The Village of Crawfordsville invites you to the unveiling of Mayor Michael Palmer’s stunning new body!

Who: the Village of Crawfordsville, IN

What: Invites you to “the Unveiling” of Mayor Michael Palmer’s stunning new body

When: Saturday June 4th, 2011, 3:00pm – Midnight

Where: Le Fountaine Banquets, 2321 W. Lake Rd in Crawfordsville, 1 block north of City Hall

The Village of Crawfordsville cordially invites you to the unveiling of Mayor Michael Palmer’s new body. Body-themed cocktails and mock-tails will be served beginning at 3:00pm sharp standard time, followed by a magical performance by Trevor Palmer, the mayor’s honorable brother and solo-synth-orchestrist, using many new and exciting instruments of his own discovery. Additional, higher-gravity cocktails will then be served beginning at 6:00pm in preparation for the unveiling of Mayor Palmer’s new body, altered by surgery as if by God Himself, at 8:00pm. Only then, senses suitably heightened/dulled by said ultra-high gravity cocktails, will the magnificent new body and face be unveiled to rousing synth-orchestric fanfare. Paramedics and trained emergency bartenders equipped with even higher ultra-high gravity cocktails will then be dispersed amongst the crowd to maintain cool heads and reassure those stunned by “the Unveiling” that it is in fact the Mayor that has had his new body and face unveiled and not a variety of heavenly angel or elegantly disfigured beast.

Formal attire is expected (khakis preferred). If you choose to bring fishing poles or very long sticks to the Unveiling please refrain from swinging them above your head- the mayor is now QUITE tall and will be easily stumbled in his weakened post-surgery state.

The Mayor, his brother Trevor and his ladyfriend Clarissa Groom all look forward to seeing you there! Note: If you or someone you know is easily spooked, please contact the Crawfordsville Department of Public Works (441-281-6616). It has been instructed to provide partially censored artist’s renderings of the Mayor’s new appearance to desensitize potential guests and any other people or animals they may choose to bring with them to the Unveiling.

Hair Zine (For in case you missed P. Fanatics Hair!)

It’s conceivably possible that you did not make it to last Thursday night’s P. Fanatics show, Hair! It is possible. And while you should have been there, we don’t want that to mean you’re not entitled to a look-see at the nifty “Hair Zine” Mason Johnson and Natalie Hurtenbach put together for the sake of what is really great and fun to look at. Below is that Zine, plus with a link and whatnot to the pdf. version. A-thank you.

Designed and Illustrated by Natalie Hurtenbach

Words by Mason Johnson

A Foreword: by Clause’s Alleged Father

If there’s one thing a bear can’t abide, it’s bad hair. Especially city bears. This is something that Clause knows all too well. Clause was born eleven years ago with an IQ that would tickle your dick to at­tention (for those of you who are both pedophiles and fans of the 1999 movie Baby Geniuses). It seemed like the world was his slimy oyster to gargle down as he pleased. The fun train to awesomeville ended abruptly for Clause five years ago though, when a horrible tragedy changed his life forever.

On Clause’s sixth birthday his pappy took Clause out for a day in search of the best Italian beef the city of Chicago had to offer. Tired and thirsty, Pappy Penderghast and Clause took a momentary break in the heart of the city to have a sip from a nearby water fountain. Pappy, bending down, wrapping his mouth around the tap, licking up any residue collected on its metal surface, attempting to taste the DNA of the families and bums who had frequented the public fountain before him, closing his eyes, touching his chest sensually, but not too sensually because his nipples are ticklish, was unknowingly giving a bear walking by a perfect view of the top of his head. Enraged by Pappy’s bald spot, his split ends, the greasy grey strands that barely clung to his liver spotted scalp, the bear charged. The bears name was Roger, by the way. For all intents and purposes, Roger’s a pretty good guy. Still, like all others of his species, bad hair sets him off.

Needless to say, Clause saw his grandfather ripped apart by a bear named Roger that day. This traumatic experience was the launching point for Clause’s line of bestselling books and guides on hair and everything hair-relat­ed. One day, Clause hopes to bring hair related bear killings down to zero. A noble cause? Who cares, these books have made us rich. Cash money dolla bills y’all, that’s what I call noble. Sure, my father is dead and my son scarred for life, but I now drive a Benz. Take that, fuckers!

I forgot why I was supposed to write this forward, or what it’s about, but have fun reading this piece of shit, losers!


Dad Penderghast

1. The Mull-it Over

Your daddy was a rocker and your mother a CEO and, now that your mother isn’t your favorite anymore (since she stopped lactating), you can’t decide whose size 12 men’s shoes to fill. Well don’t decide! Appease both parties with this stylish throwback from a more innocent time!

Positive: Can transform into a pony tail.

Negative: Prepare to never get laid again.

2. The Pixie Chix

Do you feel different and unique from every other girl? Then get the same haircut as every other weirdo and outcast nobody liked in middle school who thinks they’re different, even though they’re not. Just cut your hair nice and short, ladies, leav­ing it a little long in back to spike up like the little punk you aren’t. Feel free to add a few colors in there while you’re at it, can’t make you look any worse, can it?

Bonus: You and everyone around you will be transported back in time to 2005 with this stylish hairdo. Who doesn’t love time travel?

3. The Mustache

As I’m sure you know, the “mustache ride” is virtually the safest sex maneuver one can perform.

Science has proven that a man’s mustache soaks up everything that could possibly do any harm to an individual. Chlamydia, warts, the whole gamut of STDs! Goodbye condoms and herpes!

Note: Mason Johnson’s mustache is exempt from this quality.

My Mother Said Never to Trust Women in a Bar

Alternate title: My Mother Gives Me Nightmares

I met two beauticians at a bar who wanted to cut my shaggy locks off. I wasn’t drunk. She wasn’t either, but other she was. I let them shear it off bits at a time in my kitchen, becoming surrounded by my brown hair spread out dead on my white, tiled floor. They cut my ears off with the hair and even though I couldn’t hear anymore, I wasn’t that mad. I looked good. I mean it, for the first time in my life I had a haircut that didn’t look like shit.

Still, I didn’t even get laid. You give two girls your hair and an ear each and you’d think one of them would fuck you.

Or give you a BJ.

HJs are useless.

4. Bangs!

There once were some ugly girls

who took scissors to their curls

Now above their retarded eyes hangs

monstrously ugly and uneven bangs

Upon sight of which, everyone hurls

Collect your favorite hairstyles NOW!

Just cut along the dotted lines, then trade with all your friends

End of volume 12

Thanks for reading!

For future issues, check out

See the zine as a PDF with all its original typography here!

That Time of The Month, P. Fanatics Reading Series Again!

If you’ve ever wondered about hair, wonder no more. Or, wonder more, but join readers in wonderment at P. Fanatics: Hair! which is taking place tomorrow (April 21st) at 7:00 pm (CST) at Moe’s Tavern on Milwaukee (also, this is in Chicago, IL). The subject of stories will be among other things hair and its many uses. I know I’ll be there, and I’ll be reading a story. I hear tell that there is a ‘Zine that will also be featured in association with the reading.

Other readers aside from myself include Mairead Case, Mary Hamilton, Samantha Irby, Ian Dick Jones, Mark Schettler, and back — probably by popular demand — Dan Shapiro.

As always, Mason Johnson will be hosting. He’s getting awfully good at that, you should see! Check out his P. Fanatics website, which may possibly have more in the way of info.

With luck it will be too noisy at P. Fanatics to hear any individual’s sniffling, unlike is the case in a quiet room of only computers and people quietly working at them discreetly.

Thank you for your interest in The Birthday Channel!


Mr. Graves Dogton

3231 Bog Rd, Apt 1

New York, MA 10161


The Birthday Channel

1664 Industry Drive

Town of Commerce, Nevada 89112

January 14th, 2011

Mr. Dogton,

First of all, thank you greatly for your interest in The Birthday Channel and its wide array of related products and services!

If you’ve received this prospective client box it means that you’ve either faxed in a letter of interest or started to place an order on and then for some reason didn’t complete the purchase after entering your information. Whatever the reason, no worries! The only thing you should be concerned with is how WOW!ed you are by The Birthday Channel and its sister networks, The Anniversary Channel and The Birthday Radio Network.

The Birthday Channel is America’s #1 best option for birthday wishes of any stripe. While standard local morning news programs and radio stations do carve out a few minutes a day for their viewers to wish happy birthdays on one another, The Birthday Channel is the only place to get the non-stop, up to the minute stream of birthday wishes that the 21st century community requires.

You may wonder, why would people watch a network that only shows a scrolling list of birthdays? That’s a good question.

At the Birthday network, while you can only display the birthday person’s name and no customized messages are allowed, the list of recipients is presented in a crisp and respectable looking 12 pt font set against an honorable solid blue background. What’s more, on days when the number of paying birthday wishers is low, the same few names will just cycle around, over and over. That’s like an added bonus!

Some frequently asked questions:

Q. What is a “birthday?”

A. The one day a year when you can BE YOURSELF! Many times other people want to wish you good wishes on your birthday as a result.

Q. Does The Birthday Channel work on the iPhone?

A. You can use your iPhone while you watch The Birthday Channel on TV, yes.

Q. Why don’t you show celebrity birthdays anymore?

A. Lawsuits have prevented us from continuing this practice but we thought it was taking important screen time away from other birthdays, anyway.

Q. Will anything offensive be shown on The Birthday Channel?

A. We have new procedures in place to make sure it rarely happens again.

Q. Does this cost money?

A. Yes.

As you can see, we have a genuinely WOW! Product. And so, as a prospective client, we sent you this welcome package! Inside this box you can find:

  • A picture of Miley Cyrus, birthday girl of the year 2011!
  • A handful of pens from our office
  • A piece of paper to copy our price chart down on – call 1-800-The-B-Cha for a detailed description of the chart.
  • Two different kinds of The Birthday Channel decorative mugs, one for righties and one for those of the left handed persuasion. Just a note- these mugs are, again, purely decorative. The cumulative side effect of the paints and chemical hardeners used in construction has made it unsafe to keep them within 10 feet of human living quarters.
  • A third, smaller mug. This one has not been tested for safety.

So what’ll it be, an afternoon of fun and laughs, drinking birthday nog while you watch the birthday name merrily scroll around your big screen HD TV with your loved ones? Or an evening of your loved one lying awake in bed, thinking, “Sure, I got GIFTS for my birthday… but I can’t help but feel like they forgot about me.”

The choice is yours.


Prospective Client Box Department

The Birthday Channel

Calling ALL P. Fanatics!

Hi friends, as you no doubt are not aware, Untoward’s own intern-in-training, Mason Johnson, is hosting his first ever Piss Fanatics Reading Series entitled “Sup Bro?” at Moe’s Tavern on Milwaukee (2937 N. Milwaukee, to be precise). Check out its Facebook page. We’re proud of how young Mason has grown and want to encourage this nascent effort by enjoining — nay, beseeching — you who are in the great city of Chicago this weekend to attend. ATTEND! ATTEND, I SAY!

Anyway, more specifically it’s happening Saturday, March 19th (that’s this weekend!). So be there or be square. Word has it that forthcoming Untoward contributor Dan Shapiro will be reading as well, which is something we here at Untoward wholeheartedly endorse. Well done, Mason, bravo.

Not only will Mason Johnson and Dan Shapiro be there, up to their tricks both new and old, but so too will various names you love such as Dave Snyder, Jill Summers, Kevin Kern, Chris Bower and Tim Racine. Don’t you love those names? Even if you don’t, you should go and discover the people behind the names, because what have names ever taught you about anyone? It’s like that old truism, you can’t judge a person by his or her name.

So ATTEND! ATTEND! With an ostensible theme like bros and what’s sup with them, how could you possibly live to regret ATTENDing*?

*A bros theme rarely inspires rue. That’s a scientific fact.

Sport: the Challenge of Man.

Why does man challenge? He challenges for fitness. He challenges for his woman. Most importantly, though, he challenges for himself.

And where does man challenge? The field of competition, of course. For reasons both known and unknown, man has always chosen to prefer efforting on the battlegrounds of sport- the hockey ice, the Fenway, the basketball surface.

And there we find a conclusion: Where he challenges: Sport.

Every sport has a champion. Every champion has a sport. But who is your sport’s champion? What is your champion’s sport?

The answers to these questions and also candid nude photographs of NFL quarterbacks can be found in the very heart of the “Sporting Spirit,” SportChampions has it all- a database of various sports matched up with their associated champions and also candid nude photographs of NFL quarterbacks, including the Billy Joes Tolliver and Hobert.

And then the second conclusion: For VICTORY man challenges himself, his woman and his childhood bullies, and he does it in SPORT as a CHAMPION.! Win for strength and challenges!

So Mason Johnson Thought He Had Nerves of Steel

Last night brought with it the continuation of a really great reading series hosted by THE2NDHAND and its colorful, uncouth representative, Harold Ray (who may or may not bear a striking resemblance to THE2NDHAND co-editor and all around good-guy, Jacob Knabb). The venue? The Hungry Brain on Belmont in Chicago, IL, which my understanding is this is where the show typically takes place each month. Point is, go there and see it sometime; I command it. Check HERE for more information.

Readers included headliner Mairead Case (who put on a really cool presentation of her graphic novel), poet Nick Demske (who read his poetry with an effusiveness that really made expressions like “clitorectomy synedoche” come to life) and Untoward’s own Mason Johnson.

Johnson, however, had a specific agenda for the evening — born of an apparent feud with Harold Ray that could no longer be restrained. Over the internet, then, Johnson demanded satisfaction, and satisfaction was offered to him in kind. Harold Ray agreed to duel, a gentlemanly arm wrestling match to test whose nerves of steel were the steeliest (and all the concomitant bragging rights, as well). Winner take all and suchlike.

Mason Johnson began the evening snappily dressed in a tuxedo t-shirt (pictured above), fully planning  for victory, one would assume. Plus he was smiling (also pictured above), a cocksure smile that suggested both belief in his triumphant victory and love for adversarial feats of strength.

Harold Ray, meanwhile,  seemed fortified against Johnson’s boasts by a mountain man’s grit and his own personal love of singing, and this attitude combined with Ray’s trademark excitable pugnacity (spurred largely by whatever alcoholic beverages he’d hitherto imbibed)  suggested he’d be a challenging opponent in  wrestling matches that pit any human limbs against another’s human limbs (legs, arms, wings — the latter applying strictly to super humans).

Mason Johnson then forced asked his friend and, for the evening at least, whipping boy assistant, Dan Shapiro, to read words printed to his black belt. The belt apparently had his name on it, thus establishing that Johnson possessed a black belt in some form of martial arts, conferred to him at some time. Which struck certain of our sources as a red herring and possibly beside the point, since karate chopping doesn’t get you much of anywhere with respect to locked hand-on-hand, arm v. arm combat.)

A relative point by point breakdown begins here (with the picture above), illustrating the events of the arm wrestling bout as they happened.

Johnson surged forward at one point, suggesting the possibility of his victory.

BUT THEN . . .

OVER THE TOP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


To the victor go the spoils. To the not victor goes his original shirt.

At Harold Ray’s urging*, Dan Shapiro arm-wrestled a female in the audience, which some traditionalists might consider impolite.

We here at Untoward do not make judgments of that sort. In America, feel free to arm wrestle whomsoever you choose; that’s what we say.

*Evidently Shapiro was urged to arm wrestle as a way of regaining his lost  manhood, which he endured while being henpecked by Johnson for the better part of the evening.

A Letter I’ll Probably Never Send

Editor’s Note: Mason Johnson is a new guy we’re planning on keeping around here for various “on-the-level” purposes (or so we’ve led him to believe). To better get to know this charming individual read, yes, the following. Or visit him at Piss Fanatics (where he is fanatical about a great many things, many of which depart greatly from micturition in all its forms). Think of him as our assistant to the editor’s assistant. THANK YOU!

Dear Lorraine,

I think it’s important that you understand why I rebuffed your advances all those years ago. First and foremost: I was fairly certain you either possessed, or had previously possessed, a penis. This is not a problem. I myself have a penis and am immensely, and literally, attached to it. I am not, however, sexually attracted to male genitalia.

Yes, okay, I was working at Claire’s Boutique when you met me. I can see how that would be misleading, straight men don’t tend to work in cheap, jewelry stores covered in pink earrings and purple toe rings. I was an exception.

“But, Mason!” people often ask, “Why would you get a job at a jewelry store that caters to preteens and their grandmothers?”

I can honestly say it wasn’t to pick up grandmothers or preteens. The thing is, Lorraine, I couldn’t get a job anywhere else.  Had the comic shop or the video game store seen fit to hire me, I would not have ended up at Claire’s.


I have something to confess, Lorraine: the first time I saw you I ogled. I was sitting on the carpeted ground organizing earrings when I looked up and there you were, facing away from me, your ass a few feet away. Lorraine, penis or not, you have a nice ass.

Later I rang you out. Separated by the white counter and register I couldn’t help but admire your Filipina complexion and your amazing, long, black hair. Lorraine, I’m a guy who can appreciate nice hair.

And then, looking at your smiling face, I noticed a type of hair I didn’t appreciate: stubble. It covered your chin and lead down to your Adams apple. And even though you had superb breasts, it became suddenly difficult for my teenage mind to imagine sticking my d in your v since it occurred to me that you might not have a v at all. I like the v, Lorraine. So sue me.

“You’re cute,” you said with a smile, handing me your credit card.

“Gee, thanks!” I said, like Superman’s best pal Jimmy Olsen.

Stubble or not, I was flattered.

You came back the next week. While ringing you up for a second time you asked me out, “Go clubbing with me tonight.”

“I don’t think so,” I said, shaking my head.

“No, you should!”

“It’s Friday night,” I explained, “I play Dungeons and Dragons on Friday night.”

You looked surprised, as if, between the lankiness, the nerdiness, the awkwardness, my pale skin, the shaggy brown hair in front of my thick glasses, you couldn’t believe that I played D&D.

“Just skip!” You said. An offensive suggestion.

“I am the cleric,” I declared. “The life bringer, the main healer. If I skip and Adumar the Wizard gets an arrow through the chest, who’s going to cast Cure Moderate Wounds so he doesn’t die? Mian the Barbarian? Doubtful!”

You changed the subject and asked for my phone number, I gave you my brother’s. You wrote it down on your receipt with one of the giant, blue novelty pens we sold for a dollar; a foot long, an inch thick, they were gigantic. You held it up to your face with a smirk.

“You have a big pen,” you said.

Though the euphemism was not lost on me, I replied, “It’s the stores’.”

Besides, anyone who thinks my penis is anything but average would be sorely mistaken. I could not imply otherwise. I’m too honest.

On your third visit you watched me pierce the ears of a baby. I did this a lot. Piercing babies. You see, I was fairly useless at my job, and the girls I worked with, they really didn’t care. Well, they didn’t care as long as I pierced every baby that came in. They didn’t like to do it. Babies cry, babies wriggle, babies are a pain in the ass. For whatever reason, I didn’t mind tears as much as everyone else there. So I was the baby piercer. That day you came and watched me pierce a baby, Lorraine, that was sorta creepy. You standing there, smiling, staring as the mother sat in a chair, holding her six-month-old in a head lock. You kept smiling as I took out the piercing gun, a square, white thing, and pierced one ear, screaming at the mother, “turn her head! Turn her head!” so I could then pierce the other ear. You even smiled as the child’s wails echoed throughout the store.


You asked me out again that day. Again, I said no. My duties to my D&D group outweighed clubbing with a gender elusive Filipina. (Is gender elusive a politically correct term? I’m not sure…)


The last time we locked eyes you were walking past the store… escorted by two cops… in hand cuffs… crying. Apparently you had been caught shoplifting from Bath and Body Works. Looking at you, your hands shackled behind your back, sobbing, my heart sank a little. There was my chance at something different, something I didn’t know, passing me by. Maybe, just maybe, that was love in those hand cuffs. Maybe, just maybe, I should have jumped the counter, kicked one cop in the face, karate chopped the other in the neck, and ran to freedom with you, Lorraine.

Then, as if you could read my mind, you looked straight at me. This, uh… this is where things got really weird, Lorraine. Do you remember this?

Still crying, staring straight at me, you yelled, “Sales associate! Sales associate!”

Apparently you couldn’t remember my name. You did remember the words on the little, pink badge I wore though, so that’s good.

“Sales associate!” You screamed. “I love you! Sales associate, I love you.”

You repeated this over and over, not stopping, even as the cops started to drag you away. And what did I do? I sunk, Lorraine. Literally, not figuratively or some shit like that. I ducked low behind the counter, hiding from you. I stayed hidden long after the sound of your wails had ceased — just in case.

We never saw each other again.


What I want to say, Lorraine… the reason I’m writing this letter, well… I mean. I’m sorry. I’m sorry things didn’t work out. I’m sorry I hid from you. And, I’m sorry I never saw you again. I hope you can accept my apology.




Do you or do you not still have a penis? If not, you should totally hit me up.

For Your Consideration: All the Evidence Collected “Confirming” the Existence of One Michél Ropanzo


Dear Aerthur,

I hope you don’t mind my stowing this note away in your jacket pocket. I assure you; it has been chemically washed and checked for spy-bugs before being deposited in this manner.

You may feel that you’ve been toiling away here at BogDrainerz un-noticed, un-appreciated, un-celebrated and un-carefully considered for greater responsibilities, but you would be wrong. You have done much in your short time amongst the other Mud Removal Analysts in your department to distinguish yourself from the intellectual dregs. The organization I represent has had its eye on you for quite some time now, and the moment has come to break our silence and welcome you into our fraternity.

What kind of group is this? Certainly it involves publishing some sort of once-in-a-lifetime periodical that will save the world from itself? Are members asked to steal and rape in the name of the club? There are many questions you must want to ask and even more time to ask them next week at our Mutual Criticism Ice Cream Social on Friday.

I trust you will be there- meet at the Coldstone downstairs at PRECISELY 3:33 AM and 33 seconds- not a second earlier or later. The significance should be obvious to an established brainuser such as yourself.

See you there!

Editor-in-Chief Michél Ropanzo, Genius Level 9


Dearest Aerthur,

Perhaps it is best you chose not to join us at our event last week- due to a gross and foul miscommunication the Coldstone was left entirely locked and dark at the selected time. Our group was stranded alone and cold; our only companions being the early morning elements and a small group of sharp-toothed crimelovers that left most of us nude and misty eyed in the alley.

It is perhaps also best because it occurs to me now that in declining to explain the nature of our organization to you in my first note I was asking you to make a decision without first knowing all of the facts. I should have known that an intellect such as yours would never act so brashly. This is what separates you from the other engineers at BogDrainerz, wasting their considerable talents designing clever wetland removal pumps disguised as anthropomorphic frogs.

I represent THE PERIODICAL, a super-elite editorial board determined to publish an identically named prescription for humanity. This tome, standing at however many thousands of pages of authentic Egyptian papyrus prove necessary, will right the world’s wrongs, weed out the toxic roots of anti-intellectualism and categorize all of the group’s members comprehensively by mind power.

So how about it, young Aerthur? How would you like to change the world through sheer force of will? Alter the careening course of history and prevent the formation of a television saturated, religio-fascist sportsocracy? Compare your considerable genius to Phillip Kleinglass in Customer Service?

Meet me at the historic bridge into Peetbutter State Park tonight at precisely 9:99 and 99 seconds, or whatever real time that works out to. I pray fervently that you will make it- you may be our last hope!

Editor-in-Chief Michél Ropanzo, Genius Level 9


Foul, stinking Aerthur,

I am saddened by your failure to arrive at the bridge last night. If you had appeared, perhaps you could have dissuaded the scary dogs from chasing me so far into the woods. As it is now, it is with a heavy heart that I scrawl these words on my bare stomach for some future woods-explorer and body-finder to decipher: Your invitation to join THE PERIODICAL is hereby rescinded.

I have gone so far as to retroactively downgrade my Genius Rating by a full level for trusting a virus such as yourself. I’ve never even spoken to you or introduced myself in person and as such it is astoundingly bad form for you to dismiss me out of hand. Now I find myself nude once more and lost deep in the dense forest, thanks entirely to your presumably cynical behavior.

THE PERIODICAL will continue to sit unpublished for God-knows-how-long. Perhaps one day another great leader of geniuses will serialize its contents and at least GET THE IMPORTANT FACTS OUT THERE, but its dynamism and majesty will be absent.

We could have changed the world together, Aerthur! Babies would have sworn their allegiance to us- to you!- for generations. Now your greatest accomplishment will be ignoring the wise Assistant Marketing Director who wanted to change your life for the better. For shame.

It is beginning to snow more heavily now and I feel as if the woods around me are glowing with the buzzing incandescence of fiendish lupine eyes. There is a marshy pond nearby that I could shelter in, but it is too frozen to be safely drained by a solitary naked man. Before I climb higher into the tree in search of salvation, however, I want you to know why you broke so many hearts amongst the great thinkers at BogDrainerz this week:

You were the Chosen One.

Yours in nude sadness,

Editor-in-Chief Michél Ropanzo, Genius Level 8

Grampaw Jamie’s Buy-A-Car for the week of 2/7/11

1996 Kogani Shogun

121,109 miles


“Japanese” means quality to some people, and to those people the Kogani Shogun is proverbial proof they find when sifting through the pudding with their fingers. When Kogani makes a luxury car they do it right, drawing from time-honored traditions of craftsmanship that you just don’t find anymore. The shogun’s carriage-built wooden frame is untouched by the soulless mechanical hands of assembly robots and dipped in molten steel to make sure that the car has that metal construction that drivers crave. At the same time, this car is remarkably high-tech- a complicated system of troll-doll sized robots reverse engineered from Furbies and communicating back and forth by fax machine are responsible for moving the vintage crank shaft when the ignition turns. Once its 36 cylinder World War I biplane engine gets going the thunderous roar will make you say “Thank you, Furby-based crankshaft bots!” Uniquely Japanese, uniquely old-world construction, uniquely erotic manga painted on the hood. A successful person’s car, by any standard.

Forward-facing tailpipes, trap door, 31 speaker mini-disc sound system, vibrating “Groin Pleasure” seats, poison coated antenna, cow catcher, squeeze bulb style AwoogaTronic ® horn, spare transmission in the trunk

2000-ish Car

1 miles


Are you looking for a car? Here’s a car. No questions asked, just buy it and leave.

Doors appear to function. All blood-like liquids have been removed. Lights, seats, radio, all the bells and whistles. Note: You must take legal responsibility for the car and any acts the car may have been involved in.

2005 One-of-a-Kind Thompson Turboburner

Mileage unlisted


Vic Thompson is a dreamer, so sue him. Sue him for thinking that a man can make a sports car with his own bare hands and some tools. Sue him for converting a huge, slow truck with a monstrous V8 into a tiny, über-quick car. Sue him for using clever bolt-on parts to upgrade that V8 to a V9. Sue him for completing his conversion mostly by denting the truck and its frame from every angle to achieve the desired smaller size using a sledge hammer. Sue him for DARING to challenge a society that says that the “Average Joe” doesn’t DESERVE to turn his ’98 Truckland Moab into the superfast roadster of his dreams. Go ahead and sue him, because a bunch of people already have on account of how the car drives and how it leaves “hazardous” parts all over the road.

Basically none of the “features” work anymore anyway, so why list them here. All you need to know is SPORTY SPORTY SPORTY