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.
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.
Vlad's Principality 