Vlad Tepes presents Best Sequel Title Ideas of All Time
1. Sex and the City 3: Rise of the Machines
2. Schindler’s List 2: Electric Boogalo
3. Indiana Jones 5: We Have Nothing But Contempt For All You Sad Pricks and Assholes Who Pay Money to See This Utter Crap
4. Transformers 4: Because We Can And You Assholes Will Still Pay
5. Fast and the Furious 6: We Do This to Keep Two Utterly Shit Actors Out of Decent Films. You’re Welcome.
6. Scream 5: Scream Four plus One
7. Sex and the City 4: Yes, These Now Fucking Wrinkled Hags Will Be Naked in 3D
8. Saw VV: After VII, We Don’t Know How the Roman Numerals Go
9. Avatar 2: The Search For a Fucking Story
10. Madea Goes Straight to Video
Charlie Sheen’s War
Recent developments in North Africa, and within the labrythine mind of Charlie Sheen may at first glance seem completely unrelated. Yet an astute observer, like a certain 570 year-old prince for example, will pick up telling correlations between these events. As a butterfly flapping its wings in California causes a typhoon in Japan, the apparent breakdown of Mr. Sheen has in fact accelerated the wind of revolution around the world. So the real question to ask is not if these events are related, but how they are related.
Pax Wolfowitza
The acrid stench of rebellion has been so strong, so overpowering, that it has even stirred the old guard neo-cons from their slumber. Led by Paul Wolfowitz and the other chicken-hawks descended directly from complete-and-utter-prick DNA extracted from Lucy’s pimp in Ethiopia, the Pax Americana Wild Bunch have called for immediate intervention in Libya. This is of course all in the name of democracy and human rights, two themes entirely consistent with their impressive track records. Seriously, any half-witted dipshit can see through this doo doo-stained veil. But how, you ask, can this possibly relate to that quixotic guy known for his ground-breaking roles in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off and Men at Work?
Narcissus Raped by Adonis
As a hilarious consequence of the costly picnics in Iraq and Afghanistan, United States foreign policy is in serious trouble. A blowback of Category-5 proportions, so to speak. The aging narcissistic autocrats who supported the powerful American military-industrial complex are being jettisoned into the Mediterranean faster than Paris Hilton can spread her frighteningly virulent strain of HPV (approximately 96% the speed of light). Alas, how things were looking so different in the early part of the century. M1 Abrams, tear gas cannisters, Poison CD’s and Barney, you name it were being shipped over to these friendly megalomaniacs for a little bit of oil money, and some friendly Rendition favors enacted on Pakistani cab drivers. Hell, even Mr. Lockerbie himself, Colonel Gaddafi threw his ridiculous Psychic Network looking hat into the ring of counter-terrorism.
Yet within these past few calamitous weeks, the whole world has been turned on its head, all thanks to Zuckerburg and his previously outlined plans for world domination. The neo-cons rightly suspect that Pharaoh Zuckerburg cannot be possibly be contained, indeed making him a serious threat to their amusingly nefarious designs. As masters of imp-provisation, they have reluctantly stepped away from their retirement glory holes to scour the land for worthy replacements to their friendly despots. But not just any old royal dick-heads can rule these treacherous nations, particularly ones divided along tribal lines. A tricky business finding Pol Pot caliber assholes to control the rabble. Yet as we know, nothing comes out of a vacuum, apart from a reckless teenager’s penis. Concurrently, rigorous scientific investigations into the very fabric of human DNA have led to a startling discovery. For years, it was widely suspected that every despotic ruler in human history has had a certain mojo, a certain je ne sais quoi, a staggering level of prickery that would even make The Situation from Jersey Shore blanch. But the smoking gun was never found. That is until the mojo was serendipitously discovered in a UCLA laboratory in 2009. The Adonis Gene. Yes, every tyrant in the history of civilization can trace his lineage to the ports of Phoenicia, and to the divine scrotal sack of Adonis himself.
Although normally loathe to accept any scientific methodology, Mr Wolfowitz and his merry band of Ring Wraiths saw a glorious opportunity. Celebrity culture in the United States is capable of staggering levels of narcissism, making it a seminally-coated petri dish of perfect candidates for all of these open dictatorial positions. So without delay, the Wolf Pack dusted off the old strip club napkins and revised the Project for a New American Century, and consequently Pax Americana. Their pretty young oil boy assistants were duly instructed to wash their mouths out, and contact the celebrity world forthwith. Auditions were then held for the still unfilled roles in North Africa. But not just any narcissistic tabloid tit could qualify. The right celebrity had to demonstrate beyond all doubt that certain je ne sais quoi. That level of self-loving douchebaggery so great that it could only be traced to the God of Douchebags himself. Adonis.
High on Sheen
And so enter the man. Enter the son of the gods. Enter…Wild Thing. Swaggering toward the mound in his algebra teacher’s spectacles, poised to hurl a 101 mph missile right at the undescended nuts of the media machine. Charlie Sheen. High on celebrity. High on life. High on…Charlie Sheen. And honestly, what better replacement for the King of Kings than a man who can overdose on himself? I mean, if he hasn’t developed a tolerance to Charlie Sheen after 45 years of hard use, then that must be some really powerful shit. So it is easy to imagine the neo-CONS concluding that six million downtrodden Libyans may well be vulnerable to 1 gram, let alone 70 kilos of Charlie Sheen. In fact, conservative jump-to-bizarre-conclusions-without-any-evidence-tank population models suggest that Libyans will be addicted within a matter of weeks, and ravenous zombies bent on their Sheen fix in only a matter of months. By 2012, what’s left of their dignity will be flushed down the toilet. Even more worryingly, these projections point to the entire Muslim World, 1.5 billion poor souls, becoming irreversibly addicted to Sheen, or some toxic variant by 2015. And once again, the Project for a New American Century will be in place. Pax Americana back on track, and firmly within the grasp of the neo-knob gobblers.
So where, you ask, does this leave Charlie Sheen? He’s too high to give a shit.
Despots of the World Unite!
In the year of your Lord 2011, a foul wind is blowing. Just months ago, it was nothing but an inconsequential breeze of discontent. Yet within a blink of my ancient eye, this breeze has grown to gale force levels. From a little back desert covering the salted ruins of Carthage to the STD ravaged-mummies of the Ptolemy line, the gale, a miasma of self-righteous freedom, has enveloped the whole of North Africa and the Middle East. The firmly entrenched autocracies of the region now suddenly find themselves completely uprooted, and floating toward the history books that no American will ever read.
But who is behind this madness? The collective will of a humiliated Arab nation? The Islamist extremist bogeymen of neo-conservative wet dreams? The “experts” on media outlets bandy about a steaming pile of explanations, it seems each one vying to be further from the truth. But listen not to those insufferable assholes, whether they be the fascist-tastic rants of Glenn Beck, the “Mubarak is a force for good. Um, what? Oh, shit! I mean the people have spoken, and Mubarak must go” one-two of Hilary Clinton, or the seemingly reasoned, but still dogshit arguments of Zakaria. All of their explanations are fucking absurd, and entrenched in their own ever flowing dogmatic diarrhea.
So who then is the source? Why are these harmless little dictators – who have never hurt anyone apart from 96% of their population and countless livestock – being ousted? After watching what some stupid pricks have called the most important film of our era, I have determined that it can be only one man behind this mess. One man and his diabolical…megalomaniacal scheme.
Zuckerburg!
Ever since this socially inept dipshit somehow stumbled upon the map of success with Facebook, he has had but one goal, and one goal only. A prize for all time. No, this prize is not in his billions, nor in his algorithms. The prize, my simple friends, lies within the abandoned ruins of Carthage. On the shores of Tripoli. Beneath the city of Alexandria. In the heart of the Holy Land. Don’t you now see it, my despotic brethren? This awkward and abrasive tit plans to trump us all, and become the great monopolizer of our sacred dictatorships. You can see it in his beady eyes.
Where, I ask you, is the level playing field? Why doesn’t anybody speak out? Where are the anti-trust laws protecting our mom and pop dictatorships from monopolization? Under these circumstances, we can’t possibly compete against him and his 13 year old cronies. I mean, how the hell can we put down a rebellion if its origin is some whining asshole’s tweet about not having a job? Or a say in the government? Or food? Or money for clothes? Well, maybe he shouldn’t have spent his money on the iphone then.
As a former middling dictator, my heart goes out to these little despots. These pioneers, these small-folk. These brave men who managed against all odds to carve out their little part of the world…with their own sweat, their own toil (and their own M1 Abrams provided by the United States). And now this half child – half douchebag comes along and takes it all away from the elder statesmen of the Middle East?
Though we be cast adrift in the sea change, do not fear. You can make a difference. Your voices shall be heard above the tumult of the unwashed. So all of you little dictators come out from your exile, whether you are stuck in a palace in Saudi Arabia, or a cozy house in Hawaii. Start tweeting. Update your facebook. Put your current employment status on linkedIn. The world shall no longer be deaf to your plight. I speak not for just a few aging autocrats, but for the multitude…the poor disenfranchised dictators who have been bullied for 6000 years by the Zuckerburgs of civilization.
Let us strike back with the pube-haired nob’s own arsenal…before it is too late. We can turn the tide, my friends, but we must act now. And so I summon forth my own little social network. Update my own status. Tweet my own revolutionary tweets. RT@ben ali gaddafi and mubarak never give up never surrender despots of the world unite lol! And then pat myself on the back for making a difference.
The Secret-ion
During the glorious, yet broken years of my fateful reigns, the population of the known world was largely dominated by stupid, illiterate peasants…peasants retarded enough to believe in the undead. Uneducated enough to believe that the earth was the center of the universe. And gullible enough to believe that fanciful bile, gushing and spewing forth from the gaping mouth of the ravenous Church. Yet really…could you blame those poor bastards? I mean, look at the times…look at the environment. After all, those filthy, wretched souls were buried neck-deep in the peanuty shit of human history. Black Death was but a recent memory. Warfare was so rife that no asshole was left un-penetrated (much like no child is left behind today). And The Inquisition. Ah, the lovely Inquisition. The Church’s chumly way of saying, “thank you for the precious gold. Now here’s a nice glowing pin for your unwashed genitals.”
And so…182,500 bowel movements on from the 15th century, I re-emerge to find an Age of Illumination, an age where the known world has grown to encompass a cloudy blue ball that orbits a mediocre sun, on the outskirts of a nondescript galaxy, in an average cluster…and expanding within the topography of spacetime. An age, I dare say, where illiteracy has mostly been eradicated from the industrialized world. So how then, in this brave new world, did some unknown Australian bimbo pull off such a brilliant stunt, one that would put even the 15th century Church to shame?
Some Things Never Change
One of the disadvantages of omniscience is that you know everything…whether you like it or not. And I say this with a heavy heart. For, in my cosmic omniscience, I have become aware of The Law of Attraction. Yes, the “law” that claims: if you really want something, and truly, truly believe it’s possible..well then , you’ll get it. Moses’ Taint, these fucking morons dare call this a law? I mean, I’m a 15th century noble who was conditioned to believe that washing my asshole with water was an ironclad death sentence, and yet I can see through the veil, and gauge how bullshit this law is?
Do You Even Know What a Law Is?
What the hell is wrong with you people? Are you really stupid enough to believe that The Universe gives a shit about what you think? That somehow if you think only positive thoughts that the Cosmos will reward you with positive energy? Suddenly, every environmental factor rendered meaningless, just because you wanted that new ipod? So let’s clear this up once and for all, Rhonda. Are you saying that every asshole in Chile prayed and prayed for a 9.0 magnitude earthquake? And all of the 250,000 people littering the Indian Ocean in the aftermath of the 2004 tsunami were just begging for a good drowning? Do you even know what a scientific law is? Where, oh where is the verifiable evidence that proves this so-called law of attraction? Hypothesis? Challenging experiment? Where is your scientific method (one of the great triumphs of The Age of Enlightenment)? It’s nowhere to be found, for you insufferable pricks are still floating around the same intellectual level as those poor peasant subjects of the distant past. 6,000 years of human civilization, and only 1% of you have made it past the veritable 3rd level of Tetris.
Vlad’s Law, a.k.a. The Rhonda Byrne is a Useless Whore Theorem
Can you not see that you are being misled by this unattractive blonde tart from Down Under? Can you not discern that she has discovered the true Secret? A law that states implicitly: If you write a book about some “secret law” of The Universe, then you will make millions off of the critical mass of intellectual vacancy.
Hell’s Titties, if she can play that game, then I have a law for all of you gormless tits as well. I call it Vlad’s Law, a noble law which eloquently states: When you think positive thoughts, and wish for certain things to come your way, then The Universe will suddenly remember that you exist. What it sees though is not a beautiful being of light and love, but instead a large, inviting pair of nuts, dangling to and fro in its cosmic domain. In response, The Universe shall proceed to summarily kick you “squaw” in those dangling nuts, and reap its justifiable vengeance for you being such a fucking retard…and a glaring insult to the priceless gift of awareness.
Vlad Tepes Presents: Excerpts from Songs that I Have Horribly Corrupted
1. Blasphemous Rumours by Depeche Mode
I don’t want to start any blasphemous rumours
But I think on his balls that God has a tumour
And when I die, I expect to find him nut-less…
(I suppose that is something of a blasphemous rumor,
but I do feel truly compelled to start it. If God made me,
he knew what he was getting into…)
2. Take a Dump on Me by Abba
This may sound absurd
but if you have spare turds
Won’t you set them free
Take a dump on me
Stand above my back
Open up your crack
On the count of three
Take a dump on me…
3. Han Solo by Def Leppard
I got to feel it in my butt, whoa-oh
I need your Jabba, don’t need your Hutt, whoa-oh
And I want
And I need
And I lust
Han Solo…
4. Africa by Toto ( I am surely going to hell for this one and the first one)
Can’t believe what I did that night
Guess I should have stuck to ritual masturbation
Two wrongs never made a right
Still I think I’ll spread my wealth across the nation
But I won’t go without a fight, hurry boy, death’s wating there for you…
CHORUS: Gonna take a lot to get me away from you
Not something specialists could ever do
I got the AIDS down in Africa
Gonna take my time to spread this great and deadly pla-ayyyyyy-ayy-ague oooh-oooh…
5. Don’t You Urinate on Me by Simple Minds
Will you stand above me
Whip out your golden shower rod
And rain keeps falling, rain keeps falling…down down down down
Sailing on the Yellow Sea
Call my name as we sword fight
And rain keeps falling, rain keeps falling…down down down down
Vlad Tepes Presents: Top 5 Celebrity Names
1. Albert Pujols. Baseball. St Louis Cardinals
Perhaps the greatest name in sports history. I would watch Cardinals games just to hear the unintentional innuendos from the commentators. And to get me sitting through a whole baseball game takes some doing. Oh…the sheer discipline these sportscasters possess to keep from absolutely losing it every time Pujols steps up to the plate.
Favorite quote: “Pujols takes a ball.”
2. David Seaman. Soccer. Former Arsenal and England Goalkeeper
This one takes absolutely no imagination, does it? The 3rd grader in me always surfaces whenever I hear his name uttered. On its own, the name Seaman is absolutely hilarious, but when former Manchester United midfielder (and all-round crap player) Nicky Butt also graced the England colors, it became the stuff of legends.
Favorite quote: “Here’s Seaman…to Butt.”
3. Dick Trickle. Former NASCAR driver
Jesus Christ. Does this bastard have any sense? Or is he just the most self deprecating asshole in the world? For god’s sake, if your name is Richard Trickle, have your friends call you Rich!
Favorite quote: Just mention his name. That’s enough.
4. Udo Dirkschneider. Singer. ACCEPT
This man has what Sebastian Bach called the greatest name in metal, and for once, I wholeheartedly agree with that poncy piece of butt-rock residue. My word, Mr. Dirkschneider is a perfect storm of ingredients, all swirling around to form one brilliant package: a very short, chubby German guy, who wears camoulflage pajamas, and looks like a cross between a hobbit and that lecherous, child-molesting homeless man in the song “Aqualung”.
Favorite quote: “You got your balls to the wall, man.”
5. Dick Butkus. Football. Former Chicago Bears Linebacker
I have no way of verifying this, but a young Richard Butkus may well have believed that he was too much of a pussy, and consequently, made the counter-intuitive decision to employ the “Boy Named Sue” tactic on himself. I mean, let’s face it. You would need to be tough as nails to survive with a name like that. Mr Butkus would later become one of the greatest linebackers in NFL history, so who am I to argue? Well done, sir.
Favorite quote: I don’t really listen, as I get so distracted by his name
Honorable mentions: Dean Windass, Rip Torn, Jim Bob Cooter, Stefan Kuntz
Favorite quote from a commentator:
Euro 96 England-Germany semifinal. Stefan Kuntz receives a pass from Jurgen Klinsmann, and the commentator stumbles, “Matthias to Sammer, to Klinsmann…Kuntz”
Vlad Tepes presents: The Top 20 Movie Titles That Should Have Been Porno Titles
1. There Will Be Blood
2. Silence of the Lambs
3. Lorenzo’s Oil
4. Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
5. Don’t Tell Mom the Babysitter’s Dead
6. Three Men and a Little Lady
7. Big Trouble in Little China
8. The Hard Way
9. Backdraft
10. 300
11. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid
12. 12 Angry Men
13. The Third Man
14. The Elephant Man
15. Strangers on a Train
16. 8 1/2
17. 12 Monkeys
18 Brief Encounter
19. The 400 Blows
20. Grease
Pat Robertson Overdrive
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Everybody Loves Bathory
I, Vladimir III, son of Vladimir II of the Order of the Dragon, am pleased to present to you, my dear reader(s), my lovely guest La Comtesse Erzsebet Bathory, known as Countess Bathory, or the Blood Countess to all of you serial killer enthusiasts out there. Popularized by legendary black metal band Venom, and the growing swarm of vampire afficianados, she has once again emerged into our collective consciousness. And the awesome power of popular culture has given life to the Countess once again, centuries after her ignoble death, sealed within the walls of her castle-turned prison.
A noble woman to the very core, she has been shunned by history as a colossal sociopath, but only because her deeds have been largely misunderstood. The simple truth is that she was no serial killer by any stretch of the imagination. In fact, one might say that her deeds were precursors to reality shows like Jackass and Punk’d. You see, what the history books fail to tell you is that her 600 victims were not victims of murder, but of 600 hilarious pranks that went terribly wrong.
And now, 400 years after her death, she has been given the opportunity to vindicate herself (as a guest contributor in my blog realm). So please put your hands together (pull your left hand out of your pants, Jim), and welcome the beautiful Comtesse.
Emancipate Your Nuts from Trouser Slavery
If you could travel back some 500 years, you would find me beleaguered, and engaged in constant warfare with my dickhead neighbors. To the south and east, there was The Salty Sultan Mehmed and his oiled up janissaries. To the West, Matthias the Holy Roman Asshole and his overly pious “our shit smells of roses” court. Yet far worse than these royal pricks (with their divine scepters lodged deep within their holy asses), were the snakelike Saxon merchants residing in my own backyard. For it was those greasy bastards who first started rumors about me being a strigoi, a bloodsucker, a vampyr. And soon after my beheading, those mad tits began to use the new technology of the printing press to further soil my good name. By the early 1500’s, they mass-produced brochures of me dining in a forest of the impaled, and distributed them throughout the whole of Europe.
Fast forward to the turn of the 20th century when some sickly Irish asshole comes along and needs a setting for his incredibly overhyped novel about a vampire who falls in love with some English tart. In his half-assed research, he stumbles upon a passage about me, but somehow places me in Bran Castle in Transylvania, even though I have never even pissed on its walls.
And just 20 years later, as cinema took off like wildfire, the modern legend of Dracula was born. Suddenly every asshole on the planet knew my name. But, alas, they would not remember my exploits. No, they would forever associate me with some effeminate douchebag in a cape.
The course was set, and the once feared name of the vampire would forever be tarnished by the modern Emo version of the living dead. Emasculated and whining (and dressing like Ziggy Stardust while blaring shit techno in its vampire clubs) it soon became a beacon, a shining light for all of those crying, depressed kids who think Robert Smith is a bit too hardcore, and need something on an even grander scale of lameness. And so the prancing emo-vampire crowd took my once-proud name, The Son of the Dragon, with them into the bowels of gaiety. All because of those poxy Saxons!
Now I watch in horror as the Twilight series captures the imagination of a new generation, and renders the legend of the vampyr (and consequently yours truly) even that much more effeminate. So effeminate, in fact, that we haven’t seen such fabtastic levels since some poorly endowed idiot decided to popularize the codpiece with tights. Now, in the year of Our Lord 2009, it seems that every vampire-loving sap wears jeans so tight that his nuts actually ascend back into his groin…until the sack becomes a vague, distant childhood memory.
During the Middle Ages, vampires were associated with plague. Yet in some bizarre turn, they have actually become the plague. They have robbed our youth of something much more precious than the lifeblood that these imaginary fairies crave. They have robbed them of precious androgen, until all that is left is an androgynous mess doped up on Ridalin and E. So I, Vladimir III, Son of the Dragon, say to you, my dear readers: We must free our youth from this curse, the curse of the vampyr. Remove the tight pants, and let their nuts fall where they may.
Blowing Rogues
This past week, a furor has erupted outside of bookstores nationwide. No, it’s not a new release of J.K. Rowlings lusting after young boys with broomsticks. Nor is it another ridiculous story penned by Dan Brown about the Church impaling babies to keep us from an age-old secret. So what are the long lines for? To get Americans worked up in such a frenzy over the written word, then it must be something extraordinary.
And something extraordinary it is. Yes, my reader(s), it’s the memoirs of one of the greatest thinkers in modern history. A woman so well-traveled that she can almost see Kovylunueskin, Russia from her house. A woman so well-read that she had to dictate only 25% of her memoirs to a 7th grade spelling champion. A woman so well-spoken that she can talk nonstop for nearly 15 months, and still manage to not actually say anything. A woman so well versed in just about everything, that she has been dubbed the Last Renaissannce Man – If The Last Renaissance Man Had a Big Pair of Tits.
Sarah Palin. Captain my Captain. Please spread to us your pearls of wisdom. Please share with us your world view (if the world was 11 miles in diameter). Please pick up the fallen scepter, and champion the cause of the down-trodden…of the commonfolk…of the honest citizens who regularly grace the front page of peopleofwalmart.com.
Jesus wept yet again!
This is your champion? A hockey mom who gets road rage in her SUV? A woman who could have been a principal character on “Fargo”? Are you people really that stupid? In my day, the boyars (noble pricks) tried to pull stunts like this all the time on the simple Wallachian peasant-folk (without the book signing tours, of course). In a cruel endgame of manipulation and power-flexing, they would steal from the common citizen with one hand while pointing accusingly at my family with the other. An old trick straight out of the Roman Senators’ playbook. An old trick that Mrs Palin is employing now by screaming “Death Panels” in convalescent homes, while lining her ample pockets with your hard-earned cash.
She is Not one of you
This woman is a patrician in a PTA president’s spectacles. She, like all of your so-called Democrats and Republicans, is nothing but a modern boyar. Your boyars may hide under the guise of elected officials, but trust me, I have executed enough of them in my day to know what their shit smells like. Your country was bought and sold more than 50 years ago. No one in power, let alone Mrs. Palin, will want to give it back to you.
The Piper at the Gates of Dawn
What you need is a real savior. A Champion of Change. A “Yes We Can” kind of guy. Someone who will pick up that scepter, and emancipate you all from mental slavery. Someone who will reveal to you the ugly truth hidden beneath your brown-stained noses.
What you need is none other than Rowdy Roddy Piper. Recall in ‘They Live” when he got into that epic fight with Keith David over a pair of glasses. After 175 suplexes and 62 piledrivers, he finally coerced him into put the glasses on. And David’s world came crashing down around him, for the veil was lifted from his eyes. The alien overlords were among us, and without those special glasses, who could tell who was who?
You, my halfwitted peasant friends, are living in such a world. And what you need is not what you think you need, nor is it what you particularly want either. What you really need is a certain Mr. Piper to kick the living shit out of you, and make you put on that pair of glasses. Then you will see what Sarah Palin really is.
“I Could Have Been a Contender”
Reading up on current events, I am reminded of the tumultuous century before my birth. It was in that century that a ship of panic-stricken merchants sailed into the Mediterranean, carrying a payload of plague-bearing rats, poised to rain death down upon Europe, and tear asunder the very fabric of civilization. For a time, the whole of Europe lived in absolute terror. But Medieval folk were a tough lot – and easily amused to boot. So it was only a matter of time until they all got a good laugh from a set of exploding lymph nodes. They would even go so far as sing cute little children’s songs about it, and dance in circles until they fell on their bubos-ridden asses. And by the time I was born, the Black Plague transformed into the Great Whoopie Cushion of our times. And like the whoopie cushion, it never got old. Oh, I must have punk’d the Sultan and his armies a thousand times by paying plague victims to wander into his camps along the Danube.
Those were the good old days.
500 years on, and once again the world watches in paralytic horror as it encounters a new plague on the block. A plague so frightening…so horrifying…so devastating…and so slightly inconvenient. Helplessly, we watch, eyes glued to CNN and Fox News as an alarming number of cases of moderately ill people come flooding in. And those are the lucky ones. For there have even been reports of people not recovering for nearly, almost a week. To date, over 300 adults have succumbed to this modern scourge in the United States alone. But the stricken are not the only ones who have been affected by what the experts dub H1N1 (or what laymen call Ms. Piggy’s VD). Since the beginning of fall – and concurrent with a spike in Swine Flu cases – a growing number of people have reported that social websites, such as Facebook and Twitter, have been running like shit, surely bogged down by somewhat ill assholes that have nothing better to do than tweet us about some antiviral medication they took while watching Drew Carey make an utter ass of himself on “The New Price is Right”. And so, like a horde zombies (if zombies were a bunch of pussies who went into a frenzied panic about a slight temperature), they infect us all.
Jesus Wept!
What is wrong with you people? In my day, if an infection took only 300 people to the Jaws of Hades, it was considered another day at the office. We wouldn’t even bat an eyelid. In fact, we would be nothing if not relieved that only 300 friggin’ people died in one day, let alone one year. We Medieval folk appreciated what a proper scourge of humanity was. If an infection killed over a million people in 50 years, then it would be passed on to a Death Panel for consideration. And only after several years of deliberation, would it then be voted as a scourge. But now…Now it seems that it just takes one asshole feeling slightly off for everyone to fly off the handle, and run to the hills toward stockpiles of faulty vaccines.
A Proper Plague.
The Black Plague was a proper scourge. It killed 50-70 million people, and paved the way for entirely new economic systems, such as capitalism and communism. It moulded the world in a way not possible during most of human history. And you people dare treat the swine flu as if it was in the same class of illnesses? As English footballers say, the swine flu isn’t fit to lace the Bubonic Plague’s boots.
That said, I do understand where you are all coming from. I understand that everyone loves an upstart. A challenger. An underdog. I mean, who wasn’t rooting for Frank Bruno to beat Mike Tyson in 1996? We all hoped. We all prayed. We all even bigged Bruno up as a real contender who would give that rabid madman a beating. But in truth, in the core of our very hearts, we knew that he was utter crap, and that Tyson would paint the canvas with his blood. And so this is what we have with the Swine Flu. Everyone is hoping for the next Great Black Hope. But sadly, my friends, we will have to wait a little longer, for the Swine Flu is nothing if not the Frank Bruno of pathogens.
A Tyranny of Douchebags
While I was still breathing, the known world was inundated with a viscous layer of douchebaggery. From my Saxon neighbors in the North to Sultan Mehmed II and his army of oil boys to the East, and of course that Holy Roman prick Matthias to the West, I was literally floundering in a sea of assholes. As a consequence, my little state was constantly in danger of being assimilated or destroyed by those mad tits. 500 years on, and I see that the waters of the Sea haven’t receded one iota. In fact, the tides appear to be rising faster than the oceans of this earth.
I find myself wistfully looking back to my noble reign; in those simple times, when somebody irritated me, I lovingly inserted a hot wooden stake up through their rectums, which caressed their vital organs and came out gently through their pleading maws. And all this while sipping fine wine, and enjoying another lovely Tirgoviste sunset. Alas, those days are gone, and I must now resort to attacking my enemies with the 1’s and 0’s of this information age. On the bright side, however, the internet has afforded me an opportunity to out these enemies of nobility, and oversee a friendly competition to boot. And if there is one thing I love more than a good impaling, it’s a good tournament.
So I present to you, my dear readers, a royal tourney, where you decide who will win the the greatest accolade that any asshole could ever hope to receive. I call it The League of Extraordinary Douchebags. I would prefer the league to start out as competitive as possible, so I am forced to retire a certain individual from the tourney. Yet as I am a man who believes in handing out the olive branch, I have named the award in his honor.
The man will go down in the Chronicles as a legend among legendary shitheads. Back in my day, Wallachia was beleaguered by hostile peoples bent on raping and murdering her peaceful subjects. As Lord Protector of its citizens, I was given little choice but to be as brutal as they come. But the unbridled hatred spewing out of this man’s supernaturally fat head makes even me, Impaler of 20,000 Turks, cringe.
Since my reanimation, I have found some time to absorb the events of the last 500 years, and I have come to the conclusion that this man would be Kim Jong Il’s fluffer and personal baby stabber if he was born above the 38th Parallel. But unfortunately for him, he was born in an apparently free society where you have to be cleverer to get away with such deeds.. Yet through sheer talent and force of will, he has still managed to influence millions of the unwashed into believing what he shits out of his mouth. In a society full of village idiots, he has brilliantly managed to stir the uneducated rabble up into a hysterical frenzy, using fear and hatred as deftly as Joseph Goebbels would. Sadly, he has had to work in conditions not quite as amenable to insanity as Herr Goebbels’ Germany, but he has adapted and improvised like a true champion. And so I dedicate this award to him for all of his hard work in championing the cause of assholes worldwide. When you hear his name, you will naturally think of a Canadian rock band who put out a few fantastic songs in the 1970’s, until you realize that whoever you are speaking to is referring to this ugly dickhead.
Ladies and gentleman, I present to you the Rush Limbaugh Trophy. May this year’s winner be a deserving one, and do Rush proud. Let the tourney begin.
In our first matchup, Ann Coulter goes toe to toe with Sean Hannity. Who will emerge victorious, and advance to the Second Round?
Velcome to the Mire of the 21st Century
532 years have passed since my ignoble murder. I now find myself resurrected, nay, reanimated in this cursed virtual world flooded with useless information, poised to infect humanity with incurable stupidity, and colossal ineptitude. I awaken to find a brave new world where several billion people vie to be the Emperor of Idiots in this global village.
In the time of my life, every soul within my reach, whether it be Saxon merchants, Wallachian peasants or Ottoman soldiers, got the point, or they um…got the point. Yet with all of your impressive technologies, no doubt dreamed up by visionary men far ahead of their time, I myself stare in horror as I see perfectly functioning cognitive processes completely arrested in most of the industrialized world.
I have been jarred awake from my peaceful sleep by a critical mass of stupidity, and I must say that I regard your world with nothing but utter contempt. And though I may no longer have the forests of the Fagaras Mountains at my disposal, I am working night and day to shape the wood into brutally sharpened points. Soon I shall be poised to rain down terror on the masses once again, my stakes ready to skewer your politics, religion, views on sexuality and life itself. And once again, I shall ask no quarter, nor shall I give any. Be warned. Be afraid. For I am come from the dead.
Vlad's Principality 
