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 