No, I won’t Play Farmville with You.

Dear Readers,

With the new job in full swing, it’s been hard to get behind the laptop and put my funnies into your brain. Don’t worry. Things are starting to level off and I’ll be back up to my old schedule in no time. For now, I’ve put together a little something to show you my feelings on Farmville… enjoy.




That’s right. I hate this game and I’d sooner gnaw my own arm off than play 15 minutes of it.

When I get one of these on Facebook,

I’m all like this…

and then I hit the delete button on the request.

I know you think your four hundred requests that you’ve sent to my Facebook page over the past year seem innocuous,

but in reality, it comes across like this…

*It is a really cute chicken though…

Do yourself and everyone else a favor; close down Facebook and pick up a copy of Skyrim.

The game of Skyrim a beautiful work of art with an enthralling story and engrossing atmosphere. It’s not some Adobe Flash, browser-based abomination; plus, Skyrim has chickens too, so the transition should be a little easier for you.


P.S. We can still be friends, just don’t ask me to play Farmville with you anymore.

P.P.S I’ve thought about it and the only way I’d play Farmville is if they added a Mongolian Horde DLC Pack, wherein I get to make a cute little Genghis Khan avatar, amass a raiding party and then put your farm to the sword.

*If you have somebody that won’t stop sending you Farmville invites, why not pass this blog post along to them? You’re welcome.

Happy Easter!

Wife and I were talking about parenting techniques last night. I concluded that my ideas are sometimes a bit more radical than hers. We don’t have any kids, but today I was thinking about how I’d teach them about Easter and I imagine that it would go something like this… enjoy.




















*I don’t know why I’m blonde in these cartoons, but I am for some reason or another.




P.S. I’m pretty sure this makes me a bad person… or an awesome one. I’m not really sure. Somewhere along the course of my life, I’ve lost the ability to tell the difference.


P.P.S. Have a Happy Easter and be sure to find all the eggs… or else.

The Great Migration Part III: The Career Search

With the medical exams and the move across the pond out of the way, I was ready to start looking for a job.


Wife didn’t approve of my original plan to be a career hobo, so I had to get a real job instead.



It would have been a great fit; I already had the beard and everything.


The first step in landing a job was to go to Texas for a weekend career conference that was chock-full of companies and interviewees. The whole thing was set up as a giant round-robin of interviewing. I guess the best way to visualize it is to picture interview speed-dating; I interviewed with thirteen separate companies in two short days.


I’m really good at interviewing, but I’m a huge smart ass and I have this very powerful, ingrained desire to sabotage my own interview for the sake of comedy.


When somebody asks me this in an interview,



I say this,



but I have a really strong impulse to do this instead,





I think I do this because one of my life goals is to make enough money so I don’t have to work anymore. Part two of that same goal is deliberately and habitually bombing interviews and quitting low-level jobs in a spectacularly explosive fashion.











Well, maybe not that spectacularly explosive or violent, but you get the idea.


Getting back to the story, I was really proud of myself because I only sabotaged two out of the thirteen interviews; an all-time record high for me. The first interview that I sabotaged was well worth it though.


The interview was with a company called Friedrich & Snuggles (close to the real name) and it wasn’t going well. The primary reason I was approaching interview critical failure, was the fact that I was being interviewed by a man who, apparently, tried his hardest everyday to look like Lex Luthor. The secondary reason was his cohort, a double for Steve Carell. I would have had to stifle laughter throughout the interview, but Lex and Steve were pompous dicks who supplanted their collective sense of humor with a towering superiority complex instead. I still put all of this aside and tried to navigate through the interview.


I asked a general question about their company and it somehow led to fifteen minutes of Lex and Steve talking about how awesome their company was. They went on and on about how great they were while attacking other companies in their field; often cutting me off to continue their diatribe.


It was like watching a beautiful toucan preen itself on a branch for hours on end.



Which, of course, made me want to throw a rock at it.



As I was fantasizing about violence, Steve turned to me and said this,


Steve: I’m trying to think of a way to explain what our company does to someone like you.*


*translation: I’m having trouble explaining this because you’re too stupid.


Steve: Did you ever see that movie, Pulp Fiction?


Me: I’ve heard of it.*


*translation: I’ve memorized every line.


Steve: You know that part where Mr. Wolf shows up and cleans up everything?


Me: Yes.


Steve: That’s kind of what we do.


I had done a pretty good job holding it together to this point, but this was ridiculous. These two clowns represented a consulting firm and they were trying to make it sound cool and sexy, but it just came off as ludicrous. I kept thinking of Lex Luthor and Steve Carell showing up at Quentin Tarantino’s house to dispose of a headless body as Samuel L. Jackson and John Travolta look on in quiet wonder. I lost all composure.


Me: HAHAHA!!! That’s a good one!


Steve: What’s so funny?


Lex: Yeah, what’s so funny?


Me: So you two * catches breath from laughter * you two dispose of dead bodies?


Steve: Well, we…


Me: (interrupting) We’re done here. Good luck finding somebody who buys into your fantasy.


I had ended that interview about thirty minutes ahead of schedule so I got a sandwich. Looking back, if I had the choice between changing my attitude and possibly getting that job or the sandwich, I still would have picked the sandwich. It had really good mustard and Italian bread.



My next interview was with Foreman Chicken (the company actually shares its name with another famous heavyweight boxer). This interview could have gone well, but my dad had worked for them for twenty years and hated the experience. He spoke of his time with Foreman Chicken like he was recounting his tours in Vietnam.


I discovered that he had worked for Foreman Chicken one Thanksgiving when I remarked on how well he had carved the turkey. It was so perfect, like a commercial. Now this was odd, considering the fact that my dad’s cooking ability has always been somewhere between burning water and sending TV dinners backwards in time via the microwave. I asked him where he learned to cut a bird so well. The answer, Foreman Chicken.


It took well over a year for me to tease the entire story out of him and it didn’t paint a pretty picture.


In his opinion, they were an evil corporation that hid behind the veneer of southern niceties so they could continue to conduct their Dr. Josef Mengele type experiments with poultry.


I didn’t know if any of this was true or not, but it didn’t put me in the right frame of mind going into the interview.


The Foreman Chicken interviewers seemed normal enough, but I felt that they would pull their masks off and attempt to devour my soul at any moment. I kept watching them for any signs of evil. I felt like Frodo in a room full of ringwraiths.



I eventually just couldn’t take it anymore and told them the truth about my dad and my reservations about working for them. Expecting them to nod slowly and then eviscerate me into delectable wing and drum sections, I winced in anticipation of their response.


They just told me that the situation was unfortunate and ended the interview.


Damn, so that was interview self-sabotage number two.


The rest of the interviews went really well and I met some great people and companies.

It all worked out in the end too. Despite my best efforts, I wound up picking a nice job that I like much more than my previous position; working for the shadowy puppet masters.




P.S.  Thanks for reading.  I don’t advocate toucan violence.  I love birds.  Don’t send hate mail.


P.P.S. Next week, we’ll talk about my former shadowy puppet masters. It’s about time you guys and gals learned a little more about me. I think I’ll do a poll to see what you guys think I used to do for a living.








Live, Nerd, Repeat Update

I’ve been getting a lot of personal requests via G mail from readers to put custom items in my store. You’ll be happy to know that I’ve added them… all of them.


Didn’t know that you could contact me?


Didn’t know that I had a store?


Yes, you can contact me and yes, I do have a store.


Here’s how to get to the contact me tab for my email address.



Here’s the way to the store tab too.



Lastly, a lot of people don’t know that I’ve been posting roughly every week since August of last year so here’s how to get to my older posts. It’s hard to believe, but the drawings used to be worse than they are now.



That should do it for now. I’ve got to get back to work on The Great Migration Part III: The Career Search.




P.S. Please buy a bunch of merchandise from me. I owe a lot of money to dangerous people.


P.P.S If anybody ever tells you that a particular horse is “a sure thing” just walk away and cut your losses.


The Great Migration Part II: Planes, Trains and Anguish

Part II: Planes, Trains and Anguish

With my medical exams and administrative block-checking completed, the next major obstacle was actually getting myself, Wife, Skittles and Other Cat across the Atlantic to the US.

Everything up to this point was going fairly smoothly. Wife had done a lot of research into what we needed to do to clear customs. We had the cat carriers ready. We had provisions for the long flight and we were all ready to go… until we received a call from our travel agent rearranging our flight itineraries hours before we were to depart.

I decided to strap on my metaphorical shit goggles because I knew it was about to hit the fan.

So here’s our original itinerary; Frankfurt, Germany to Atlanta, Georgia and then to Florida.

Here is the new itinerary with our new stop at JFK international airport.

Now, this wouldn’t have been so bad, but I had recently watched The Terminal and I knew there was an outside chance that we could, much like Tom Hanks’ character, be stranded at JFK indefinitely.

Wife and I had never been to JFK airport either. We had both heard rumors that it was a tangled maze of sadness and we weren’t excited about the prospect of having to clear JFK customs with our two neurotic cats.

The day of the flight, we got the cats ready and made our way to Frankfurt international airport. Immediately the plan began to unravel. Other Cat decided it was an opportune time to have a little kitty psychological meltdown. Other Cat began panicking and it was clear that she was not going to be able to fly in the cargo hold with Skittles and all the other pets without having a stroke.

We took Other Cat out of her hard carrier and bought (for the low, low price of $60) a soft carrier to put her in so we could take her with us on the plane.

Skittles looked on at this whole ordeal from her hard carrier with jealously. It became clear when the airport cargo workers showed up that Skittles was taking this whole chain of events as the ultimate betrayal. I still remember her coal-ember eyes of hate staring back at me as they wheeled her away.

We headed toward the plane and lined up in the queue for the security checkpoint. The helpful security people told me that I had to remove Other Cat from her carrier as I went through the X-ray machine. I was not happy. The exchange went something like this.

Airport Person: Sir, you must remove the cat from the carrier.

Me: Come again?

Airport Person: The cat can’t go through the carry-on bag X-ray machine in her carrier. You have to take her out and carry her through the people X-ray machine. It’s for her safety.

Me: They’re both X-ray machines. What the Hell does it matter?

Airport Person: If you don’t, I will have to call security.

Me: This cat is going to claw the crap out of me and/or get away. You know that, don’t you?

Airport Person: Please remove the cat, Sir.

I removed Other Cat from her carrier and she clung to me and shook like a giant spider coming down off of heroine.

* Spider Cat will not be appearing in any forthcoming comic books until her drug problem is under control.

Everyone at the security checkpoint was looking at me and wondering what awful things I did to this cat to make her this neurotic.

I made it through the security a little self-conscious, but no worse for wear. Wife, Other Cat and I got on the plane and I braced myself for the plane ride ahead.

At this point I think it would be nice to inform you, dear reader, that I hate flying. No, that’s not right; I f@cking despise flying. It physically hurts me.

Despite being darkly handsome and healthy, I have this condition called nasal polyps. Depending on whether or not I have a head cold, this condition can potentially take a pleasant plane ride and change it into hours of agony.

As soon as drinks were served I ordered as much whiskey as the flight attendant was allowed to give me and finished the flight in an alcohol induced coma.

We got off at JFK and we had roughly 40 minutes to make our connecting flight on the other end of the airport. We had to grab Skittles and all of our luggage from the cargo hold in order to clear customs and put the cat on the next plane. Time was tight. Wisely, we sought out an airport worker and found out where the tram was located. We were in luck; the tram was due in the next 5 minutes. We waited for 15 minutes for the tram before the tram sign informed us that the tram had broken down some time ago.

We had a vague notion of where we needed to go. Encumbered with our suitcases and carry-ons, it was time for a decision so Wife grabbed Other Cat and I grabbed all 14 pounds of Skittles and we high-tailed it outside across the bleak landscape that surrounds JFK airport to our terminal.

It wasn’t my proudest moment, but as my shoulder was beginning to give out under the girth of Skittles, I thought briefly about leaving her in the airport.

I was determined that we were all going to make it though and Skittles was not abandoned despite the protest of my muscles and joints.

We made it to the terminal in time and the customs agent asked to see Skittles. Wife took her out of the carrier and Skittles was well-behaved for the first time in her life. It was like a total transformation had taken place in past 16 hours. I fully expected Skittles to claw the customs agent’s face to ribbons in .02 seconds, but it didn’t happen. She just sat there, frozen to the spot under her little kitty bed.

The customs agent even commented on how docile and sweet Skittles was. He jokingly commented that we had given Skittles tequila to calm her down. We didn’t give her anything. Baffled, we placed Skittles back into her carrier and I began thinking about what could have possibly happened to affect such a change in her in such a short amount of time.

The only reasonable explanation was that something terrible had happened in the cargo hold of the plane on the flight from Frankfurt to JFK. I imagined that as soon as the door was shut to the cargo hold and the plane was at cruising altitude, some unspeakable horror unfurled itself from a dark corner and began ramming its proboscis into caged animals to feed on their life juices.

Skittles was spared only because the horrific creature had gotten its fill from that golden retriever next to her. I imagine that this close brush with death was the catalyst for dramatic personality change in my cat in such a short amount of time.

We got on the plane and the rest of the trip was fairly uneventful; discounting, of course, the bottles of booze, pain meds and parts two and three of Other Cat’s psychological meltdown.

We arrived at Wife’s parents’ house in Florida tired and burnt-out. We weren’t entirely sure how long the entire ordeal had taken. We estimated that it was somewhere between 24 to 36 hours. All I knew was that I wanted to curl up in a sock drawer and sleep for a week. This was not to be because I had just over a day before I had to go to Texas to begin my career search. Once again, things were just getting started.


P.S. Other Cat and Skittles made the transition safely and are currently doing very well.

P.P.S Stay tuned for next week’s installment, Part III: The Career Search.

St. Patrick’s Day

With St. Patrick’s Day right around the corner, I decided to do a short post to showcase some of the ways people celebrate this great holiday in America and Ireland.

How St. Patrick’s Day is celebrated in Ireland.

How St. Patrick’s Day is celebrated in America.


P.S. The underwhelmer does not promote the pursuit and subsequent capture of little people, no matter how funny it may be.

P.P.S. Let’s all go get blasted, but we’ll at least do some research to know why we’re getting black-out drunk for a centuries-old dead guy. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must go.  My fightin’ juice (whisky) won’t drink itself.

The Great Migration Part I: Preparing to Leave Germany

Dear Readers,


I know I’ve been away from the blog for a while but rest assured that I am alive and well in the US. I have made the great journey from Europe to America, but it did not come without the shedding of sweat and tears. My transatlantic voyage with Wife and two cats did not go off without a hitch or twelve.


As a result, I have decided to recount the ordeal in a multiple installment piece entitled, The Great Migration. What’s with all the grandiose wording and dramatic presentation? Well… there’s a very good reason for it so read on for Part I: Preparing to Leave Germany and see for yourselves.





the underwhelmer




The Great Migration


Part I: Preparing to Leave Germany.


As my time in Germany was drawing to a close, I began preparations to move across the Atlantic back to the US. The plan was simple; take the underwhelmer, Wife, Other Cat and Skittles (along with our collective meager possessions) and transport ourselves from Germany to that fabled land of monster truck rallies, high fructose corn syrup and chain restaurants.


What could possibly go wrong?


Unbeknownst to me, my elegantly simple plan was about to have the survival rate of an ice-cube at Hiroshima.



It all started when I had to get my mandatory “you’re moving to America and we have to make sure you’re not a carrier for Super-Ebola or some other scary virus that we saw in a movie one time, therefore it is real” medical examination or the YMAWHMSYNCSESOSVTWSMOTTRME, for short.


I drove to the nearest hospital that could do all of the required tests and examinations. The powers that be decided to skip the phrenology readings and trepanning so I didn’t have to go to outside of Germany, but I did have to drive for 3 hours on the German autobahn to get to where I needed to go.


For those of you that didn’t react at all to the last half of that sentence, let me clarify something for you. The German autobahn is the highway system of Germany. There is no speed limit in most sections and German-built cars are very fast.


This is an American speed limit sign.



This is a German speed limit sign.



I love the autobahn, but I drive a small, flimsy little shoebox of a car that was designed for short trips to the grocery store and nothing else. A simple trip down to the next exit on the autobahn in my tiny car is thereby transformed into a white-knuckled game of automotive Russian Roulette.


To top things off, my car hates me. I don’t know what I did to it, but it actively tries to kill me on a regular basis; it has an exciting tendency to drift into the left lane with no input from the driver. I imagine that the ghost of Genghis Khan or a person of equivalent evil is somehow bound to the car and wants to end my life in a spectacularly gory fashion.



Despite the best efforts of my haunted car and with a little bit of luck, I made it to the hospital and began my physical examination.


I made my way to the doctor, who resembled Norman Rockwell’s interpretation of an elderly physician. I answered a few generic questions and then I was then asked to get naked so I could participate in the old turn-and-cough check. I normally don’t object to getting naked in front of strangers.



*Above picture not drawn to scale.


This time was different though. While he was clasping my cash and prizes with his old, frigid hands, the doctor asked me to turn around and bend over. I was not amused. The exchange went something like this…


ME: Sweet Chocolate Christ, your hands are freezing.


DOCTOR ICE HANDS: Sorry about that. I’m going to have to ask you to turn around and bend over.


ME: Well, normally you have to pay extra for that.


DOCTOR ICE HANDS: Haha! That’s funny, but I seriously have to check your prostate.


ME: I’m 27 years old… you guys don’t check that until I’m at least 30. Wait… my wife put you up to this, didn’t she?


DOCTOR ICE HANDS: Turn around sir.


The whole ordeal was over shortly afterward and the doctor had ordered, among other things, some X-rays and range of motion check on some of my joints. I had then resolved that I would continue on with the rest of the day without having to get naked, probed and poked (in no particular order) again.


I put my robe back on and made my way to the X-ray department. I was met by a cheery young woman who explained all of the fascinating ways she was going to X-ray me. I feigned enthusiasm for the field of radiology and got on the X-ray table.


She paused, looked at me and then asked me to remove my clothing. It went something like this:


X-RAY LADY: You’re going to have to take off your clothing and put it in that chair over there for these X-rays.


ME: Oh, ha ha… very funny. Did Doctor Ice Hands put you up to this?


X-RAY LADY: Umm… I don’t know who you’re talking about, but if you don’t take off your clothes it’ll mess with the X-ray results.


ME: How will my clothes mess up an X-ray machine?


X-RAY LADY: It clouds the final image. We need clear results on your final X-rays.


ME: What about all the muscle and bone in the way? Doesn’t that cloud the X-ray machine?


X-RAY LADY: Yes, but…


ME: *Interrupting* You know what? Fine. X-ray away to your heart’s content. I wouldn’t want my Jethro Tull T-shirt * to mess with science.


* The underwhelmer dresses in only the highest of fashion.


After an hour of naked X-rays, I finally made my way to the physical therapist to check my range of motion. I walked into her office and she shut the door.


You guessed it. I was once again asked to remove my clothing. All of the previous clothes-shedding was accompanied by lying still or minor movement at the most… not this time. I had to pose, twist, hop and generally make an ass out of myself in front of a fully clothed woman. It was like reliving my days as an exotic dancer all over again.




As I left that wing of the hospital, a man seated in the waiting area called out to me and tried to get my attention. I didn’t turn around for fear of having to remove my clothing once more.


A few minutes later, I left the hospital with the suspicion that I had somehow been violated by a small cabal of people masquerading as health-care professionals.





I didn’t think about it too much as I had to focus on the harrowing drive ahead of me. I needed my mind right to ward off the evil schemes of my murderous car.


I eventually made it home, alive and in one piece. I sighed a breath of relief and then I realized that I had to schedule a veterinarian appointment for Other Cat and Skittles; they had to get their health exams too.


I dialed the vet’s office and a woman who was tragically born without a personality answered the phone in a depressed monotone.


VET LADY: Vet’s office, Super-Sad-Lady* speaking.


*I don’t remember her name, but I do remember the void where her sense of humor should have been.


ME: Hi. I’d like to schedule a check-up on Monday for my two cats.




ME: Umm, the underwhelmer?




ME: Uh, OK.


VET LADY: Show up at 8 AM sharp. Bring a $100 dollars and a stool sample.


ME: Lady… I don’t know what kind of weird kink you’re into, but…


VET LADY: *Interrupting* It’s the cats’ stool samples and the $100 dollars is because our credit card machine is down.


ME: Oh, um sorry.


VET LADY: 8 AM sharp.


ME: OK, but you have to admit that was funny, right?


VET LADY: No. Good day sir.


As I lowered the phone from my ear, I realized that my adventure didn’t end at the hospital or even the autobahn for that matter. In truth, it had only just begun.




P.S. Stay tuned for next week’s installment, The Great Migration Part II: Planes, Trains and Anguish.


P.P.S In case you were wondering, I met the Vet Lady the following Monday and she made Mr. Spock look like an emotional roller coaster.











I’m Moving

Dear Readers,


Well, you’re really just regular people who happen to be reading at this particular moment. I mean, you do other stuff too. You don’t just sit around and read all day… not that it would be a bad thing if you did. Let’s put it this way though, if you died your tombstone wouldn’t say, “Here rests Blanky McBlankerson, reading extraordinaire.” That would be silly.


Anyway, I’m rambling in an attempt to delay the mildly bad news so here it goes…


Wife and I are moving back to the US.



It’s a good thing we have help. We have a lot of boxes.


I’ll update when I can, but between moving to another continent and searching for a job that’s not in the adult film industry, I’ll be very preoccupied.


I’ll still respond to comments and update the store when I can.




The underwhelmer


P.S. Don’t be sad. I’ll be making funnies on the interwebs again before you know it.


P.P.S. Here, I made you a Joseph Ducreux meme to get you through the day. Enjoy.






4 Good Reasons to Become a Cannibal

With the New Year officially here, many of us are combating chilly weather, love handles and crowded gym parking lots. For those of us in colder climates though, snow is piling up and we stand a good chance of being snowed in with our friends and family.


Nine times out of ten, you can expect to be trapped indoors for less than a week, but for longer durations, things can start to get a little desperate. When the pantry is rendered bare and Uncle Phil’s scouting party is presumed claimed by the blizzard outside, I want you to think about this list. The decision to eat the other, other white meat might save your life… the same can’t be said for everybody else’s though.


So read ahead to get a leg up on the competition.


#1. You can now invite people over for dinner AND a first-hand lesson in the meaning of situational irony.








#2. That guy at work that you hate.





#3. Those damned kids will stay off your lawn… for good.







#4. You might actually turn into a Wendigo and gain super-powers.



Some Native American folklore suggests that the act of eating human flesh would turn a person into a ravenous, immortal beast possessed of supernatural strength, speed and resilience. The only downside is the persistent and unnatural hunger for human flesh, oh and something about losing all of your humanity or some other nonsense.


Anyway, I’ve put it into a pro/ con chart for you…



…so being a Wendigo is pretty awesome if you don’t mind having an ever-lasting case of the munchies and possibly ditching that pesky soul thing. I mean, really, what has your soul done for you lately?


I hope these four reasons make the decision to eat your friends and loved ones a little easier when the time comes. Bon appetit!




P.S. The underwhelmer does not endorse eating people. Well, unless they’re bad people; then it’s just a neutral act… I guess.


P.P.S I almost forgot! Here’s a little known fact: Were-beavers and Wendigos are BFFs.



*They love to go around like Master Blaster.  I’d love to see Mel Gibson win against this in the Thunder Dome.

Six Reasons to be Afraid of Christmas

The Christmas holiday is a time of joyous celebration, wanton spending, and overall merriment, but most people don’t understand the strange underpinnings of this special time of year. I’ve recently done some research into the matter and have come to the conclusion that Christmas is a scary holiday.


Now it’s time to pass that feeling of unease onto you! Here are six little-known points that should make you feel as uncomfortable as I do during this holiday season… enjoy.


#1. The basic concept of Christmas is completely insane.


The core theme is the act of an immortal, magical fat man breaking into your house… and you’re completely OK with it. In fact, you want him near your children.



To prove my point, let’s swap out Santa with another magical fat man; former President, William Howard Taft.



#2. The elves in Santa’s workshop are a form of slave labor.




They’re a captive work-force with no means with which to unionize or voice their complaints. If that isn’t slave labor, I don’t know what is.  Oh, and being fed to the Santa-beast isn’t fun either.


#3. Christmas is a Frankenstein type creation of early Christianity.


It blends several old-world traditions in an effort to appease all of the religions that Christianity was absorbing at the time. Some of these pre-Christian traditions involved human and animal sacrifice to ensure a good harvest, protection from the gods, etc. Several of these “ornaments” were placed on, you guessed it, little pine trees.


Today’s Christmas tree.



The Christmas tree of yesteryear.



#4. Santa rolls with a posse.


Santa has several companions that typically accompany him, depending on what lore you read. They range from the kind, although slightly racist, Zwarte Piet to the enigmatic Belsnickel. I am sure that Santa has assembled this team of specialists to achieve his real goal; robbing banks and stealing priceless works of art.



#5. The Krampus.


For those of you that don’t know, the Krampus is a demon-creature that follows Santa around and punishes wicked children. These children are stuffed into the Krampus’ sack where he does God-knows-what with them. It is assumed that he takes them back to his lair to eat their sweet, sweet bone marrow.



They say you can judge a man by the company that he keeps. I’ll be avoiding any magical fat men this year if it means that I won’t possibly end up as beef jerky for some awful demon thing.


#6. There’s a good chance that Santa is, in fact, Odin.


That came from this…



That’s right, Santa is based largely off of the Norse god of war, battle, victory and death. As old Norse tradition goes, Odin would lead the great Yule hunting party atop his eight-legged horse, Sleipnir, and children would place their boots, filled with sugar and hay, near the chimney for Sleipnir to eat as he soared overhead. Odin, thankful to the children, would then put gifts or candy back in the empty boots. Do you see a parallel yet?

As a side note, Odin is Thor’s dad. That means that the god of thunder has to call this guy, “daddy.” I’ll spare you the details about how awesome Odin is, but let’s just say that if he carried a wallet there would be a “He-Man Badass Club” lifetime membership card in it; the wallet would also have, “Bad Mother F*cker” written on it.


P.S. Have a merry Christmas!


P.P.S. Don’t piss off Santa-Odin or the Krampus will f-ing kill you.