Dashwood Forrest Meets Ivanka Trump

January 25, 2017 at 1:53 pm (Espionage, Geopolitics and International Relations, History, International Espionage, International Intrigue, The Supernatural, Vampire novel) (, , , , , , , , )

Dashwood Forrest stood in the middle of his hotel room dressed like Gainsborough’s Blue Boy and stared at himself in the full length mirror on the wall.

“I’m beginning to have some idea of how Narcissus must have felt when he saw his own reflection,” Dashwood swooned.

There was a knock at the door.

“Mulligan, would you please answer that,” Dashwood called out to his Irish zombie manservant, “and please put a towel over your head. I don’t want you frightening anybody like you did the cleaning staff this morning. It took a $50 tip to bring them back again.”

Mulligan put a towel over his head and went to open the door.

He crashed into several lamps on his way to find the door.

“Watch where you’re going, Mulligan!” Dashwood exclaimed.

“It’s rather difficult to see where I’m going wearing a towel over my head,” Mulligan complained as he liberated a large potting plant from its large pot.

Finally Mulligan found the door knob and opened the door.

He stood on the other side of the door so the person entering wouldn’t see him.

Ivanka Trump entered the room wearing a lovely Grecian white dress designed to thaw a New York City winter and a pair of exquisite diamond studded spiked stiletto high-heeled shoes.

“Dashwood Forrest,” she greeted the Blue Boy costumed art gallery owner with a kiss on the cheek, “it’s been far too long.”

“Indeed it has, my dear,” Dashwood Forrest likewise kissed her on the cheek, “meeting one of the few women in the world who sets me straight.”

“My dear Dashwood,” Ivanka laughed, “I was hoping I was the only woman in the world who set you straight.”

“There was that Sherrielock Holmes you met at the Charmaine Olivia Mermaid Art Exhibit at your London gallery,” Mulligan spoke from behind the door, “she set you straight.”

“Mulligan, return to your butlery duties elsewhere,” Dashwood ordered.

Mulligan (with towel over head) tripped over several chairs until he found his way to the bathroom.

“What did you wish to see me about, Ivanka?” Dashwood asked.

“Your art history skills,” Ivanka smiled, “Dad is very much interested in this painting which recently showed up in Paris. Do you know if the Renaissance prophet Nostradamus was also an artist, Dash?”.

“I had not heard that he was,” Dashwood started taking off his Blue Boy costume and started putting on a costume of Thomas Lawrence’s Pinkie, “he was a medical surgeon, a doctor, a poet, a philosopher and a psychic but I hadn’t heard that he was an artist.”

“Grandma Mulligan had several Nostradamus paintings in her tea shop in the little village of Sneem, Ireland,” Mulligan called out from the bathroom where he was trying to rescue his tie from the bathtub drain.

“How did she get those?” Dashwood tied a pink bow around his neck and reached for a pinkish coloured shepherd’s staff.

“When some of the Spanish Armada sailors fled to Ireland on their sinking ships after their defeat by Drake, one of my ancestors a Spanish nobleman managed to save his collection of Nostradamus paintings in a waterproof crate and swim ashore to Ireland.”

“What was he doing carrying a collection of oil paintings into battle in the first place?” Dashwood took a selfie of himself as Pinkie on his iPhone and uploaded it to Instagram.

“He was hoping to take the paintings and hang them up on the walls of the large English country estate that the Armada Admiral had promised him once he had conquered England,” Mulligan got one of his zombie toenails stuck in the bathtub drain in what turned out to be a poorly planned commando rescue mission of the tie on his part, “but alas the Spanish Armada Admiral had overestimated his own abilities and had underestimated the abilities of Sir Francis Drake.”

“One should never underestimate the abilities of an English lawn bowling champion,” Dashwood took his Pinkie costume off and wrapped himself in the English flag of Saint George.

Ivanka Trump stood there and wondered whether she should re-consider her invitation to invite Dashwood to her father’s Presidential Inauguration.

-A vampire novel chapter
written by Christopher
Saturday January 14th
2017.

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Dashwood Forrest In New York City

January 24, 2017 at 1:56 pm (Espionage, Geopolitics and International Relations, History, International Espionage, International Intrigue, Vampire novel) (, , , , , )

“Do you have anything to declare?” the U.S. Customs agent asked Dashwood Forrest.

“Just my genius,” Dashwood Forrest quoted his hero and 19th Century lookalike Oscar Wilde.

“Hey, Charlie,” the U.S. Customs agent called out to his partner, “how much is genius worth in the U.S. these days?”.

“Not very much, Fred,” his partner answered.

“All right, you can go through and welcome to the United States,” Fred waved him on.

Dashwood Forrest went to retrieve his luggage.

The first trunk that came down on the carousel was an old antique trunk that said THIS SIDE UP with the arrow pointing in different directions.

The trunk burst open as soon as it hit the carousel and a zombie fell out.

“Did you have a good flight, Mulligan?” Dashwood asked.

“I had a wind draft up my backside the entire flight,” Mulligan answered in a thick Irish accent, “I wasn’t sure whether this was due to someone leaving the door open or me eating too much pork and beans the night before.”

“A zombie eating too much pork and beans is a dangerous thing,” Dashwood paraphrased Pope’s famous line about learning and the Pierian spring.

“I suppose you’ll be wanting me to carry all your luggage for you, Mr. Forrest,” Mulligan grumbled.

“That I would, Mulligan,” Forrest answered, “that’s the reason I brought you to the U.S.”.

“With me in freight and you up in First Class,” Mulligan whined.

“Well, it would have been pretty ghastly the other way around,” Dashwood answered as he smelled the rose in his lapel.

“I suppose it would have been at that,” Mulligan answered since he wasn’t exceptionally bright.

-A vampire novel chapter
written by Christopher
Saturday January 14th
2017.

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An Evening At The Mermaid Art Exhibit

January 21, 2017 at 1:35 pm (Espionage, Geopolitics and International Relations, History, International Espionage, International Intrigue, Mythology, The Supernatural, Vampire novel) (, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , )

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Sir Nigel Blake-Lenin the curator of the Dashwood Forrest Art Gallery announced to those gathered at the Mermaid Art Exhibit’s opening night, “regrettably the artist Miss Charmaine Olivia will not be able to be with us this evening…”

The crowd moaned and groaned their disappointment.

“Yes,” Sir Nigel Blake-Lenin sighed in sympathy, “Miss Olivia ate some rather bad tuna fish sandwiches earlier this evening that she had thought had come from the Exhibit caterers but they turned out to have been brought in by a mysterious third party…”

“So she’s the one who ate all my tuna fish sandwiches that I had brought with me tonight,” Renfield seethed to Amadeus.

“Then you might have been the one who came down with food poisoning,” Amadeus pointed out.

“I guess every cloud has a silver lining,” Renfield grinned.

A dark cloud appeared over the gallery and an American silver dollar fell from the heavens.

The Greek god Apollo played the song Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head on his lute.

A mermaid emerged from the canvas of one of the Charmaine Olivia paintings.

The mermaid carried an umbrella and went out into the night.

“Well, at least she won’t get wet,” Amadeus said to Renfield.

The curator motioned to Apollo to stop playing his lute in case more mermaids emerged from their canvases and left the gallery before any paintings could be sold.

“So, Sir Nigel,” Sherrielock addressed the gallery curator, “is the gallery’s mysterious owner Mr. Dashwood Forrest going to put in an appearance this evening?'”.

“I talked to him on the phone an hour ago and he said he would,” Sir Nigel answered.

The mysterious enigmatic individual who called himself Dashwood Forrest had opened the gallery a few months ago but had never visited the gallery nor attended any of the exhibit openings.

Sherrielock noticed a painting at the front of the gallery that wasn’t a Charmaine Olivia.

“That painting there,” Sherrielock pointed to it, “is that a painting of Oscar Wilde?”.

“It looks like him, doesn’t it?” Sir Nigel smiled, “but it’s actually a portrait of the gallery owner Mr. Dashwood Forrest.”

“Mr. Dashwood Forrest looks like Oscar Wilde?” Sherrielock was astonished.

“Yes, he always looks quite the dandy,” Sir Nigel admitted.

“What’s a dandy?’ Amadeus asked Renfield.

“That’s a person who looks like a fag,” Renfield explained with his usual political incorrectness.

At that moment a person who looked like a zombie from one of those old time zombie horror films entered the gallery.

He held the door open for a man who looked the spitting image of a young Oscar Wilde.

“Thank you, Mulligan,” the Wilde looking gallery owner entered the gallery, “Good evening ladies and gentlemen as well as those of you who are gender neutral or are still undecided. I am Dashwood Forrest but you may just call me Dash.”

A group of men and women excitedly gathered around the new gallery owner.

“Anybody tell you that you look like a zombie?” Renfield asked Mulligan.

“Yes,” the zombie nodded with a thick Irish accent, “that’s because I am a zombie.”

“Really?’ Renfield grabbed a caviar laced cracker off a tray passing by, “What did you do in your mortal life?”.

“Well, I was best known for making my famous stews and also for cheating at golf,” Mulligan answered.

“How did you die?” Renfield swiped a plate of mushroom flambe off a passing tray.

“I drowned in a giant vat of Guinness after falling in several times,” Mulligan replied.

“Who raised you from the dead?” Renfield drank a pint of Murphy’s.

“Well that would be South African Witch Doctor Sterling Makabo,” Mulligan helped himself to a glass of Jameson’s Whiskey and toasted the failed 1808 Prussian invasion of Ireland, “he was actually trying to raise my cemetery neighbour Darcy O’ Flaherty Finnegan Riley from the dead but O’ Flaherty Finnegan Riley was a little late getting back from his wake so I decided to rise instead.”

“How did you manage to get a job with Dashwood Forrest?” Renfield queried.

“I’m not quite sure,” Mulligan scratched his decomposing chin, “Excessive drinking seems to have killed my memory.”

“I don’t imagine being dead helps your mental powers that much either,” Renfield observed.

“That too,” Mulligan had to admit.

Meanwhile Dashwood Forrest hurriedly left the party and went upstairs to his gallery office where he hurriedly locked the door.

Sherrielock Holmes was getting names for a whole new clientele for her dominatrix business.

Dr. Cadbury Rocher was boring numerous people to tears by showing them his Facebook and Instagram photos of his genetically created winged horse Pegasus and the sparrow named Ambidextrous Haberdasher who was teaching him how to fly.

The Greek god Apollo meanwhile was standing in the middle of the pouring rain outside the gallery playing a song about walking in Memphis and meeting the ghost of Elvis on his lute while he was trying to hail a taxi cab to pursue the lovely mermaid that had left the gallery earlier that night carrying an umbrella.

Amadeus Emanon was busy eating a dozen plates of potato salad and three dozen plates of cheese and crackers.

Mulligan the Irish zombie fell head first into a bowl of cocktail punch and remained in that position until Renfield revived him by chanting mantras from the Reader’s Digest Condensed Version of Dr. Sterling Makabo’s Guide To Raising Zombies From The Dead.

Such was an evening at the Mermaid Art Exhibit.

-A vampire novel chapter
written by Christopher
Tuesday January 10th
2017.

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Amadeus’ Ode To Dorian Gray: A Poem

January 22, 2016 at 8:41 pm (Art, Horror, Literature, Mystery, Mystery/horror, Poetry, Vampire novel) (, , , , , , )

Amadeus’ Ode To Dorian Gray

After his evening of drinking a dozen bottles of absinthe, Amadeus Emanon wrote the following ode to Dorian Gray:

Dorian in the picture gazing down at me,
Dorian in the picture what exactly do you see?
Dorian in the picture- you’re a Hellful spectral sight
you’re not the same as that handsome youth of night
who wanders London streets never aging in my sight.

Dorian in the picture what dark deeds have you done?
Dorian in the picture, to Satan your soul’s been won?
Murder and betrayal has become your deadly bread
if this portrait is destroyed, will you wind up dead?

Dorian in the picture, are you lot like me?
If my soul like yours was revealed for all the world to see
would I stop what I was doing for the rest of Eternity?

-A poem and vampire novel chapter
written by Christopher
Friday January 22nd
2016.

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Amadeus Stardust

January 14, 2016 at 8:07 pm (Arts, Culture, Entertainment, News, Obituaries, Vampire novel) (, , , , , , , , , , )

Amadeus Stardust

The New Orleans songstress and vampiress Angelique Dumont was sitting in a black evening dress in a West London theatre auditorium memorizing her lines for the role of Mina Harker in a musical version of Dracula.

She heard the theatre auditorium door open and in walked her friend Amadeus Emanon.

He looked disheveled and his hair was wild and uncombed.

“Why, Amadeus, what’s wrong?” Angelique asked him.

“David Bowie is dead,” said Amadeus, a tear dripping down his cheek.

“Why, yes,” Angelique nodded, “the whole world knows that David Bowie is dead. But… did you know him personally at all, Amadeus?”.

“No, I never met the man,” Amadeus started to weep uncontrollably.

Angelique reached into her purse and handed him a handkerchief which he accepted gratefully.

“You must have been quite a devoted fan,” Angelique patted his shoulder, “to take his death pretty hard.”

“He was one individual I could really relate to,” Amadeus wiped his eyes, “he and Oscar Wilde I could both relate to. Although of course Oscar Wilde was already dead by the time I was genetically cloned and created in Dr. Cadbury Rocher’s lab, Oscar Wilde having died way back in 1900.”

“You could really relate to both Oscar Wilde and David Bowie?” Angelique was somewhat taken aback, “Does this mean you’re gay or bisexual, Amadeus?”.

Angelique was somewhat surprised. She had dated Amadeus on numerous occasions. Although Amadeus had always been the perfect gentlemen (as opposed to the multitude of horny males who were always trying to hump her particularly one Renfield R. Renfield), she had put this down to a somewhat Peter Pan style childlike innocence about him rather than a lack of sexual attraction to females.

“No,” said Amadeus, “what I liked about Wilde and Bowie was that they always felt like outsiders, like aliens, like strangers living in a strange land. I always felt like an outsider, an alien, having been cloned and genetically created in a lab and then born wholesale as an adult emerging from a giant test tube. I was adult in body at my birth but my mind was still like a child’s, like an infant’s. Even now, I still grapple with being an adult on the outside but I still feel like a child on the inside.”

Amadeus, she knew, had been cloned and created back in late 2005. So in effect he was only 10 years old although as he had said, he had emerged out of the giant test tube in Dr. Rocher’s lab with the body of an adult.

Funny, he and Renfield were so different.

Renfield, she understood, had been genetically cloned and created back in early 2005, several months before Amadeus.

He too had emerged from the giant test tube with the body of an adult.

But she gathered that Renfield had always acted with the mind of an adult.

Perhaps it was the DNA they were cloned from.

Amadeus was cloned from the DNA of strands of hair from Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, British actor Alan Rickman and California mass murderer Charles Manson.

Renfield had been cloned from the DNA of strands of hair from Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte, French poet Charles Baudelaire and Germany’s Iron Chancellor Otto von Bismarck as well as the DNA of North Korean cannibalistic killer hamsters (who had been secretly created in a Pyongyang lab back in 2000).

The latter strands of DNA allowed Renfield to shape shift from human to hamster and back again.

“I’m sorry you feel like such an outsider, Amadeus,” she patted his shoulder again.

“It doesn’t help knowing that I’ve got someone like Charles Manson in my DNA,” Amadeus moaned, “does this mean that I’m going to someday become a murderer like Manson?”.

“Despite what the eugenicists of old and the eugenicists of today might think,” Angelique whispered to Amadeus, “DNA like clothes do not make the man.”

Amadeus stopped crying.

“So,” Amadeus asked Angelique, “who do you think will be the next David Bowie?”.

Angelique smiled at him, “David Bowie was one of a kind. There will never be another David Bowie. Just like there will never truly be another Oscar Wilde. That’s the thing about great artists. They’re truly one of a kind. No one will ever be truly like them. Great artists were and are great because they were and always are what they are.”

“So no new David Bowie?”Amadeus looked at the stage.

“The world never does know what it’s looking for,” Angelique said, “it stumbles around like a man in a fog shrouded night. Oscar Wilde burst on the world in the late 19th Century. David Bowie burst on the world in the late 20th Century. The world is only 4 years away from the decade of the 2020s. Maybe what the world needs right now is not another Oscar Wilde or another David Bowie.”

“So,” Amadeus looked down, “what does the world need right now?”.

“Well,” Angelique stood up, “maybe what the world needs right now… is… Amadeus Emanon.”

Angelique walked away leaving Amadeus in the darkness of the theatre auditorium.

A few minutes later the theatre’s lightning technician, practicing for when the play started in an hour’s time, just happened to shine the spotlight on Amadeus sitting in his seat in the darkened auditorium.

-A vampire novel chapter
written by Christopher
Tuesday January 12th
2016.

Post-Script: The great actor Alan Rickman who played Severus Snape in all 8 Harry Potter films as well as numerous other great roles in film, on stage and on radio died today Thursday January 14th 2016 at the age of 69.

I’ve always been a huge fan of Alan Rickman.
When I first introduced the character of Amadeus Emanon into my series of vampire novels back in 2006, I chose Alan Rickman as one of the persons whose DNA was involved in his cloning.

I wrote this particular chapter two days ago Tuesday January 12th (two days after the death of David Bowie),

Little did I know at the time of that writing 2 days ago that Alan Rickman (from whom part of Amadeus Emanon was cloned) would die 2 days later.

It makes the ending of this chapter a lot more poignant (and possibly prophetic).

-Christopher

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Pan Goatee Interviewed On TV Show

July 11, 2015 at 5:00 pm (Commentary, Geopolitics and International Relations, News, The Supernatural, Vampire novel) (, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , )

Pan Goatee Interviewed On TV Show

KRTV Channel 3 Announcer: Live from Great Falls, Montana, it’s the Russell Charlie Show and now here’s our host… Russell Charlie.

(A man wearing a 10 gallon tan cowboy hat, purple leather vest, cowboy tie, denim jeans and leather cowboy boots strolls on to the stage waving his hat and waving his hands)

Russell Charlie: Howdy y’all, ladies and gentlemen. How ya doing?

(Audience shouts in unison, “We’re great, Rusty!”. Rusty of course being Russell Charlie’s nickname)

Rusty: Today, of course, we have a special guest who’s come all the way from Washington, D.C. …

(Audience starts booing)

Rusty: Now, we must be hospitable. After all that’s the way of the Great American West. We give you food, give you drink and then we’ll plug you full of holes with our six shooters.

(Audience laughs)

Rusty: Washington D.C. is of course the town where rodeos go all year round… they’re always throwing the bull.

(Audience laughs)

Rusty: And today our special guest from Washington D.C. is not a politician…

(Audience cheers)

Rusty: He’s a serial killer who currently works as a contract hired assassin for the U.S. government… Ladies and gentlemen… I give you…Mr. Pan Goatee.

(The audience cheers, applauds and gives a standing ovation as the genetically created half-man half- goat satyr with furry goats’ legs and hooves comes on stage)

(Pan Goatee waves at the audience, gives Rusty a big hug and then sits down in one of the chairs reserved for the show’s guests)

Rusty (looking at Pan Goatee’s very furry legs): Those are quite the pair of chaps you’re wearing.

Pan Goatee (looking down with pride at his furry legs) : Thanks. They’re actually real.

Rusty: You mean to say that your legs are actually that hairy?

Pan Goatee: Yes, they are.

Rusty: Well, eat my ten gallon hat and then spit it out again. What did your mother feed you as a baby- Budweiser beer laced with testosterone?

Pan Goatee: Well according to a gypsy fortune telling reading I got in London by a gypsy fortune teller who read her crystal ball, her tarot cards, my tea leaves and my furry palms, I was not born in the regular manner. I was genetically created in a research lab somewhere in England by a sanity-challenged scientist and then I was lost shortly after my test-tube birth.

Rusty: Well, that explains everything then. Because if you had said you’d been fed by your mother with Budweiser beer laced with testosterone as a baby and furthermore if you had said you had been breast fed with that formula, I would have asked where I could get my hands on such a magnificent pair of knockers.

(Audience laughs)

Pan Goatee: No, according to the gypsy fortune teller, I was created by this sanity-challenged scientist using a combination of human DNA – which of course explains my upper body torso- goat DNA – which explains my furry legs and also hooves for feet- and yeti abominable snowman DNA- which explains my homicidal tendencies as well as my ability to astral project.

Rusty: Wow. You can actually astral project? Cool.

Pan Goatee: Yes, I can astral project.

Rusty: I tried to astral project myself once after reading one of those AMORC California Rosicrucian Order pamphlets but the furthest I got was to the outhouse.

Pan Goatee: Really?

Rusty: Yes and since my astral body didn’t really have to relieve itself, that really didn’t do me much good.

(Audience laughs)

Rusty: Now if I could have just made it as far as the whore house up the road, I could really have seen what my astral body might be capable of.

Pan Goatee: Tantric sex can get pretty wild when you start using your astral bodies.

Rusty: Really?

Pan Goatee: Oh yes. (crosses his legs to cover up his erection as he subconsciously recalls a recent experience)

Rusty: Now I understand you appeared on the cover of Rolling Stone magazine a month before Pope Francis did.

Pan Goatee: That’s right. I did. So stick that in your thurible incense burner and smoke it, Pope Francis.

(The audience, many of whom had invested in the oil and gas industry, applauded vigorously)

Rusty: Now I understand it was reality TV star and singer Tila Tequila who interviewed you on behalf of Rolling Stone magazine?

Pan Goatee: Yes, it was. As you know her door swings both ways and so after the interview she and I and a Japanese-American porn actress named Akira Lane had a ménage a trois in a penthouse atop a Beverly Hills hotel- the same room where they filmed the 1990 Julia Roberts-Richard Gere movie Pretty Woman.

Rusty: Really?

Pan Goatee: Yes, unbeknownst to the three of us, that mischievous shapeshifting hamster/human Renfield R. Renfield from England secretly videotaped our bedroom escapades and then projected them onto a screen that Al Gore was using as a backdrop to a speech he was giving on the man-made causes of global warming.

Rusty (astounded): Really?

Pan Goatee: Yes it was probably that particular lecture that served as a major subconscious factor in Al Gore’s decision not to seek the Democratic Presidential nomination in 2016.

Rusty: Now in that Rolling Stone interview with Tila Tequila, you described yourself as the most intelligent serial killer in history. What led you to that conclusion?

Pan Goatee: Well of course that’s something I say with all due modesty and humility. I am the most intelligent serial killer in history.

Rusty : And on what basis did you reach that humble modest conclusion?

Pan Goatee: Well when you take a look at the history of serial killers and particularly look at photos of their female victims, they killed a lot of beautiful women. Of course when I was just a young pup or a young kid to be more accurate- just fresh out of the genetics lab test tube (according to my gypsy fortune teller Dulcinea Lucia’s tarot card reading of my past), I was quite young and naive. I must admit I did kill beautiful women (and beautiful men as well) when I first began my serial killing hobby which I found a lot more interesting than stamp collecting.

Rusty: And then something happened?

Pan Goatee: Yes, I had an epiphany. An epiphany of what it means to be a practitioner of the philosophy of aesthetics. The same epiphany that the Crown Prosecutor in the criminal trial of Oscar Wilde must have experienced when he asked Wilde on the witness stand why he didn’t kiss the waiter in the hotel and Oscar Wilde replied, “Because he was too ugly.”

Rusty: So what was the nature of this epiphany?

Pan Goatee: The thought came to me out of the blue while I was reading Nietzsche on the differences between Apollonian and Dionysian religion. This thought like a voice from Mount Olympus said to me, “What are you doing killing beautiful women?” There are already too little beautiful women in the world and too many ugly women. Womanhood in the 21st Century have allowed their looks to go to pot as a result of the efforts of that obnoxious bitch Oprah Winfrey in her so-called self-help and so-called self-esteem confidence building TV shows saying that ugly women should just be themselves- a more offensive piece of advice I cannot recall if I may be allowed to paraphrase that most beloved and wisest of all American letter carriers and U.S. postal employees Norman Newman.

(The audience in the Great Falls television studio gives Pan Goatee a standing ovation over his last remark)

Pan Goatee: So then I started strictly killing ugly women as a result of that Nietzchean- Apollonian- Oscar Wildean epiphany.

Rusty: And if I may quote a psychiatrist, how did that make you feel?

Pan Goatee (grinning): Wonderful.

(Audience applauds and cheers)

Pan Goatee: And thus it came to pass that I stopped killing beautiful women… and killed only ugly women… thus making me the most intelligent serial killer in history.

(He holds up his membership card in MENSA as audience applauds)

Pan Goatee: Yes, after all according to the Georgia Guidestones Commandments that were erected in Elbert County, Georgia 35 years ago, the First Commandment says words to the effect that we shall not have a human population above 500 million on the planet so that we can live forever in perfect balance and harmony with nature and Mother Earth Gaia. Only when that happens will we finally have achieved Pierre Teilhard de Chardin’s Omega Point.

Rusty: Chardin? Is that the French fashion designer who invented the bubble dress?

Pan Goatee: No, he was a French Jesuit priest, scientist and philosopher who thought we’d all become gods someday.

Rusty: I see. I once met a Mormon missionary who told me much the same thing.

Pan Goatee: Anyways since according to the Georgia Guidestones Commandments, we’re going to have to eliminate 6.5 billion people… although personally I think we should make it 6.6 billion since I think that’s a more nifty sounding number… then why shouldn’t we include ugly women in that 6.6 billion figure? After all, ugly women… well they’re ugly . So I say get rid of them.
If we’re going to have to eliminate 6.6 billion people, there’s no reason why we can’t also beautify the planet while we’re doing so and make this earth a much more enjoyable place to live. So I say, let’s start reducing the population by getting rid of the ugly women first.

(Shouts of “Amen” and “You got it brother” and “Pastor Rick Warren should invite you to speak at Saddleback Church” are heard coming from members of the audience)

Pan Goatee: So, I say our mantra should be…

… Way hey, ho- ho
ugly women have got to go…

(Audience breaks into shouts of “Way hey, ho-ho, ugly women have got to go”)

Rusty: Well, I see the show’s producer is signaling to me from the booth that we’re out of time… so thanks for being our guest today Pan and hopefully you’ll be back soon…

Pan Goatee (smiling and enjoying the audience’s standing ovation): It’s been my pleasure, Rusty. Perhaps you’ll teach me how to fire a real western six-shooter someday since I’ve always wanted to learn ever since I saw my first John Wayne movie.

(The show’s repulsively ugly looking female producer is signaling to the guy at the control switch to turn off transmission from the studio cameras that are panning in on the cheering and standing ovation audience. But seeing as how the guy at the control switch is wearing a blindfold so he doesn’t have to look at the female producer’s ugly face, he is unable to see the signal and the transmission is not cut)

-A screenplay
and vampire novel chapter
written by Christopher
Sunday July 5th
2015.

Kill all fucking ugly women!
And may they burn in Hell forever!
-Pan Goatee in his unpublished work on the environment and earth beautification
Earth and Apollonian Beauty In The Balance: Going Beyond Al Gore and Oprah Winfrey

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Haiku About Oscar Wilde’s Last Words On His Deathbed

February 6, 2014 at 7:41 pm (History, Humour, Poetry) (, , , , , )

Haiku About Oscar Wilde’s Last Words On His Deathbed

Oscar on deathbed
Either that wallpaper goes
or I do said Wilde

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Haiku About Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray

February 5, 2014 at 7:30 pm (Commentary, Literature, Poetry) (, , , , , )

Haiku About Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray

He forever young
walks streets while portrait decays
scapegoat for his sins

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Green Tea For A Green Dragon

February 18, 2013 at 11:22 pm (Humour, Poetry) (, , , , , , , , , , , )

Green tea for a green dragon

because he was on the wagon

his early days he spent drinking green absinthe

which caused him to lose his common sense

and so this led him to join AA

to escape the clutches of the green fair-ee.

 

 

 

Although he was no Oscar Wilde

he was considered a precious child

-a youthful 1000 years-

at concerts he gave many bronx cheers

and although he tried to be another Charles Baudelaire

his style of French just could not compare

and so he tried painting like Toulouse-Lautrec

but only ended up a nervous wreck

and he lost the chance to meet Hemingway

when he missed the train at Santa Fe.

 

 

And so his youth was misspent

he had no money to pay the rent

and thus he ended up on the street

where gangsta dudes made fun of his feet.

“I can’t help being a dragon,”  said he

burying his heart at wounded knee

and so he went on the wagon

this absinthe drinking green dragon

and that’s why these days you’ll only see

our hero dragon drinking green tea.

 

 

 

 

 

-A poem written by Christopher

 circa 3:28 PM Saturday afternoon

 February 16th 2013.

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