I am the God of Hellfire

I’d like to tell you about an experience I had at best buy recently when I went in to buy a flat screen plasma TV. I had shopped on lime for a long time, and finally saw a sale at best buy for their branded LG model. The add said the TV was regularly 849, but was on sale for 799 and had a clear label of IN STORE ONLY. Here’s the link: http://www.bestbuy.com/site/olspage.jsp?skuId=8453648&type=product&id=1184767919174 (the “in store only” tag has been removed – interestingly enough, they have some “price corrections” on their site now – odd that the timing coincides directly with some coverage about fake web sites in stores and rampant bait and switching – here’s that link: http://consumerist.com/consumer/top/best-buy-adds-disclaimer-to-secret-website-303124.php

When I got into the store and spent about an hour going over the details, picking out components, I went ahead with the sale. One thing; the price was reduced to 799 at the store. I asked if they would honor the on-line price and the sales man said yes, no problem. So we started the check out process and the sales rep tells me that he’s sorry, the computer won’t take the sales price, that it must have been an on line only sale – I told him that the site said in store only and further there was definitively no on line only notice. We then went on line and I showed it to him. He saw it and then dismissed it saying that 849 really was an outstanding price for that TV, trying to get me to ignore the additional 50 and the bait and switch that this was beginning to feel like.

I asked him again to honor the sale, in store only price, and he said flatly that he couldn’t, the skew numbers did not match and he couldn’t sell that TV for that price if he wanted to. I then asked him to show me a TV in San Antonio that DID match that skew price and after a couple minutes he told me that there was not one in San Antonio. I asked to then speak with the store manager. When I got the store manager, I explained how similar this situation was to a bait and switch (an illegal sales practice that advertises fictitious merchandize at lower than real prices to get customers on site and upsell them). He “shared” with me what a great deal the plasma was at 849, completely ignoring the fact that I had just accused him of breaking the law – and then continuing the con.

I asked him what the difference was on the TV that was advertised and the one they had in stock (there was none on the specs) he said he didn’t know, that he couldn’t help. He then told me that if I paid the 799 right then, they would order the TV I had seen on line and I could come pick it up when it got in. I told them that I had no intention of ordering the TV. That I wanted the advertised TV at the advertised price and he flat told me that he wouldn’t sell me the TV for $799. I put up the accessories I was going to purchase and left the store.

I wonder how many people, kids in tow, bow down and pay the extra money, not only because they are excited, but also because it’s hard to believe that they are deliberately being taken advantage of. I wonder if people think about their kids saying “I thought we were getting the TV daddy” or, feeling a bit of unease but dismissing it with “Well, it’s a big corporation, mistakes happen.”

Pre-race routine:

Routine makes it sound like I’ve done it before, an no race I’ve ever done was even close. So I’m re-titling this section. I had a pre-race “haze.” How was my pre-race haze? Kind of hazy. I was calm and thankfully vacuous for most of the time. Mostly what I remembered was a few feelings of displacement - not in a nervous way, but in a “I am very different than these people way…”

These are some of the spots I remember:

The super model gate keeper kept stopping me for my race band every time I entered the transition, even when she let the 4 or 5 people in front of me in with cursory glances (for some reason I didn’t meet her IM conceptions, I guess). Finally, she stopped me with a hand on my chest.

“HALT! ZEE Athletes only!” (ok, not really, but I felt like Shultz from Hogan’s Heroes).

“How about paying, qualified participants?” I said, shaking my held up arm and band. I pushed through without waiting for a reply, but she did not ask me for it the next time, nor did I hold up my arm again.

I milled around - asked Zilla if she had taken some good pictures and she reminded me I had the camera - I don’t think that’s what I meant, but I’m no longer sure what I meant… LOL

I took some pictures of the pro bikes and was surprised at how few there were.

Then it was time to get suited up - I waited until most of the area was clear in the porta potty line (I just can’t bring myself to pee in the wet suit). Let a pro woman cut. I did demand some swag from her, but she said I had to earn it (with a smile). As I walked to my suit I started singing Timerlakes “Bringing sexy back” and thought it was hilarious:

Dirty babe
You see these shackles
Baby I’m your slave
I’ll let you whip me if I misbehave
It’s just that no one makes me feel this way

Take em’ to the chorus

Come here girl
Go ahead, be gone with it
Come to the back
Go ahead, be gone with it
VIP
Go ahead, be gone with it
Drinks on me
Go ahead, be gone with it
Let me see what you’re working with
Go ahead, be gone with it
Look at those hips
Go ahead, be gone with it
You make me smile
Go ahead, be gone with it
Go ahead child
Go ahead, be gone with it
And get your sexy on
Go ahead, be gone with it…

I sang it until I got into the water…
I got into my suit and meandered over to the start, still not thinking much other than occasionally “WTF am I doing with these people?” I felt like a 2nd grade “pick the shape that doesn’t belong” problem (I’m bringing sexy back…) much of which was exacerbated by the fact that I know I was under trained by about 35%.

So we all mill around and the pros head out. I chatted with Elaine. I still didn’t feel any nerves or angst and I remember wondering at my sence of detachment. My swim and the wet suit were frankly my biggest concerns as I had yet to be comfortable in it (I’d only had it for 3 weeks and felt like it drained my energy). In fact, my only real worry was that I was not worried. Hey, I’m fickle.

They announce to get in the watter and I wait, and wait. Few of the athletes would get in. They were milling around, trepidatious, stalling… I felt like I was trying to negotiate around the busiest grocery store on the planet and I started to get irritated. Folks were standing at the edge, not jumping in, but not allowing others to get in either. With that irritation I changed - it was like I was in a vacuum and all of the sudden there was sound. I’m fucking full of Wahoo, bitches, get out of my way.

With determination I cut a path to the water and jumped in, never looking back, though I could hear the announcer in the background still yelling at everyone to get into the water.

I waited, chatted with some people. Jokingly asked a guy if I could hold onto him so I could pee (either he didn’t hear, understand or take the request seriously because he turned around without saying anything).

Then we were off. I breast stroked for a minute expecting the mad cacophony I’ve experience in other starts but it never happened. Strangely, there were few of the 2500 people at the buoy line. I started crawling and aside from a few position issues with folks getting their lines right, the first 500 was pretty good. I didn’t feel comfortable, but didn’t feel terribly uncomfortable either. The first mile or so seemed to take a really long time, but I know my stroke was pretty good for me, so I wasn’t worried about the time. My goal was to reach the turn around at about 1.1 miles so I could check my watch and see my split. At the turn I looked and was at about 50 minutes - all I wanted to do was beat 2 hours and I knew that was in the bag. The return trip I really enjoyed. Got in a zone, stroke after stroke - I’ve never really felt like that before and was completely thrilled. I felt like I wasn’t working and could do it all day. I didn’t even notice the suit. Was out of the water at about 1:40 I think (I’m not sure where the timing mats were). Standswithfist stripped me (I caught her sneaking a peek at the wahoo (j/k, I didn’t catch her, but hope for her sake she got to see, because it’s marvelous).

Ran to the change tent and stripped - tried not to dance naked in the tent and scare the crap out of the other men, but I hummed:

I’m bringing sexy back
Them other boys watch while I attack
If that’s your girl you better watch your back
Cause she’ll burn it up for me and that’s a fact

The bike 112 miles:
First I wanted to settle in, was very happy with my pace up, but knew what was in store coming back and knew it was going to get progressively worse as I had pulled an hour by hour forecast that showed the wind going up 2mph each hour until 5:00pm. Turns out the wind was around 30mph.

I did see a lot of flats. This was my only real fear about the bike portion. I did an olympic where I had two flats and my time was horrible. If I had mechanical issues, I was up the beeline without a paddle, particularly as these were loaner HED wheels that I was not that familiar with. I started a litany in my head that lasted all day

“No Flats”
“Watch the screw!”
“Oh god, everyone is flatting!”
“We’re not in Texas any more toto (pavement is a way of life in Texas. If it’s horizontal, pave it, I always say).
“Glass!”
“W_a_t_c_h t_h_e d_a_m_n r_o_a_d s_c_a_r_r_i_n_g Dumbass!
“Fucking TERRIBLE Road, mix in some fucking black-top, fucking desert dwelling camel lovers!!!!”

Then I made the turn and started realizing what an IM is really about. Adverse conditions. Pain. Perseverance in a big way. To say I am not aerodynamic doesn’t describe it. I’m a fucking wind-scoop. The wind hit me and I said damn. Then I said it again. And again and again and again. Wow that sucked, compounded by the fact that I would have to do it 3 times in progressively worse wind. I was an hour up, and hour and a half down that fucking false flat 3 times. Ugh.

I’d yell periodically “YEA SPECTATORS,” particularly to those that offered me encouragement. The crowds always got wild with a little encouragement. Heh… they’re so easy. I wonder if they new they were being manipulated to fill up the Wahoo tank? A few deranged howls of encouragement top off the Wahoo nicely.

I was aero the whole time and managed to stay around 12 mph by just mashing down that hill. Getting back into town and turning around was really, really exciting.

On the way back up, I really tried to pick up the pace, knowing that if I did well enough with the time in the bank from the swim I would be able to get away with blowing my wad on the bike - I could run walk the marathon and still have time, which is exactly what I did.

“Watch the nail - stop figuring the numbers and pay attention, fuck nut!!!”

So I climb the hill and towards the top I left aero to stretch and prepare for being in aero for another hour and a half into the wind. It’s turned out to be a good plan I used for the third loop as well. When I made the second turn the wind was much worse. It was demoralizing, but I trudged through it. I was no longer feeling like “bringing sexy back” so started to sing “I burn” by the toadies which fit perfectly:

Stoke the embers
Cleanse the spirit
A prayer in every spark

Feel the lick of
Bad religion
The finish and the start

In the beginning
We were smarter
‘n flame was heaven-sent

Through the ages
We got stupid
Now we must repent

And I burn
I burn

Because fire is bright
Fire is clean
efficient and divine

Tooth and bone
Charms and dolls
I am free tonight

I BURN
THE AIR
YOU BREATHE

I BURN
THE AIR
YOU BREATHE

I BURN
THE AIR
YOU BREATHE

I burn
I burn
I burn

“Watch the Tumbleweed, NO FLATS! GO SPECTATORS!”

The third trip was much the same, only with more wind. Saw a couple wrecks and more flats. HARD, HARD 18 miles coming down. I started to develop some cramps in my quads and calfs, but I really didn’t give a shit at this point. I vaguely recognized when I broke 100miles as my first century ride. MASH. MASH. MASH. I burnnnnnnnn. I burnnnnnnn.

Finishing, I saw my time was at 4:30 or so and I knew at that point I had it. I could run 10 miles and possibly beat 16 if I wanted to, or walk most of it if I had to and I would be fine.

Rolling into the transition I saw Zilla, my wonderful Jockstrap (she told me later what I said, I didn’t remember). She told me I looked good and I said, “no, YOU look good.” At that point I apparently stopped to do some muscle poses, kissing my biceps and such. Thank god I didn’t break out “the beach is that way” or the classic “beach balls are this round” cuz that would have been plain silly.

When I got naked again I started humming “bring sexy back” and actually giggled. No shit, a giggle slipped out. The only way I can describe it is to say it was a verbal shart. I would have stopped it if I could, but it was too late. Unfortunately there was no TP other than time and geetting the hell out of there to clean that rather embarrassing tidbit up. I looked around like it was somebody else.

For the record, I’m not a giggler. I’m a smiler (with about 20 different varieties) or a laugher. Welshy does not giggle. And certainly not in a tent with naked, sweaty men… Does this mean I’m gay?

I guess they handed me my bike? I sent up a silent and heartfelt thanks to the flat gods and moved on my merry way.

Anyway, my hydration and nutrition was perfect - I never felt bloated or hungry until the last mile of the run. The support was very good and the race was well stocked the whole way through.

I walked for the first 1/4 mile or so to try and loosen up my legs. I made the mistake of picking the bridge turn to start running. I had not thought about the wind in terms of the run section, but that shit was still around like a bad, bad stink. Boom! the wind started when I made the turn and I wilted a bit. Damn. Walk until the direction changes.

“Suck it up, you’ve got enough time to walk the whole thing if needed.” I did.

When I turned out of the wind I felt good and started to run. I had some small cramps still, but not too bad. I shuffled, taking my time and felt good after a little while. I ran through a nice little park with some cool kids handing out drinks and felt like maybe I could run the whole thing and do considerably better than 16. I was in pretty high spirits until I turned from that park and saw… A hill. A damn no-business-in-AZ or-around-a-lake hill in the middle of my run course. Fuckers.

I burn….
I burn….

I walked it and the cramps came back. At the top, I ran down the downhill and had to stop. Cramps. For the next 4-5 miles I tried to run/walk, but each time I ran the cramps came back stronger and stayed longer. At that point I decided to scratch the running. The benefit wasn’t worth the risk of really seizing with bad unmanageable cramps and frankly I was getting tired of “I burn.” A faster time was a dim second priority to the only time that matters: 17hours.

So I walked and walked, keeping a 15 min pace that would still get me in under 16:15 (I could do the math as I didn’t have to worry about stray screws or tumbleweeds racing around like 5th graders let out of class for the year). 45 minutes to spare was a nice cusion I would need.

So I walked. Talked with people, read the inspirational signs everywhere (one said bite of more than you can chew, then chew it. I felt a giggle coming and squashed it).

About the time I finished the first lap and I had to walk past the finish line (I’m not listening, I’m not listening. You’re not even there), the blisters started. I’ve never really had blisters that I had to run on for an extended period of time before, so this was definitely a new twist. The wahoo was confused then a little afraid. It’s amazing how some simple blisters can alter your outlook when you have to walk about 18 miles on them. I dare say it puts a damper on any leg pumping party.

After about 4 miles of it and the wahoo said “you’re on your own, pal. I got you through the bike and stuck with you even when you giggled like a school girl. There’s nothing wahoo about blisters. Wahoo is about fun and abandon and pride and zany hijinks, not this. I’m done. You figure it out.”

Second time the IM made itself known - It’s not about easy, it’s about hard. It’s about ignoring pain… and will. It’s mostly about will. So I walked and winced. After a while, I stopped wincing. By mile 18 My pace had dropped to about 17 min per mile. I did the math and still knew I was ok, but didn’t have much margin for error any more. Walked and talked with some truly great people who I helped with humor, laughter and general weirdness and who helped me by talking and keeping my mind off the distance left and the distance past:

We stated a draft line despite the wind having completely disappeared. I spoke in serious Amish terms of my rusted undercarriage and how the horses weren’t comfortable in the bridle. At about mile 22 we had to run again to keep a 17 minute pace because of a bathroom stop where we waited for eachother. I could feel my blisters separate further, but we had to maintain a 10 minute cushion.

Coming across the last bridge and nearing the shoot, I’m not sure what I felt. It wasn’t relief or joy or glee (or giggles). It was a kind of awe with myself and who I am. Many times in my life I am happy or content with who I am (some times not), but never have I felt such a poignant… admiration for who I am. It was a completely new and very powerful sensation. I did it. I shouldn’t be able to do something like this, but I did. I didn’t cry or even feel emotional. I just felt a kind of honest awe and further, awe that I felt that feeling was completely warranted and appropriate.

I started to shuffle down the hill and saw Aaron and some other BT’ers. I ran through the shoot blowing kisses and giving the spectators high fives and across the tape. I felt fine for about 5 seconds and then got disoriented and stumbled and was caught. The catcher walked me around, stood me still and had a picture taken. The shoved stuff at me and I took it and the catcher walked me to some food I had little interest in eating. I wanted to say I wanted a massage, but I just couldn’t associate my thoughts with my voice. My blistered feet started screaming and I didn’t mind at all. Then I saw Zilla and she was crying and gave me a hug. We milled around for a few moments and watched someone run in blazing fast and miss the cutoff by about 12 seconds. I didn’t feel bad for him. I felt proud of him for trying and for pulling out everything he had. I’ve been first, last and never-tried. Never-tried sucks, the rest is gravy.

16:51

As a budding evilist, I’m awestruck. How does she get away with it? I personally think she is missing the boat: forget the sophomoric political commentary - this woman needs to go on tour teaching others how to succeed despite having nothing but hate, anger and disdain for anyone not like herself. I admit it, I’m jealous. One minion and counting, but then I come from the old school of evil geniuses where you rule from the shadows and move pieces around the board, unknown and diabolical. Who ever would have thought about bringing the evil out into the open? Who would have thought it would work?

From her site (thanks Jim):
“You agree not to post any abusive, obscene, vulgar, slanderous, hateful, threatening, sexually-oriented or any other material that may violate any applicable laws.”

Genius.

I have to admit, my admiration for Ann Coulter is colored by fascination with mean, nasty and obtuse women, brought about my rearing in the remote wilderness by jealous and dour Romanian nuns. I can’t help it.

Images of Ann in a black, ill-fitting leather corset, awkwardly flailing with a whip, stumbling with 5 inch heels and screaming hateful nonsense sends me into a swoon the likes of which I haven’t experienced since Bush took office. Sooooo sexy.

Sorry, I digress. The point is, I’m amazed she gets away with it. I’m amazed at the fear and hesitation I see in the eyes of the of the entertainers on the evening “news.”

I wonder if she has a girlfriend? Maybe she’s Bi…. Ann, if your reading this, give me a shout out… you can be my little ball of hate and I’ll be your number one disciple of despite.

Oh well, back to hazy daydreams filled with Ann, rulers and blood red nails on the blackboard….

50 years from now, some enterprising young kidos will “squirrel” their way into the tiny recesses of this attic and will behold a story of catechism, death and thirsty torment gone terribly right.

This is a story of dying in pain and misery, and not for the weak of heart. It’s sad and beautiful all at once; much like life, if you’ve the eyes and willingness to see. The sadness comes, not in all the cute little squirrels that died up there, gasping their last little bark for a taste of water, but in the vanquishing of an enemy.

It’s left a festering emptiness that has eroded the flesh around it, like an ebola of the soul. I’m empty, pointless, a wagon without wheels (pretty cool, if only I were the architect of this sublime and unexpected evil, not the recipient).

What’s left without you, my shitty little nemeses? Longing? Loneliness? Futile longing for days of glory and war… and pain; of pain and defeat and torment and misery. Now I’m an old and bitter soldier (Soldier of evil, lest you forget, but diminished without my bushy foil with which to fence) longing for the days and nights I thought I hated. What evil!?! Who won?. Make a man long for what he hates and his destruction has all the momentum you’ll even need, trust me in this. Ah, the festering irony victory feeds the unwary.

I’ve learned something in this Battle of the Squirrels I’ve finally won: evil villains imprison their foes in ridiculous ways not because they’re stupid, but because they know, deep down (though they would never admit it in the bright light of consciousness), that success means nothing. It’s a construct because everyone needs a finish line. Victory is but a byproduct of the game. Planting the flag at the summit is a shadow of the climb (excuse my evil pontification, I’m feeling… introspective). The little decaying bones in my attic attest to the futility of triumph, and the futility defeat.

The squirrels are dead or gone. I miss them and the challenge they were (little chicklet sporting buck-toothed bastards).

Turns out completely and utterly sealing the attic in a last-ditch all or nothing scotched-attic worked. Sealing the nutt munchers alive in a dark, fiberglass-laden tomb so that their last thoughts were of privation, defeat and pain was a bonus. Though they couldn’t get in, they couldn’t get out. I set the traps after a couple days of increasing restlessness and angst emanating from the spaces above my home (I know, not evil, but you weren’t there and have no idea how hard it is to be evil with all that thumping and barking… I broke, sue me).

So I set the traps, but their own industriousness worked against them (and the giant pecan tree in the middle of my back yard–er domain) and they didn’t need food. I could hear them laughing and flicking their cigarette buts at the cake in mocking glee. The poor bastards had enough food for a thousand squirrels, a thousand squirrel lives over. Ah… but not water. Not water….

Day 4 and the attic was rockin. It occurred to me in all my evil genius that pecans make for a thirsty little attic squatter with nothing to wash those nuts down….

So I set the cage traps again, but this time with water. Unholy water blessed with my hatred and endowed with all the power the God of Hellfire owns….

SLAM! Squirrel 1 caught.

SLAM! Squirrel 2 caught.

SLAM! Squirrel 3 caught.

SLAM! Squirrel 4 caught.

House secure, I released the evil little bastards in the back yard (not totally humane as it would freeze that night, but not completely evil after all). After a flurry of activity, 5 squirrels in total were excavated from my home - with water. Self satisfied, but feeling just a tad guilty for not inflicting righteous punishment now that the fuckers were not only in my clutches but clearly delirious and weakend from water deprivation (my therapist tells me it’s sanity. We’re working on solving that problem next week, talk about a handicap for an evil god of hellfire), I sighed with the silence of victory.

Days went by and I reveled in the silence: uninterrupted sleep, quite evenings reading a good book, plotting evil without disruption. It was heavenly. But the squirrels weren’t done. I can see the little revolutionary meeting: unwashed squirrels in berets, black and white striped shirts and no pants, smoking cigarettes while arguing in exaggerated French accents….

“No. I will stay, jean-paul {cough}…. I can’t live knowing the cause is lost, so I will {cough, inhale} die and spit {spit} my last drink in his eye, dirty capitalist human.”

“Jean-luc!” Nina squirrel cries, groveling at his crooked little leg, her little squirrel chest heeaving and testing the fabric of her too-tight shirt. “Think of the children: Pepe and Pugot and Peignoir and {cough, inhale} Petite and Pefe and Popo-”

He turns his frenchie-squirrel face away, his whiskers quivering in ferret-faced resolve. “Leave me, my love. I will look on you {cough} no more. Remember me, wee? …now go!” he kicks his leg free and turns his back, drawing on his filterless cigarette {inhale}.

“Nina… leave him. The revolution {inhale} asks much, no?”

“Wee!” she cries, flicking her cigarette and running into the cage. The trap closes and she holds the little wire bars as Jean-luc taks a last drag {cough} and lays down to die with his fellow martyrs, positioning himself in the most dramatic pose possible, the back of one paw across his forehead and his other pay holding his comrades arm in solidarity.

And die they do. I can smell their shitty, dead, vindictive little asses now. Thumbing their noses at freedom and giving the ultimate sacrifice in their terrible war: a last vindictive spit in the eye {spit} from those that dared face the God of Hellfire.

Evil little fuckers.

More evidence that the squirrel nation is on the march, their sharp little claws menacingly clack-clack-clacking on the pavement of bad intentions. Laugh all you want…, you might be next. Pray that you are not. Godofhellfire I may be, but I wouldn’t wish this mocking of innocence, this unholy plight that’s taken everything from me, my pride, my doorbell and the perfect vaccuum of my AC ducts, on anyone.

www.scarysquirrel.org

I’m in. Let the pain begin. 2.4 mile swim, 112 bike, 26.2 miles. My goal is to finish within 17 hours.

To further my exploration along the path of pain, torment and destruction, I have decided to run, bike and swim Ironman Arizona. The is a path full of long peril and dangerously delightful angst and torment. For the next 4 months, I will be undergoing a grueling training plan written up by my solution partner minions at beginnertriathlete.com. Sweat, blood and tears will be the sunset and sunrise of my existence. Sleep deprivation, chlorine and a sore ass, not to mention tired pumpers will be the bread and butter of my existence. However, triathlon minion couldn’t not deliver on his promise to get me a spot in this sold out race, so I’m in a bit of an evil pickle: the only way I can get into the race now is to donate… to charity. Do you believe it? The God of Hellfire, donating to charity - and $1000 dollars to boot. Still, an attempt must be made. The one saving grace here is the contributions are not tax deductible, so there is some evil involved after all, even if I am on the wrong side of it….

So, looking over the finances of my evil empire, I’ve come to the realization that the $1000 is beyond the means of my organization. “Looking over the finances” consists of me seeing $1000 and soiling my evil robes in despair… ah, delectable misery… oh, corn!

As I’m sure you know, Gods of Hellfire work on the barter system: give me that hamburger or suffer the unending torment of ritual nipple removal with my unsanitary and used tongue depressors, or some such. Ah… the memories. Anyway, being cash poor (at this level, anyway) I need some help raising the greenback for charity. If you are interested in what charities the money eventually goes to, you can check out ironman Arizona: http://www.ironmannorthamerica.com/commfund/index.php#distribution

There are only 26 spots left, so time is of the essence. Contribute now!!!

To give://thegodofhellfire.com/?page_id=61

The God of Hellfire does not like winter. It was a harsh and miserable 55 degrees when your most exalted munificence rolled out of his warm covers this morning. That is not right. In fact, it’s pretty fucking diabolical. In terms of evil, winter is right up there with conservatism and organized religion. I hate it. Female Minions get cranky when forced to wear camisoles in cold weather. Trees lose their leaves, everything goes brown, which is only really appropriate for war torn countryside’s and patent leather… This whole “look, everything is stark and dead” look is bad for moral and motivation: The last thing I need is complacent minions who don’t wear camisoles or even skirts, for that matter, feeling like they can mail it in. Winter, despite what you might think, is bad for the evil business. It’s cold. Cold sucks. I’m the god of hellfire, not the God of Ultimate Popsiclery , for shit’s sake.

Cold feet, running nose, wind – that sucks dirty assholes. And while no one loves a winter campaign and all the inherent pain and lamentation that ensues from a poorly planed invasion (frost bite, plague, starvation), I’m not a fan. I find as I turn into an older God of Hellfire, comfort is not to be dismissed, particularly a nicely filled out camisole. In the park… Hot tropical vacations where you and that special evil mistress BOTH get to run topless…. *swoon* I’m a beach mentality, not a mountain mentality. Some of you will offer me the drivel of warm fires, skiing, x-mas, snuggling… Blech…. All I can see is dirty wet snow, wet socks and having to wear a jacket in fucking October, for the love of god. Winter is not supposed to arrive until January, stay for an unpleasant weekend and then go punish those who get to look at pretty landscapes all summer instead of uniform oak trees squatting over hot Texas shrubs.

In fact, Global Warming is kick ass, and don’t you believe any of that hippy environmental spugistic crap either: the earth will be just fine and if the fucking polar bear doesn’t want to mix in a hair gut once in a while, fuck him: winter blows.

“Right now my ass is like the happiest freakin’ place on earth… kinda like Disneyland.”