Pederast Fonzarelli

By Sean Crespo and Dan Bialek

INT. AL'S DINER - DAY

RICHIE CUNNINGHAM sits in a booth with his girlfriend MARY BETH. Mary Beth has a shawl over her head and Richie's in his letterman's jacket and floodwater khakis. RALPH MALPH and POTSIE WEBER enter the restaurant. Ralph has a huge bandage on his head. Potsie's arm is in a sling. They take a seat across from Richie. Several "˜50's HIGH SCHOOL STUDENTS mill around in the background, some of them are CHEERLEADERS.

RICHIE
Hey guys. How's it going?

RALPH
Not so bad. Doctor said I'm bound to regain partial vision in my left eye within six weeks.

POTSIE
Yeah, and he told me that they're going to be able to fuse bone from my hip for the piece missing from my elbow. I'll be back on the badminton team in no time.

Everyone laughs for brief moment, but soon they all turn somber and stare down at the table.

RALPH
How are you feeling Mary Beth?

She begins to speak but then turns and quietly weeps into Richie's chest.
Richie looks at his friends and motions for them move onto a different subject with his open hands.

POTSIE
You guys hear the new Jack Benny album? It's really boss.

Richie and Ralph begin to speak, but Mary Beth interrupts them with a scream.

MARY BETH
Aaaaaaaaaaaaawwwwwwww!!!!!!!! I can't take it. I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.

She pushes Richie out of the booth and springs to her feet. She shouts and points at Richie.

MARY BETH
And most of all I hate YOU!!! You coward. You let him do this to me.

Mary Beth rushes out of the diner.

RALPH
Geez. What got into her?

Richie is quiet. He sits back down in the booth and stares angrily at his clenched fists. He's on the verge of tears.

POTSIE
Shut up, wiseguy. It's not what, it's who.

RICHIE
You shut your stinkin' mouth!

RALPH
C'mon, Rich. It's not so bad. We'll figure out a way to stop him and get him back for what he's done.

RICHIE
How? How do you stop a dirty filthy animal who befriends nerdy high school students only to gain access to their sweet and naive, oh so naive, girlfriends. He's an animal I tell you. A filthy animal.

RALPH
(whispering)
Ixnay on the animalnay.


FONZI struts into the diner. The AUDIENCE applauds. Fonzi gives a "thumbs up." A murder of CHEERLEADERS rush to him. The boys talk to him while the girls fawn over Fonzi.

RICHIE
That son of a bitch has a lot of balls coming back in here.

Fonzi fake slow-motion punches MARCY, a young cheerleader, on the chin.

FONZI
Catch you on the flip side, Angelface.

She scampers off to the jukebox. Fonzi stares lustfully at her legs as she moves away. She blows him a kiss.

FONZI
Aaayyhh!

Fonzi addresses Richie and friends.

FONZI
How are my little sheep doing today.

RALPH
Not a peep, Fonz.

The Ralph and Potsie laugh uncomfortably.

FONZI
Yeah, that's too bad that you two had that accident. I hate it when good friends fall down the exact same set of stairs. Although I'd hate it even more if those two friends were thinking about telling anybody anything different about that situation.

POTSIE
Who'd go and do a dumb thing like that, Fonz?

Fonzi sets his gaze on Richie.

FONZI
I don't know. Who'd go and do a dumb thing like that. Cunningham, how'd your little girlfriend's trip to the, ah, dentist go. Did she take care of that problem with her cavity?

Richie can't bring himself to look at Fonzi.

RICHIE
Just fine, Fonz. Everything's fine. Just like you said, Fonz.

FONZI
That's great. You'll have to tell her to be more careful about her dental hygiene.
We can't have any little problems running around. You dig me, Cunningham.

RICHIE
Yeah, I dig you, Fonz.

Fonzi has begun eyeing Marcy again. She's leaning against the jukebox talking to a couple CHEERLEADER FRIENDS.

FONZI
If you'll excuse me. I've got to move on to greener and fresher pastures.
Fonzi takes a few steps towards the jukebox. Richie bounds out of his seat.

RICHIE
Hold it right there Fonzarelli. That girl's only 15 years-old. And if you think I'm going to let you con some poor, sweet, innocent girl into taking a ride with you up to that gay trucker rest area that you call Inspiration Point, you've got another thing coming, Bucko.

FONZI
Excuse me, I think I just heard a dead man talking.

RICHIE
No, Fonz, you're the dead man.

Ralph and Potsie cower under the table. Richie grabs a butter knife from it.

RICHIE
I'm going to slit you open like last week's seafood surprise.

Fonzi whips out a switchblade.

FONZI
Oh, I'm going to thoroughly enjoy this.

He moves towards Richie.

MARCY
Hold it right there, Bucko.

Marcy pulls a .38 revolver from her pom-poms.

MARCY
Sergeant Marcy Finklestein, Milwaukee PD. Vice Unit. Drop the pigsticker, greaseball.

Fonzi gingerly sets the knife on the table.

FONZI
Aaayyhh!

RALPH
Oh my god, she's a flatfoot.


Marcy flashes her badge.

MARCY
Yep, we've been watching this scumbag for months. Just waiting for the right time to spring our trap.

She slams Fonzi down on the table and begins to cuff him.

MARCY
Can you imagine, a 35-year-old man preying on innocent school girls. You're going down Fonz, big time.

Marcy drags Fonzi out of the diner.

INT. PRISON CELL - DAY

CLOSE UP of Fonzi's hands clutching the bars of a jail cell. A LARGE CONVICT moves in behind him. As we hear the Large Convict begin his business, the CAMERA PANS to the prison wall. Graffiti above a metal toilet reads "SIT ON IT!"

Regicides Anonymous vs. Sean Crespo, Round 1

Recently, Regicides Anonymous of Cracked blogger fame attacked the state of my health in his column, implying that my worth as a human being as well as a satirist is nil.

Below you will find his initial childish post followed by my extremely brilliant parry and riposte. I think you will find this exchange illuminating of both our characters. Please check in again soon as more and more Cracked bloggers get pulled into our internecine word war. As they say, "it" is most definitely "on."

Thank you,
Sean Crespo

---

Sean Crespo Has AIDS

It has come to my attention that a certain Sean Crespo, purveyor of derivative political commentary and 1980s popular culture analysis, has positioned himself as some sort of satire professor. The man, plainly put, is a fraud. Not only is this sophist of Hollywood D.C. sycophancy completely unqualified to teach basic human hygiene, let alone the timeless art of lampoonery – he is almost entirely without CD4+ T Cells.

That’s right: Sean Crespo, self-proclaimed satire educator, has AIDS.

I don’t know how Mr. Crespo conducts his raillery lessons, but if they involve intravenous drug use, blood transfusions, or unprotected sexual intercourse, be advised: Sean Crespo Will Teach You Satire And Then You Will Have AIDS. And not just any old AIDS. Blue-ribbon, top-notch, undefeated AIDS.

Boss AIDS.

I find it odd that anyone would want to learn burlesque exposition from an uncertified instructor when they could simply study the techniques of great American humorists like Mark Twain and Martin Luther King, Jr. And while I suppose it is beyond the purview of my humble station to supervise the nurturing of sarcasm or the biological integrity of others, I consider it my duty as your intellectual superior to warn you that if, after being taught satire, you kiss Sean Crespo on the mouth, you, too, will have AIDS.

Yes, Sean Crespo is a Casanova. He’ll approach you on the playground or at a middle-school dance, staring off into the distance with his head turned, revealing an evenly distributed five-o-clock shadow and neatly pressed grey t-shirt with a dark collar. He’ll show you the keys to his mom’s Taurus, and offer to buy you and your friends cigarettes and fireworks. He’ll pour you a glass of cheap Chianti from an expensive looking bottle of Bordeaux. Then he’ll seal the deal with a profound axiom of derisive comedy: a bizarre conceit involving two unrelated entities (such as a ne’er-do-well internet charlatan and a fatal disease) is priceless.

I am but a man: Bartleby H. McFinn, Editor-In-Chief of Regicides Anonymous. I do not have all the answers, only most of them. And unlike other philanthropists of wit, when I bestow upon you a lifetime’s worth of acerbic knowledge, you will not be stigmatized, marginalized, or exceedingly prone to opportunistic infections and tumors. You will be free.

---

Regicides Anonymous: A Clear and Present Danger to the President

Look, I acknowledge that perhaps what you are about to read is not the most honest or most respectful means of addressing grievances against a fellow satirist, that is by airing them out in the open here on this well-trafficked site for every Excel jockey sporting a halogen tan, slumped over at his semi-ergonomic drudgery station at one of the millions of conglomo-multi-corps offices sprinkled liberally by conservatives throughout this great country of ours to see, but, as we all know, "Freedom lives or dies in the moments between deliberation and action."

Do you know who said that?

I did. Just now. That was a test and you failed it. Let me just say before continuing..."Wow."

Anyway, that is why I feel it is important we address right now the recent posting by Bartleby H. McFinn of Regicides Anonymous entitled "I am desirous of bayonetting you in the head, President Bush" which, after my initial query to him regarding this titular treachery, I find noticably absent from his archives and main page, replaced as it currently is with a character assassination (ahem) of yours truly, Sean Crespo, in which I am accused of having AIDS.*



If you did not have a chance to view the article in question before it was hurriedly pulled from the web in a terror-induced CNTRL + X frenzy, allow me a thousand words to paint an adequate picture for you. Note that I may have to stop and start at regular intervals in order to allow myself the occasional nap. I do after have AIDS, which will, as they say, "take it out of you."

Similar to several pieces I found while mucking through Regicides Anonymous' spiritual cavity, "I am desirous of bayonetting you in the head, President Bush" was a smartly worded character piece of the deconstructive, nominally "open-letter" variety told through the POV of one of his few alter-egos. I honestly don't know why he bothers with characters at all. Bartleby is the only blogger I know capable of writing from even fewer and less interesting alter ego "voices" than the dilapidated stock-character factory that is Robin Williams, whose tired-before-they-were-even-created repertoire includes Sassy Black Female, Southern Preacher, Surfer Dude, and the Very Gay Man.

Unfortunately this time, the object of Bartleby's precocious, night college essay-like scorn in this instance was our brave Commander In Chief, the President of the United States, G.W. Bush, my personal hero.

Now let me take a moment to address those of you who would argue the familiar angle that art is not subject to the same rules as other spheres of communication, that it's inherently subjective nature removes it from the critical moral purview of "normal" society. Well, this may come as a surprise as it is me saying this, but you are actually correct. (Don't get cocky. What are you, 1 for 3 billion? That's not an impressive enough record to warrant any sort of behavior outside of mute humility. So shhhh.....while we wrap this up.)

Regardless, I concur that the caveat of art being difficult to define, nebulous, is completely valid. In such a case, it would be impossible to prove that Bartleby's article wasn't a work of art, making it therefore unassailable by the tenets of moral logic as well as of law enforcement. Fortunately since Regicides Anonymous is imbued with blessings from the Muse of Shitheadery and not the Muse of Art, it is safe to conclude that the author in question intended a very literal, non-metaphorical interpretation of his article which was, once again, entitled "I am desirous of bayonetting you in the head, President Bush" which I list repeatedly only out of my profound sense of duty to make sure the NSA's google searches for word pairings like "President" and "bayonetting" bear some fruit.

"But you can't be the lone arbiter of what is and isn't art, Sean!" you mutter, continuing down this drowning, gasping line of reasoning.

I can and am. Now stop puling.

"Maybe there are plenty of people out there who think Regicides Anonymous is brilliant and witty," you suggest.

There aren't. I've seen his traffic.

"But but but...you post biting, politically satiric articles constantly. What separates your work from Bartleby's article which was entitled "I am desirous of bayonetting you in the head, President Bush"?" you stammer.

Three things:
1. I don't have sausages for fingers as evidenced by Bartleby's keyboard mash-typed articles.
2. The blue blood coursing through Bartleby's neo-aristocratic veins means his idea of politics is marrying German cousins for the dowry and reflecting back jovially on feudalism.
3. I can read.

And to top it off, I'm at least honest enough with my readers to use my real name. We're both fairly cantankerous on line personalities, but "Bartleby H. McFinn?" Clearly a pseudonym used by a man too afraid to lambast his readers and then deal with the inevitable consequences: the sweet deluge of hate mail which I've learned to not only survive but in fact thrive on. But then I suppose that matches with the delicate tastes and possibly consumptive features I would tend to associate with a person named "Bartleby H. McFinn." And that is in fact the point. This person, this creature named "Bartleby," is then licensed to vent all the inappropriate, egotistical meanderings that the real author of Regicides Anonymous can not. It's a tried and true method. Switch and Bait, my friends. Hell, I could have given myself a funny name like "Hortence P. Squiggenbottom" or "Malachourte Z. (pronounced "zed") Treacle." But did I? No. Why? Because I am ok with being hated. And "Bartleby" is not. Which makes my having revealed his conspiracy regarding his wish to "bayonet" "in the head" "President Bush" all the more tragic. If only Bartelby had considered his actions beforehand. But you know what they say, "If you leap into deep waters, you should bring your floaties."

You know who said that?

Thoreau.

In conclusion, Bartleby's article, which in case you or the NSA had forgotten is entitled "I am desirous of bayonetting you in the head, President Bush", is not art but the dangerous and seditious ramblings of a man begging, pleading, practically screeching from atop his own mountainous hubris to be locked up and put away, to have a bag thrown over his head, and to have a religious compilation of his choice defecated on in his presence by America's finest. I think it's only fitting.

Faithfully submitted. Sean A. Crespo. Satirist at Arms.

-----------------------------------
*Let's get this out of the way right now. I do not merely have AIDS, I fucking love them. I relish them. I wake up every day and thank god I have this reverse transcriptase infecting mo'fo'. In short, I am aware that most people with AIDS feel as if they've been handed an immunological curse. But me...I love my AIDS!

Maybe that's because I like a challenge in life. Not being sure of your ability to handle a minor cold because your T Cell count is down to 3 (total) adds a certain spice to life that Bartleby, hiding behind his vaguely European sentiments and prose a shade of purple so deep as not to be seen since Lovecraft coined the phrase, "blasphemously surviving nightmares squirm and splash out of their black lairs to newer and wider conquests"--You know, that old gem--is completely incapable of savoring.

But let's get back to the issue at hand, namely Bartleby's cavalier announcement to the world of his very real and completely unfabricated desire to do grievous harm with the intent of causing a fatal injury to the President of the United States Of America, George W. Bush, our Leader, whom I respect and adore as a Champion of Virtue and Grooming.


-----------------------------------
ADDENDUM
I would also like it noted that I recently witnessed Bartleby talking to RobotMan in a chat room in fluent Arabic about (and this is a rough translation here I cobbled together on my own with what I remembered from my 10 years of Advanced Arabic studies) "the glorious 18 martyrs that you and I, RobotMan and Bartleby McFinn, helped achieve God's will against America, the Great Satan." As my mouse had become incapacitated that day from over heating (which happens all the time, as anyone who loves freedom could tell you), I was unable to copy the text of their conversation onto my computer. However, as someone who loves freedom and who has an IQ of 161, I would be more than happy to access my old fashioned hard drive--I like to call it my memory--and relay to you or maybe one of your friends from the NSA the whole, exact contents of their nefarious, traitorous conversation.



I can't prove any of this mind you. It's just something to think about.

Also, he once ate a live baby. (human)

CLOSETED, VAGUELY 80's-THEMED HIGH SCHOOL MEATHEAD TRYING HIS BEST TO BE A BOND VILLAIN

So James, you thought you could just saunter into my estates, undetected? That you could simply waltz your tuxedo'd way by my hundreds of counter insurgency personnel and countless hidden explosives and collapsing set to spring? You actually entertained the idea that you could pass through the miles of satellite monitored light jungle canopy surrounding my secret island bunker and not be caught? Truly, your arrogance is astounding.

But that's ok because James, guess what?
You're a fucking moron.

Oh, tush tush, James, don't look so shocked. You've heard such language before, I'm sure. Perhaps you heard it at the Douchebags Anonymous meetings you surely must attend. How ARE those going by the way?

Or maybe you heard such rough speech last at the Fart Faced Fart Head Convention, which I believe was in town last week? If I'm not mistaken you were scheduled to be the guest speaker for the next million billion years. How pleasant for you.

Oh, is it that I approach too swiftly the shores of truth, my old nemesis, or should I call you...Assburger? Is that why tears are streaming down your face as you laugh? Is that what the uncontrollable heaves of your chest are about? Oh James James James.

Laughter is a hobgoblin for little men...or so it is said.

But then, you already knew that, don't you--or rather...didn't you. No, "don't you" sounds right. Wait, "don't?" "Didn't?" It's not important. What is important is that you, James, will be the first man, if such a well-groomed dilettante-cum-PUSSBUCKET such as yourself can indeed be called a man, to witness the firing of the world's first Eat Shit and Die Ray, which--I do't mean to brag--has been quite a labor of love. A small variation on the traditional supervillain deathray, yes, but if nothing else I think you'll agree the name I have chosen evokes a certain l'esprit de punk, non?

Oh, too busy laughing still, I see? Well why don't I sooth your jagged nerves by expounding some more on what my little "toy" is capable of. Hahahaha. James you are in for a treat, yes you are!

At exactly 5:22 pm, the EAT SHIT AND DIE ray will fire into the very nerdy midst of each and every Model UN Club in every high school across the United States--stop laughing now James. Thank you.

My plan is all the more nefarious in that it will take years before anyone realizes what I've even done. An entire generation of polyglot nerds, really just huge dorks we're talking about, will be wiped from the face of the earth, and what little store of diplomacy remains of the world's only remaining superpower will be eliminated, leaving only I--WILL YOU STOP LAUGHING NOW, YOU STUPID ASS-SHIT-FUCK-FUCK!

It's not funny!

I'm gonna blow, like, lots of people up if you don't take me seriously. I'm gonna burn you man, and everyone's gonna be like, "Oh, James Bond, he was pretty cool till he let that supervillain kill all those Model U.N. losers."

SERIOUSLY DUDE, knock it off. I'll rip you up, man. Don't think I can? Oh really? Well, I went All-State in 3 Varsity sports this year, so watch it. How many sports were you All-State in?

Yeah I know England doesn't have states and don't talk down to me. What'd you, what'd you, were you like some sort of Cricket expert? What position did you play, 1st CRUMPET? Ha ha. Burn, faggot!

No, James, I don't consider that a lazy stereotype. The English play cricket and eat fucking crumpets and by putting those two cultural FACTS together I think I painted a pretty scathing picture of you...ahem, and as they say James, "A painting is worth thousands of wor--

Stop frigging laughing, NumbNuts! You want me to and I'll knock you right out. I will. There'll be 3 sounds-- me hitting you, you hitting the floor, and me laughing. Three, James!

(James' laughing slows, Villain brushes back hair, calms himself)

I mean, really James, my masculinity is hardly the question here. Currently I can be seen spending most evenings with no less than five women. What more proof of my sexual prowess and masculine allure could possibly be needed? You on the other hand look like quite the fudgepacker, James. How many wome---STOP LAUGHING!

JESUS FUCK, JAMES! I'm a real threat here. Ok you know what, forget you. I'm firing the ray.

TEN, NINE, fuck it--ONE!

(hits button on remote activator)

Ha! Even now the ray is destroying the world's hopes for future communication and peaceful negotiations. So I guess my question for you is, how does it feel to suck such big cock, James?

Wait, what'd you just say to me? What?
Yeah, nothing. That's right, Buttnugget. Hey James....AHOMOSAYSWHAT!

Haha! You said "what!" You're a total gaywad! You're--

Wait, what? You disconnected the ray days ago?

(James tosses Villain the manacles he was locked up in)

Hey! What? You got out of those hours ago?
What do you mean, my plan was stupid? Then why are you even still--God James, you are such a dick. You're just watching me strut up here and I must look like a total asshole.

You know, it's one thing to kill a bunch of dorkbutts; it's another to be disrespectful.

(sits down on steps leading to main firing console, slumps over with elbows on knees)

At least...that's what my dad used to say, when he was even around that is. But what does he know--you know what, nevermind, James.

(James walks over, sits down next to Villain)

You don't want to hear about it. It's faggot stuff. For faggots. Like you. (sniffle) Like....(sniffle) you I HATE YOU I HATE YOU!

(Villain begins bawling and hitting James' chest weakly, James holds him tight during this catharsis)'

I hate you old man! You're the one who made me go to finishing school for supervillains! I didn't want to go. I was going to be in the touring company of the Boston Ballet, but you said that wasn't "man's work." As if 8 hours of leg lifts and lifting ballerinas isn't "man's work!" You try it, you weak ass faggot! You know what Old Man, I'll show you man's work I'LL SHOW YOU MAN'S WORK I WILL FUCKING SHOW YOU MAN'S WORK!

(Villain kisses James. There is a horrible beat as they look at each other. James, terrified, pushes him away, wipes his lips, spits a little in disgust, and rushes to the door in utter shock)

What? Where are you-- I thought that's what this was all about. The sexy way you threw those lock-picked manacles at me, the the way you let me put my hands on you---Wait, YOU GET BACK HERE! We have to talk about this!

THIS HAPPENED, JAMES! You fucking faggot, James!

(door slams, James is gone. He can be heard vomiting outside for a moment before shambling off.)

Fuck.

(Villain shrieks after at top of lungs)
IF YOU TELL ANYONE ABOUT THIS I'll INVENT A RAY THAT'LL ERASE YOUR FAVORITE THINGS: CHAMPAGNE, SPORTS CARS, AND BALLS, JAMES. I WILL!!! Screw this. I'm going to the arcade. Fucking Millipede. Fuck. Yeah, Millipede. Fuck.

James Bond. Ha. (pounds fist into hand) What a dork.

Heh heh.

Yeah, dork...butt. Dorkbutt! That's a good one. I got him. I'll have to email him and tell him. He'll think that's funny.

Ah....James. Someday.

(starts singing Cutting Crew's I ALMOST DIED IN YOUR ARMS from their debut album BROADCAST. He grabs his jacket and leaves.)

HOW TO TELL IF YOUR HOUSE IS HAUNTED OR YOUR CHILD HAS BEEN MOLESTED BASED ON THE CRAYON DRAWINGS OF YOUR CHILDREN

By Sean Crespo and Francesco Marciuliano

Children. They’re small. Some are cute. And I don’t have any. But as someone who has a lot of opinions on many subjects upon which I’m not qualified to discourse but upon which I do regardless, I’d like to offer Drink At Work fans this chance to read my thoughts on how to analyze children’s art work for danger signs. Having seen movies about both hauntings and molestations, I feel I am now ready to professionally psychoanalyze kids’ crayon drawings for the tell-tale clues that should alert a parent to these potential hazards. I do this as a public service and am not paid by Drink At Work for this work. I am a philanthropist first and a freelance writer second. I’m also good with animals FYI.

Thank you,
Sean Crespo


DRAWING #1:


HAUNTED

ANALYSIS: My guess is that your child is regularly being pulled into the spirit world, without your even knowing it, by a malevolent consciousness who has made a game of twisting your son’s mind to the breaking point, delighting in every fissure he creates in your child’s sanity by forcing him to cavort with ghouls and demons of nearly incomprehensible malfeasance, leaving your child with no hope of being rescued from the endless crossing over and subsequent torture. You also probably baby him too much. Tell him to walk it off.



DRAWING #2:


HAUNTED

ANALYSIS: You are so haunted. Oh my god. Did you think your kid’s sudden spell of night terrors was normal? Starting to pee the bed again at 11 is one of those “red flags” people talk so much about, don’t you think? This house is NOT clear. Call that Sci-fi Channel lady who let’s you talk to dead animals. It might not be so bad. Maybe it’s only a ghost octopus and he wants some, well, I don’t know, some of whatever it is octopi want. Try crabs. Best of luck.



DRAWING #3:


MOLESTED

ANALYSIS: Let's just say that there are some public parks your child should no longer frequent.



DRAWING #4:


HAUNTED

ANALYSIS: Your child is not your child anymore, nor a child at all. He or she is now the temporary vessel of a sleepless malice, a demi-god awaiting the appropriate stellar alignment so that His Waking Mind might once again return fully from the unknowable infinitudes beyond the inkiest space and reign terror on all mortals, the birth right of all HIS kind who are born unto conscious formlessness and greatness beyond all hope of fighting you are doomed you are doomed!
Maybe some new drapes will lighten things up for a while.



DRAWING #5:


NEITHER

ANALYSIS: While your child is neither haunted nor molested, judging from this sketch they clearly possess an artistic spirit that graphically violates any typical thoughts on the visual capabilities of adolescents. Also, your child seems to be consumed with the crippling melancholy of an 80-year-old widower. It may not hurt to buy the kid a Frisbee.




DRAWING #6:


HAUNTED AND MOLESTED

ANALYSIS: You’ll be surprised, but the answer is actually that your house is haunted. The catch? It’s haunted by ghost priests who molest your child at night with their ghost weenies. I’d suggest an exorcism, but you run the risk of being responsible for setting up a priest-on-ghost-priest-on-child three-way. My advice, learn to live with it…but on film! Your lack of professional skill with a camera will actually serve you well if you package your story as an indie horror flick. We’ll call it “The Father, the Son, and the Holy Crap My Kid Is Being Molested By Ghost Catholic Priests!” Email me if you think of a better title.



DRAWING #7:


MOLESTED

ANALYSIS: You people make me sick. I can’t even begin to deconstruct what is wrong with this picture you disgusting corrupters of youth! My lord, look at this. How can you live with yourselves? They say it takes all kinds, but you know what? It doesn’t take your kind! Man! You people are f-d up! God! Jesus! Go…I don’t know. Just go. I’m going to be ill. Just thinking about all the “cry for help” imagery is making me furious. I’ll make a deal with you people. I’ll go take my blood pressure medication so I’ll calm down and not hunt you down like the animals you are, and you turn yourselves in to the nearest authorities. WEIRDOES!


Well, I hope I’ve been some help to you. Thank you for sending in your children’s art work, always a great window into the soul of the innocent. If you liked this piece, please check out my other works, “HOW TO TELL IF YOUR CHILD HAS VISITED AN ALIEN CIVILIZATION RECENTLY WITHOUT YOUR KNOWLEDGE BASED ON HIS OR HER CRAYON DRAWINGS” and "HOW TO TELL IF YOUR CHILD IS THE REINCARNATION OF A RELIGIOUS FIGURE BASED ON HIS OR HER CRAYON DRAWINGS”