef jerky! And beef jerky is delicious! You're a soulless plague and a charlatan, Ron; and I'm not going to take it anymore!