Full Time/ Until Untimely Death
Undersea/ Volcano/ Moon
Evil Genius, Dr. Equinox is looking for an executive assistant to assist with endeavors to claim his rightful place as ruler of Earth.
- Absorbing Dr. Equinox’s copious rage when he is displeased.
- Dispatching those who cross or impede Dr. Equinox.
- Liaise with contractors to facilitate building of secret lairs.
- Cat care.
- Manage divisions of minions and delegate responsibility accordingly.
- Oversee Solar Death Ray maintenance.
- Seduction of meddlesome secret agents (female applicants only).
- 3 years of experience in an assistant role, supporting senior level megalomaniac.
- MUST BE UNFLINCHINGLY LOYAL. Any acts of betrayal, mutiny, or sedition will result in immediate termination (yes, that means what you think it does).
- Eagerness to sacrifice meaningless life for noble boss.
- Ability keep composure and spout menacing bon mots and puns in a very fast-paced, high-pressure environment.
- Ideal candidate has some kind of unique adornment/ deformity to use in villainous activity (Razor Hat; Metal Teeth; Mechanical Hands)
- Proficiency in Excel.
- Willingness to relocate, work flexible hours, and become Dr. Equinox’s paramour/ sexual plaything (FEMALE APPLICANTS ONLY!!!).
- Heightened disdain for so-called humanity and all of its insect-like quibbling preferred.
About Our Company
Dr. Equinox is an astrophysicist and former NASA engineer. In 1977 he stared directly at a solar eclipse for too long and saw the true face of God, going simultaneously blind and mad in the process. Since then he has dedicated his life to creating cutting edge technology for the subjugation of the intellectually inferior scum who currently rule the planet.
Journal Entry: January 14th, 1985
Well, this is it. The day has finally arrived. Today is my third birthday. The Big 3-Point-O. I’d be lying if I told you I wasn’t freaked out.
For starters, this isn’t where I thought I’d be at three. I see other people my age accomplishing things, like playing board games without swallowing the pieces, and not crying when Darth Vader comes on screen. I know I shouldn’t hold myself up to other people’s standards, but still, I can’t help but feel stinky.
Beyond that I can’t identify with anyone on either side of me, age-wise. I’m certainly not ready to settle into the boring regimentation of the preschool crowd. My friends in their 3’s are always droning on about “nap time this” and “cootie shot that.” They’re like zombies. I don’t want that. But what’s the alternative? Become one of those sad bastard 4-and-a-half year olds who crams himself into a stroller and tries to hang with the toddlers? No thanks.
On the other side of the divide, I feel the gulf between me and everyone in their 2’s widening every day. Do I envy their youth? Maybe, a little bit. But really they just look ridiculous to me anymore. Don’t get me wrong, you’re supposed to be wild and out of control at 2. The scar over my eye from my bed-jumping phase is testament to that. But when I think back on those days now, I’m mortified.
I guess the real turning point for me came when I completed potty training. The second I slid off that plastic toilet extension I was flooded with embarrassment over how I’d been handling the situation those past few years. I couldn’t even look Mommy and Daddy-Bob in the eye.
Now I see some 27, 28 month old kid, throwing up, rolling on the floor, and sticking their finger in the dog’s heinie and I’m like, “I have nothing to say to you.”
I know that makes me sound jaded. And maybe I am.
I remember the wide-eyed wonder of my second birthday. I looked at the cake, the presents, all the tall and vaguely-recognizable people and thought, “This is all for me? Wow!” Now, twelve long months later it all seems so de rigeur, so expected.
At 2 I marveled at the concept of receiving gifts merely for surviving one revolution around the sun. Now, at the start of my thirty-sixth month, I find myself throwing a temper tantrum over my mother getting the wrong Hot Wheels. I mean, it’s still pretty stupid that she didn’t realize I already had the Camaro and the monster truck (duhhh) – but where did my blasé sense of entitlement come from?
I’m a baby at a crossroads. Part of me wants to remain that rebellious ankle biter, drinking cough syrup and painting the carpet with diabetes (I’m still skeptical of my parents’ insistence that the word is actually “graffiti”). The other part of me wants to sit down, put on a Fat Albert .45 record and learn the alphabet.
But I’m going to remain optimistic. I don’t have to have it all figured out just yet. There’s still plenty of time for me to become whatever I want, whether it’s an astronaut, or Batman, or Astronaut Batman. After all ,it’s like they say – 3 is the new 2.
#57 – DON’T TRUST YOUR FUTURE LIFE
Visiting the future allows the Modern Time Traveler to glimpse the progress of many important things - medicine, technology, movie sequels. But there is one subject whose future developments fill us with the most curiosity: ourselves.
Yes, it is pretty much a given that every forward Time Traveler will be tempted to ignore the “Spoiler Alert” on their own life and check in on their futuristic counterpart. The standard caveats you’ve heard before still apply: It’s dangerous to know too much about your own destiny; Witnessing that future means you’re inherently changing it, yadda yadda yadda.
The warning we impart unto you is this: The future you see may be total bullshit.
Let’s say you’re a bitchin’ dude from the year 1986. By way of either magic, wormhole, or an eccentric scientist buddy’s invention you’re transported to 2011 AD. After the temporal culture shock brought on by the Internet, the first African-American president, and two Red Sox championships wears off you think to yourself, Let’s see how I’m doin’. I hope I didn’t turn out bogus (You’re from the ‘80s, remember).
You borrow someone’s smart phone and find Future You’s address, lickety split.
Next up is a visit to your future house. It’s a nice, big place in the suburbs. So far, so good. Nice car in the driveway… Sweet! You lurk in the bushes to get a better look at this man who is you but also not you, like some kind of metaphysical Peeping Tom.
Thank God, twenty-five years has done Future You good. He’s in great shape, and has distinguished flecks of gray in his hair, like this George Clooney fellow you’ve seen on so many magazine covers in this time period. Hell yeah!
He has a beautiful wife. His kids adore him, and appear to only need minimal orthodontic work.
And when you follow him to work the next day you see him exude authority and command respect. You celebrate with some well-deserve air guitar.
You return to 1986 secure in the knowledge that you’re not going turn out bogus at all. In fact, you’re going to be SUCCESS! Your asshole guidance counselor was totally wrong!
Or was he?
When you know company is coming over for a party do you make your guests languish in the sea of dirty dishes, old socks, and nudie mags that is your apartment’s natural state? No! You clean up your environment and present your friends and family with the illusion that you’re a normal, hygienic member of society.
It’s worth considering that this may be happening on a larger scale when you time travel forward. In this scenario, you only saw your future life on a superficial level. Sure, everything looked great, but remember – Future You knew Present You was coming. He’s known for twenty-five years. That’s plenty of time to tidy up.
Who’s to say that that car’s not a rental, and Future You isn’t normally a jiggling mid-life crisis who’s been overdoing it at the gym in preparation for his younger self’s arrival? The affections of his kids can be bought with a couple iPads, and his wife probably understands the importance of keeping up appearances. And did you stay with him at work all the way from 9 to 5? Are you sure he’s even employed?
We’re by no means suggesting that everyone’s future is nothing more than an elaborate façade. That would be insane. We’re just saying don’t get cocky, and be sure to take the Future at face value, Eighties Man.
JENSEN’S KITTEN KLOTHES ORDERS COMPLETE RECALL OF “PRETTY PAJAMA PARTY” LINE OF CATWEAR
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE Jensen’s Kitten Klothes
3/20/14 Bud Jensen III, President
JKK, Inc. is urging anyone who has purchased any items from the Pretty Pajama Party line of feline apparel to return them to the manufacturer as soon as humanly possible. Dressing your pet up in these clothes poses immediate risks to family members of all ages, exposing them to what can only be described as “Cat Rage.”
Reports of bites, scratches, growling, and head-landings have trickled in to the Jensen offices since we rolled out the Pajama Party line in January. And now it appears that cats worldwide are banding together to fight back against costume-based degradation.
From the first “Meow-boys and Indians” line in 1938, up through 2013’s bestselling Prince-themed “Purrrr-ple Rain” Kitten Klothes has facilitated the dress up whims of thousands of pet owners. For seventy-six years the cats have silently endured these indignities. But it seems that Pretty Pajama Party has finally pushed them too far, and the chickens (or really, cats in hilarious chicken costumes) have come home to roost.
Jensen’s Kitten Klothes was founded by my grandfather Bud Jensen I with one simple goal: humiliate the shit out of cats. “Buddy, these furry little bastards think they’re so smart. We need to take them down a peg, show them who’s the real boss,” he would bluster at me through his oversized mustache. He felt it was his duty to act as counterweight to the feline-worshipping Egyptians. I, and my father before me, have dedicated our lives to upholding Granddad’s mission. And now I shall pay for the sins of my fathers.
I write this barricaded in my office, surrounded on all sides by the horrific, guttural mewling of hundreds of vengeful felines dressed in frilly nightgowns and wigs. The sight from my window is unfathomable: row and after organized row of Toms and Tabbies in bowler hats and bonnets, patiently awaiting the head of the man whose family has robbed them of their dignity. It’s just a matter of time now. The only question remaining is what will take me down first: the cats, the hunger, or the guilt?
I implore you, rid yourselves of the Pretty Pajama Party clothes while there’s still time. If you can’t send them back to the manufacturer then burn them. And burn all the other cat clothes while you’re at it. It might not be too late. With a sign of good faith, perhaps we can stem the tides of a full-blown kitty uprising. Or at least hope for lenience upon those of us who are left when the dust settles.
They’re making their way through my door now, so I will wish you all goodbye and good luck. Granddad was wrong, the human race is not in charge. There’s a reason the Egyptians deified cats – they were piss-scared of them.
I realize that the Internet is an unusual place to soapbox a pet cause, but please indulge my abuse of the medium.
If you know me you know I’m super passionate about stuff. Currently, I’m trying to shed light on a destructive force that has affected young people for over twenty years; young people like my friend Kevin Somerset. In 1992 Kevin fell victim to what can best be described as a pernicious, infectious disease – “The Song That Never Ends.”
Though created with presumably good intentions by Norman Martin in 1988 the song went awry, Oppenheimer-style, when it was used as the closing theme for the “Lamb Chop’s Play-Along” show four years later, spreading to a wide, unsuspecting public television audience.
As its title suggests, this song never ends (WARNING – Even reading the following lyrics can be dangerous):
“This is the song that never ends.
It just goes on and on my friends.
Some people started singing it, not knowing what it was.
But they’ll continue singing it forever just because
This is the song that never ends…”
Etc, etc. Ad infinitum.
“What’s the big deal? It’s just a kids’ song sung by a sheep puppet,” you might say. Tell that to Kevin, who is now 26 and living on a government subsidy.
Kevin started singing this tune on May 24, 1992 and has been stuck in this melodic Mobius strip ever since. While the rest of us went to high school, then college, then into the workforce, Kevin has been living at home, unable to connect to the world from his eight-bar prison.
Luckily for Kevin he met a saintly woman named Allison. The two are now married and are able to communicate using their own modified form of semaphore.
“My mind works just fine. That’s the most frustrating and infuriating part. It’s just my mouth that’s broken,” he told me through Allison’s interpretation (NOTE: Allison also thinks he may have been asking what the name of the blonde boy from the Burger King Kids Club was, but I prefer the answer about his broken mouth).
Others aren’t quite as lucky as Kevin. They live a life of misunderstood isolation - like Helen Keller or Gollum - all because they were blindsided by a catchy melody. As stated in the song, “Some people started singing it, not knowing what it was.” Talk about an insidious bait-and-switch.
And that’s what I hope to change. Let’s raise awareness so that one day no child will be sucked down the Sisyphean rabbit hole of this song. Wear the ribbons, put the awareness magnets on your car (available for only $9.99), break the chain. Let’s put an end to this song.
Well, this is it. I’ve been shot. They’re rushing me across the street for medical care, but I know that it’s hopeless. This is the end of the Great Emancipator.
My mind races with countless thoughts as I prepare to shuffle off this mortal coil: What will become of my beloved wife Mary? Will those freed of the shackles of slavery ever find true equality? Did I preserve the Union at too high a price?
But, above all these questions, my dying thoughts keep swirling around one, single notion…
Fuck Bill and Ted. Seriously. Fuck them.
A few months ago these two young men materialized outside the Oval Office, grabbed me against my will, and brought me to the year 1988. But it’s not even their kidnapping with which I take umbrage; I got to meet great men like Socrates and Beethoven, ride in a stunning horseless carriage, and see that the nation for which I’ve sacrificed so much will still be flourishing over a century from now. It was fun, an adventure.
No, my issue lies with the fact that Bill and Ted gave me no warning of my impending doom. Look, I get it, they didn’t know history, that’s the whole reason they brought us “historical figures” to the future. But surely knowledge of events as significant as presidential assassinations must trickle down to even the densest individuals.
They couldn’t pull me aside for a quick, “Hey, by the way, Abe…”? In fairness, things were pretty hectic, what with me doing Bill’s household chores for him, and then getting arrested for no goddamn reason.
Ugh. I feel like such an asshole. I do them a big, big favor. I get up in front of their whole school (why was the whole school there for one history class, anyway? I digress…), deliver a rousing extemporaneous speech , and save their asses from Alaskan (!?) military school. I did this without second thought because I thought they were my main dudes, to use the parlance I picked up in the 20th century.
But the whole time – the WHOLE TIME! – that I played puppet in their elaborate homework scheme they were sitting on the knowledge that I was returning to my native time period to die. Not one word about the bullet waiting to make Swiss cheese out of my head back here in 1865. But, hey, at least their oral report went well. Dicks.
OK. Devil’s advocate? Maybe they warn me, I don’t come to Ford’s Theater tonight, and history goes all cockeyed. But at least give me a heads up so I can decide for myself! Last I checked I’m pretty good at making big decisions.
Anyway, I’m fading out. I hope that there’s more waiting for me on the other side. I hope this, mostly, so that one day I can see Bill S. Preston Esquire, and Ted “Theodore” Logan again and give them a piece of my mind. May their passage to the hereafter be less tumultuous than mine, for this journey has been truly bogus.
Looking for the perfect Valentine’s Day gift? Look no further than Rocco Coscarelli’s Discount Star Emporium in Moonachie, NJ.
Step inside DR. BLOOD’S HOUSE OF HORRORS! This haunted house attraction may just scare you to death.*
*People with heart conditions and expectant mothers should not enter Dr. Blood’s House of Horrors.
(voice/ music written and performed by Chris Mann)
October 26th, 1985
Head of Security
Lone Pine Mall
Hill Valley, CA 95400
Dear Mr. Huddleman,
I am writing this letter to voice my complaint over the destruction of my roll of film in the early morning of October 25th at your mall.
At approximately 10 a.m. this past Saturday I drove down to pick up my prints from the Fotomat kiosk in the parking lot. Imagine my chagrin when I came upon a mob scene of local and government law enforcement.
The lawmen were predictably tight-lipped, but word on the street is that the aforementioned Fotomat housing my pictures was destroyed by a VW Microbus driven by Libyan terrorists. Terrorists! And a quick sweep with my Geiger counter (yes, I own one) detected trace amounts of Plutonium. What kind of establishment are you running, sir? Forgive my bluntness, but if enemies of the state are conducting nuclear operations outside of the JC Penney, your security operation is porous at best.
However, that’s a matter for the national security professionals. What concerns me the most is the loss of my photos. Now, you may accuse me of being an incurable fussbudget (as numerous members of my family and workplace staff are wont to do), but these photographs represented memories. Memories I can never get back.
And, while I owe you no elaboration of what was on the destroyed roll of film, I will provide one anyway, if only to underline my displeasure. Contained therein:
As clearly evidenced by this list, these photos had great personal value. I feel that the Lone Pine Mall, and its lax security, has done me a disservice. I for one, feel I should be compensated. A gift certificate to Sbarro would be a start.
Frederick “Scooter” Calhoun