Christopher Moore's Blog

Wow. For those of you who didn’t see it, well — You probably would have tuned in to see your favorite authors — Nick Hornby was there, right? And Stephen Cannell, a very nice guy, he was there. And Jonathan Lethem — you wanted to see him, right? I mean, it was about readers picking their favorite books, it was, presumably, about people who like to read and people who write the books they like. Yeah, well, you didn’t get to see any of those guys, except Cannell, who said something like, “Writing is challenging” on his way in to dinner when Roker cornered him. Horby, Letham, your author guy? Nope.

It went like this. Al Roker talked about Harry Potter, while standing next to a woman that no one had ever seen before, who probably wasn’t a coke whore, despite appearances, and then they gave Harry Potter a chapbook award, then they gave awards for new writer, business, kids illustrated, humor, and, uh, some other kid thing. Ridley Pearson and Dave Barry did two jokes.

Al and the – uh — not coke whore, did a short piece on the food served at the banquet.

Then they did a five minute piece on Harry Potter.

They came back, and gave awards for cook book, and Robert Klein came out.

Whoops — at some point Jon Stewart read four jokes, then left. He wasn’t there to accept the award the Daily Show book won.

Then they did six minutes on Deepak Chopra.

Then they showed ten award winners, about three seconds for each book cover, in biography, romance, self-help, poetry, graphic novel, history, sports, and sci-fi and fantasy. (These award winners each got one tenth the time that Prilosec got.) You couldn’t even see the author’s names on the graphic novel winner (Gaiman,Kuber, Isanove).And Janet Evanovich, who won for crime/mystery, didn’t get acknowledged at all. That’s fucked up. If it’s important enough to give people an award, and televise it, either do it right or don’t do it.

Then they came back, gave an award for young adult, and general fiction, then they gave book of the year to Harry Potter and J.K. Rowling talked on tape.

Oh, and Elmo was in two segments.

None of which detracts that you guys voted for your faves, and I’m grateful that I was one of them, but wow, the show was embarrassing. I mean, awards shows, at their best, generally suck, but at least you get bling, cleavage, outrageous lack of fashion sense, big music, and, well, awards. This thing was a shipwreck looking for an iceberg.

😯 You guys, Stupidest Angel won the Quill award for best Fantasy/Sci-Fi novel of the year. Why? 😯

BECAUSE YOU GUYS ROCK! YOU VOTED. YOU MADE THE EFFORT. YOU ROCK!

THANK YOU SO MUCH. I’LL SEND OUT AN OFFICIAL THANK YOU NOTE SOON, BUT I’M VERKLEMPT RIGHT NOW.

IT’S ALL YOU KIDS. IT’S ALL YOU. I’VE SAID IT BEFORE, BUT I’LL SAY IT AGAIN,

I HAVE THE SMARTEST, FUNNIEST, KINDEST GROUP OF READERS IN THE WORLD. I wish I could buy you all pie.

SCROLL DOWN http://www.quillsliteracy.org/categories.php

Welcome back boys and girls, to another session of Axe the Author Guy, where a famous unknown writer answers your questions about life, literature, and assorted stuff.

Ferrit Leggings Asks:

I have a question, Why is there not enough time in the day and is there a way to extend the time that I can work on my book and my art work without sacrificing the rest of my life? I know this is a nearly unanswerable questions but it made me feel better to ask it.

My dear Ferrit, there reason that there is not enough time in the day is that we waste a large portion of it on sleep. We don’t really need sleep, this is simply a holdover from the days before the invention of fire when if you didn’t stay still for a large portion of the day, you would run into nocturnal hunters or pointy things. The problem is, we perpetuate this absurd waste of time by associating sleeping (or at least going to bed) and sex, therefore, the sleep gene is passed on. The people who didn’t need to sleep, didn’t get laid, because they never took anyone to bed, therefore they never passed on their non-sleep genes. So, the answer to your question, “is there a way to extend the time etc.” is no, not in this generation, but if you stay up really late and get laid occasionally, but only in a standing position, you are putting future generations on the right track.

Katy O Asks: Why do I keep losing half of my belly ring? Why won’t the damn thing stay screwed on?

You keep losing half of your belly ring because you are basically irresponsible and can’t be trusted with nice things. As for keeping it screwed on, try the solution I found: Whenever you’re eating French fries, lie on your back and put a little puddle of ketchup in your navel for dipping. As you enjoy your fries, the acid in the ketchup will etch the metal, and the sugar will adhere to the newly textured metal. You’ll never lose your belly ring again, and you’ll usually have that pleasant, French fries and ketchup aroma that so many people find alluring.

Ted J Inquires:

What can I do to stop my back from hurting?

Well, one solution is to take an X-acto knife and sever your spinal cord just below the fifth vertebrae. Most find this more trouble than they are willing to endure (because you have to do it in a mirror, and how embarrassing if you snip your fourth vertebrae and cut your breathing function) and ask a friend to help them. Another solution is to ingest huge quantities of painkillers, but that can be unsafe and render you too wobbly to go the X-acto knife route should you change your mind. Finally, I recommend a daily regimen of stretches that you’ll find on any number of web sites. Unless your discs have seriously deteriorated, the stretches – almost a self-chiropractic — may keep you out of trouble. The key is to not wait until your back is tweaked to do them, you have to do them every morning and night.

Here’s one.

http://www.military.com/NewContent/0,13190,Smith_031504,00.html

I do the knees to chest, each leg pulled up to the chest, and then the knee to each side with shoulder on the floor every day, at least once a day an sometimes more often if necessary. My back went out while finishing Love Nun ten years ago, and I couldn’t even walk. I also couldn’t take tons of meds because I was trying to write. A physical therapist gave me a sheet with about five basic stretches and my back hasn’t gone out since. So far, so good. I will, however, get back aches if I sleep on a mattress that’s too soft, but it’s not the debilitating “can’t move or breathe” kind of pain and most of the time a couple of ibuprofen will help. I’ll slam a couple of those bad boys if I’m going to be doing something where I anticipate a lot of stress on my back, like kayaking, just to keep the inflammation down.

Conspiracies Unlimited asks:

Why does my son stick his hand in the cat’s mouth and complain that the cat keeps biting him while he’s trying to sleep?

Because the cat is controlling his mind. Not to worry, though, once the cat has a chance to inhale your son’s immortal soul and escape, everything will go back to normal.

Kate R queries:

Do you ever think you’ll stop writing?

Absolutely. I hope if I ever get too goofy to construct a coherent thought, that I’ll have the sense to stop writing. I don’t really plan to retire or anything, but one never knows. I just wish I hadn’t built all those airplane models in my closet when I was a kid. I think I may have a lot fewer brain cells than most people to carry me through. And there was the time I put the wires from my electric train transformer in my ears and cranked the voltage for a day or two. That couldn’t have been good for me. But as the weeks pass, I don’t really feel that different, except that I seemed to have misplaced the years 1973 through 78.

Scarlet Cruento asks:

Why is it that some people only argue for the sake of arguing?

Because they are drunks. God I hate them when they do that.

Kim Cookie asks:

If you could bring back any dead historical figures, but instead of having tea with them or something, you got to watch them in an awesome zombie movie…

Zombie Marilyn Monroe – I’d like her to show up at the White House on the president’s birthday, sing him “Happy Birthday” then gnaw a hole in his head and slowly eat his brains with a melon-baller while the cabinet bets how many bites she’ll get out of him.

Jaandlu asks:

Hey Ag, why is it that B&N is so anti Chris Moore?

Because they know not what they do.

Naked and Famous writes:

Have you ever considered writing a book for young adults/older children?

Yes, I’m thinking about writing a young-adult series, but I’m just not sure I have the time to do it and keep my normal novels coming. It may not get past the “thinking” stage. My idea is to follow two friends, similar I think, to Biff and Joshua in Lamb, through a series of adventures in a historical setting. It won’t be Biff and Josh, of course, but I just like the idea of having one sort of be sacred and the other profane, yet extraordinary friends. I’m thinking of setting it in ancient China or Japan so I can use Buddhism and Shinto or Chinese Alchemy as my spiritual base.

Lecaster asks:

How much paper do you go through when you’re writing? Is this a ‘gotta break some eggs if you want to make an omelet’ thing?

Actually, I go through less and less paper as the years go by because I don’t have to send paper manuscripts to anyone anymore. I can e-mail the book to my agent and editor. I’ve always been a proponent of using the supplies that you need, and even when I was very poor and really couldn’t afford a lot of stuff, I tried not to skimp on paper. I do like to edit my stuff in hardcopy, though, so I’d guess that I go through about five reams (2500 sheets) of paper per 400 page book – that’s down from a few years ago when I probably used twice that many, and that’s not counting manuscripts I printed up for friends.

My photography mentor always told me, “Don’t be stingy about film, it’s the cheapest thing you’ll buy, and what’s the cost of missing your greatest shot?” I feel the same way about writing materials.

Funny thing,

a couple of years ago I spoke at an event in San Francisco at the Books By the Bay Festival, where, just as I started to speak, an elderly woman shouted from the back of the auditorium, “Talk into the mike!”

“Sorry, I don’t have monitors up here,” I said. (It was in a theater. The year before it had been outside and I’d killed.)

She says, “Well you’re mumbling and talking into your neck.”

I said, “Well your hat looks stupid.” (It did, by the way. A big red cowboy hat on an elderly woman in an electric wheelchair.) But I said it to get a laugh. No one laughed.

So I said, “Sorry, I’ll try to speak up.”

“Good, ’cause you’re mumbling up there. No one can understand you,” she said.

So I said, “Well your hat is still stupid.”

(Hint: Don’t try a joke that hasn’t worked a second time on the theory that they must not have heard it because you were mumbling.)

She and her son left, both yelling at me as they walked out. The son says, “We were coming to your signings when there were only four people!”

So, you know, I felt good about myself.

The whole thing really threw me. I gave the most uninspired, lack-luster, unfunny presentation of my life. They didn’t invite me back to Books by the Bay the following year, after saying I’d been the highlight of the event the year before. I was so mortified by the event that the next time I spoke in San Francisco I had Charlee (wife-like girlfriend) give me a Xanax they’d given her to deal with her insane siblings after her mother’s death.

That night, I ended up sharing things with the audience that Charlee said she hadn’t known after 11 year with me. To top it off, I don’t remember a word that I said, but evidently, people had tears in their eyes. Presumably not because I insulted their hats.

So, the kicker of the story is, Charlee and I went to a Terry Pratchett signing in The Haight a couple of weeks ago at the encourgement of my editor, who also edits Terry. We are sitting in the middle of the audience, waiting for Terry to start, and he’s arrived a little early, so he steps up and says, “We’re not supposed to start until 7:30, so if you’ll que up, I’ll sign for a half hour, then we’ll start.”

And from far behind us we hear this angry screech: “Talk into the mike, you’re mumbling!”

Terry was obviously thrown. He growled something back, but he looked sort of shocked.

I look at Charlee and say “Wouldn’t it be funny if it was the woman in the stupid hat.”

Charlee looks back, turns around, and says, “It is.”

It was.

And she was still wearing the stupid fucking hat. And Terry Pratchett did not yell at her, which is why he is the best-selling author in England and I am not. And I went through the line, and introduced myself, and said that we have the same editor, and he said, “Then we’re both very lucky.” And I moved out of the way for the next guy, which is exactly, I’m sure, how it went when Oscar Wilde encountered George Bernard Shaw. But there were a not of interesting crazy people on the bus back to North Beach where we were staying. (Yeah, I take the bus. You can only meet one crazy person at a time in a cab — in a bus, it’s like crazy people buffet. Besides, it’s not like I’m the best-selling author in England. And not only that, it’s hard to find a cab big enough to fit my ego into after an event like that. And I had a thirty-day bus pass, so — value –duh.)

It all puts me in mind of an amusing poem:

When I get old, I shall wear a red hat, And totally fuck with authors, In lieu of getting a hearing aid. I shall wear purple. And learn to spit. And if there is a god. A bus will run over me.

I’ve been getting a lot of mail about the new version of The Stupidest Angel which is coming out in November. Most of it asking, “What’s the Difference?”

It’s the same book, but I’ve written a 32 page bonus chapter and the cover is red. That’s about it. It’s also going to be the same low price of $14.95 in hardcover. This because my publisher does not intend to release it in paperback. Ever.

Here’s the first page or so of the Bonus Chapter:

And Before We Knew It, Christmas Had Rolled Around Again

A year later — a year after the best Lonesome Christmas ever — a stranger drove into town. His name was William Johnson, and he worked in a cubicle inside a great glass cube in Silicon Valley where he moved thingies around on a screen all day. He lived by himself in a condo off the interstate and every Christmas he took two weeks off and traveled to a small town where no one knew him to practiced his own special holiday tradition. This year he had chosen Pine Cove for his little party, and he was especially excited because it was the closest to home he’d ever done the deed. He allowed himself to be reckless because this was his twelfth consecutive Christmas trip — an even dozen –and he felt he deserved the treat. Also, his vacation had been held up for a week by a late push on a project, so he didn’t have time to do the research he normally did – he just couldn’t afford more travel time.

William had never looked deeply into why he’d chosen Christmas to practice his hobby. It just happened that it had been Christmastime when he’d had his first celebration — a trip to Elko Nevada to meet a woman he’d met on a Usenet, and when it turned out that she not only did not live in Elko, but in fact, was not a she at all, he took his frustrations out on a local truck-stop prostitute and found that he quite liked it. Then again, it could be because his mother (the whore!) had never given him a middle name. You were supposed to have a middle name, dammit. Especially if you were going to be a collector like William.

As he drove the rented cargo van up Cypress street, he began humming the Twelve Days of Christmas to himself, and smiled. Twelve. In a cooler in the back of the van, vacuum- packed between sheets of clear plastic in a single row, lined up across the dry ice like little pink pillows, he kept his eleven human tongues.

He pulled into a space in front of the Head of the Slug Saloon, adjusted his fake mustache, fluffed up the fat suit he wore under his clothes that made him look twenty-years older than he was, and stepped out of the van. The rustic, out of time, generally run-down look of the Head of the Slug made it seem like the perfect place to find his twelfth.

“And a partridge in a pear tree,” he sang softly to himself.

Today we will trace the rise of the Bazoom in European painting. Remember, as the middle class rose in the Europe and the artist became free to portray subject matter beyond religious themes and portraits of nobility, he turned, quite understandably, to the subject of bazooms. First, as part of a subtle progression, but later, as we shall see, as a full-on psycho-sexual hooter-fest, we will call– NYMPHS GONE WILD.

Note the progression in these two paintings by Belgian painter Pieter Dechanel, for the late 1700s. We can see the exactly where the libido hits the brush in the progression — two depictions of girls exploring their identity at a pair of slumber parties.
WHEN I LOOK “DOWN THERE” IN THE MIRROR, IT’S LIKE I SAT ON A TROLL! – Dechanel – 1783

Here all modesty has fallen by the wayside, and we sense that we’ve just missed a moment.
FLUSHED FROM BUFFING THE TROLL’S NOSE – Dechanel – 1784

Leading up to these domestic scenes, we see the familiar theme of naked women and creepy little fat kids but in this painting from Michael-Francios Dandre-Bardon we actually see the artist conveying what he suspects is a conspiracy…

BRAINSTORMING THE NOOKIE FAIRY CONCEPT– Dandre-Bardon 1638

The nature of the “conspiracy” is further illustrated in this painting from 1658 by French painter Eustache Le Suer.

THE ARROW WILL WAKE HIM, THEN I’ll HIT HIM WITH THE KNOCKERS – Le Suer – French – 1658

Ironically, more and more the male artists of the period expressed in their art what they felt was the commidization of nudity, as in this early depiction by Johann Karl Loth, of a stripper “negotiating” a performance.

THE BOTTOMS WILL COST YOU ANOTHER SHEEP, HORN DOG

But it turned out that young artists supplying their models with alcohol, discovered an entirely new means of achieving bazoomization, as illustrated in this 1740 painting by Jean-Marc Natier of a joyously hammered model at a costume party.

OKAY, IT’S OFF, NOW CAN YOU TELL WHO I AM?– Natier – 1740

Again we see the theme of alcohol applied to the artistic process in this depiction of an inebriated model having a problem with her accoutrements, by French painter, Simon Vouet.
SHUT UP AND HELP ME WITH MY NIPPLE RING? – Vouet- French-1747

And the phenomenon goes to it’s logical conclusion in this 1765 depiction of Daytona Beach by Giovanni Tiapolo.
I ONLY HAD SIX LITTLE ICE TEAS — HEY, WHY AM I ALL STICKY?

Which brings us to the point in art history when the camera is invented, and images of the naked female form become cheap and plentiful, thus freeing the artist to express himself and making way for the Impressionist Movement, typified by this painting by Claude Monet – from 1889.

VIEW OF MONTE MARTE THE DAY I FORGOT MY GLASSES-Monet – French -1889

Our Next Lesson, Modern Art, May take some time. They didn’t allow me to take pictures at the MOMA, so I’m going to have to construct the history of modern art from a book and some postcards that I bought. — CM

First, before we begin today’s lesson, let’s review.

The rise of the Middle-class in the late 18th Century gave way to wide-spread private commissions for artists that heretofore had only been employed by the very rich and the Church. With this, came numerous portraits that showed the hidden agenda of the subjects, as illustrated in this pair of paintings of the Earl of Tylanol and his wife, by the English Painter, Arthur Devis.

DOES THIS DRESS MAKE MY ASS LOOK BIG? – Devis – 1745

Further we covered the repeated appearance of creepy children as a theme, and I hope to illuminate the rise of this phenomenon in this lesson as well, but here we see how the French artist, Simon Vouet proposes dealing with the menace of the creepy little kids by keeping them busy,

WE TAKE TURNS MOLESTING THE SHEEP – Vouet-1626

But now we shall see how it was sexual jealousy, as well as the confusion of the 17th and 18th Century Male led to both the vilification of little kids, and THE RISE OF THE BAZOOM.

Up until the Renaissance, and the invention of perspective, little attention was paid to what critics like to call, “the sweater muffin”, as the mosaics and tapestries of the Byzantine and Medieval period portrayed everyone as being equally flat-chested. Even into the early Renaissance, most painting was done under commission of the Church, and limited itself, with few exceptions, to Biblical Iconography, as illustrated in the painting below by William Bougaret of Bathsheba receiving a bath from her chambermaid, where we see just the slightest hint of what art historians call “butt cleavage”.
HOLD STILL, BITCH, I WILL BUS’ THIS ARM OFF

From here we see a new freedom arise in painting, as well as in the thinking, as Protestantism gives way to Secular commissions and the artist begins to portray historical scenes.

Let’s follow the progression on thinking through these next three paintings. First, this painting from 1789 by English painter Joseph Wright, depicts a scene from the French Revolution.
GUY DYING AND LITTLE KID MAKING HIS MOVE- Wright -1789

This painting, while garnering some attention because of it’s violent undertones, was only in the gallery for a week and soon could only be seen late night on cable. Thus, less than a year later, Wright attacked the same theme again.

Here again we see the dead soldier, and the opportunistic crumb-snatcher, but Wright has managed to move the spotlight from the horrors of war, and put it front and center on a bustier subject…

FUCK, I JUST HAD YOUR RED COAT CLEANED, TOO – Wright -1790 This painting became wildly popular, and wright went on to paint four sequels, but it is largely agreed that the first one was the best and the franchise folded when the kid, then in young adulthood, was arrested for robbing an Absinthe store and had to go into rehab and was sentenced to model for five community service paintings.

Still, from here, whether it is because of the sexual repression of the times, combined with the fact that artists who had children found themselves “not gettin’ any” the dual themes of bazooms and creepy little kids were on the rise. In this painting, by French painter Jean-Baptiste Oudrey, we see what appears to be an “accidental” revelation, or what art historians call, “a nip slip”.
WARDROBE MALFUNCTION – Oudrey – 1745 It appears we are only witnessing the slight immodesty of a “pink puppy nose” peeking out of his house, until we examine this detail, which reveals the true message of the painting.
Yes, above the modest maiden, we see horny little fat kids enjoying the misfortune entirely too much.

We see an earlier exploration of the theme in Estauche Lesuer’s painting from 1638.
DUDES,THE RUFFIE WORKED! Lesuer -1638

In a later painting by Italina Giovani Grimaldi, we see what appears to be the total triumph of the horny fat kid over Mother Nature, here portrayed as a naked babe.

SHROOMING – Grimaldi – 1680

The genesis of this title seems somewhat enigmatic, until we examine the detail, and discover the other figures in the painting (especially the one on the left) who are…
OBVIOUSLY TRIPPING THEIR ASSES OFF

We will explore rise of the Dionysian theme, and how it accelerates the rise of the Bazoom in ART, in tomorrows lesson: NYMPHS GONE WILD!

Having spent a fair amount of time in the last couple of weeks in art museums, I thought it only fair that I share a bit the vast culture which I have absorbed. Last week I was able to view the collection of paintings and sculpture at the Legion of Honor is San Francisco, and through the miracle of digital photography, and a few bribes to security, I’m now able to bring them to you, arranged thematically, not by region or chronology.

Much of the history of art is actually the history of men trying to get a look at some naked babes. Yet no matter what the subject might be, we can observe that the painter allows the agenda of his subject to peek through.

Here we see a portrait of a Dutch noblewoman by Hoopla Van Der Hooven, and the title of the painting gives us a clue as to what the painter was trying to convey.

You Are Not Gettin’ Any — Hooven – 1768

Contrast the dire attitude of Hooven’s painting, with this following series by Sir Joshua Reynolds of Anne Viscountess Townshend of Flautenshire.

I AM SO GOING TO DO YOU – Reynolds 1788 In this first painting we see Anne engaging the artist, who it is obvious she was about to go down on — the custom of the day for ending a coffee date.

Here, in a painting from two years later, we see a more controlled, experienced Anne, conveying her message with both power and thinly-veiled desperation.

CHECK OUT MY TALL, GOT-MY-FREAK-ON HAIR – Reynolds 1790

Here, in a portrait painted twenty minutes later, we see how Reynolds has captured the minutes in between, without actually showing them. (Note the combination of the satisfied smile the obvious sex hair.)

REMEMBERANCE OF A MOMENT MOST SQUISHY – Reynolds 1790

Yet, to think that the art of the period was singularly concerned with the sublimation of sex, or simple gratitude that no one had invented scratch and sniff, witness the portrait below of Joshua Reynolds himself by the English painter Turner
DUDE, I AM SO FUCKING BAKED – Turner 1783

Also on the theme of a hidden agenda, in the portrait of a Belgiun nobleman by Joseph-Siffred Duplessis we see the subject attempting to convey his business acumen by holding a quill, but again, this is not the message we get from the painting.

HOW’S MY PACKAGE LOOK? – Joseph-Siffred Dupliessis 1777

But it is in their portrayal of the children of time that we see the true agenda below the surface of the people of the late 18th century, evinced in this painting by Flemish painter Jan VanLoo.
CREEPY LITTLE KIDS PLANNING A TERRORIST ATTACK– VanLoo – 1792

The well-earned distrust of children continued well into the next century, illustrated in this painting by Renoir from the 1870s.
LITTLE KID HURTING A KITTY — Renoir – 1870

Stay tuned for our next lesson, when we will examine the artistic theme of “Dude, I can totally see her bazooms!”

Race you to the bridge!

I was just walking down the street in the Union Square area of town — doing my marketing, when this guy started singing opera at me.

“Dude,” he sang, “There is some bad shit going down in Chinatown today. Aliens, I’m telling you, they are infiltrating the festival of the Harvest Moon.”

“Aliens?” I axed.

“Fucking Aliens!” he sang, vocce’ profundo which means really loud..

“They’ve started with the kids, recruiting them against their will.”

And it was pretty obvious that the Opera guy was onto something,

So I headed up the street, past the Bank of the Orient, where the tellers use a much different set of computers than I’m used to.

Once I was in Chinatown, I could immediately see that people were scared, because they had resorted to the ancient Chinese custom of hiding behind their food.

Some more successfully than others.

The Princesses were especially on edge, and had hired extra security against the Aliens, as well as the usual threat of White Devils.

Several princesses from festivals past, thought they had spotted one of the aliens down by the Two Dragon Massage Parlor.

Actually, it was this guy, who had reported something hugging his face a couple of weeks ago, then, after eating one of the festival’s moon cakes, the alien larvae popped out of his chest.

People were terrified, and began to suspect that there were, indeed, Aliens among them.

“No, Dude, I’m not shitting you, there’s like a couple of them right behind you.”

Agent Hong spotted one down by the chicken feet concession and immediately called Headquarters.

“No, they look very human, but there are subtle differences,” he said.

And even as people realized that there was a danger, the aliens were already measuring the children for their nourishment pods.

And the frightened people turned to their faith, heading for the church on Columbus Street, where a wedding had evidently failed to go off…

Brother William was trying to calm them, while explaining that Jesus didn’t really save you from Aliens,

“You see, your soul is like this blue balloon,” said the Brother, “And everybody has one. Then, when you die–”

Disgusted with the Catholic mysticism, Brian decided to seek his own Buddah nature, which just happened to be chillin’ about two feet behind him.

It was no use, and the Aliens knew that they had us on the run.

But we found that even in Chinatown we could come together with common goals.

And by the end of the day, the Aliens fell to our mastery of avian disease.

And once again, things were normal, and you could get an affordable Chinese kid even if you were Chinese.

And everyone vowed that they would always remember. “Remember? Dude, look at the picture, there was this big fucking wall…”

And that was what it was like today in Chinatown…

The end.