At This Stage, You Gotta Wonder if Even Carla Gugino Can Bring SUPERBLOG!! Back from the Brink of Complete and Utter Suckiness

Your guess is as good as mine.

SUPERBLOG!!'s Ten Commandments

1. No blog other than SUPERBLOG!! is to be worshipped.
2. Thou shalt not try to copy the wisdom of SUPERBLOG!!
3. We fucking rule.
4. Thou shalt not take the name of SUPERBLOG!! in vain.
(He that blasphemeth the name of SUPERBLOG!!, he shall surely be put to death.)
5. Don't become a fucking vegan or any shit like that.
6. Thou shalt not kill, except for the enemies of SUPERBLOG!!
7. Thou shalt not commit adultery unless you're shitfaced and don't get in the way between us and our SUPERBLOG!! bitches..
8. Disrespect your parents if they deserve it.
9. Enjoy Coke.
10. Don't comment things in order to promote your own stupid blog that in no way can measure up to SUPERBLOG!!

The Book of Koala, Chapters 19-23

Chapters 1-3
Chapters 4-14
Chapter 15
Chapters 16-18

Seeing as how our number of daily hits dropped like a rock about the same time I started writing my novel, you might be forgiven for asking out loud whether it wouldn't be smart of us to drop the book-writing stuff and focus on what SUPERBLOG!! does best, namely posting pics of Carla Gugino's boobs. Then again, you might not, because that's LOSER TALK. SUPERBLOG!! has never been about the tits, it's always been about the despair.

So here's the latest installment of the Book of Koala.


Chapter 19: Google is a Verb

SUPERBLOG!! was eaten by a lion. The lion felt sick to his stomach. The stomach was full of acid. Herman took a lot of acid. Herman went to raves. Polly was the rave of the town. The town was a miniature of a real town. Herman and Polly were both six inches high. Herman was high. Polly was a vampire. The town was a town of vampires. Vampires suck blood. Polly sucked blood. Herman was a vampire as well. Herman sucked blood, just like Polly. Polly invited Herman to a cup of tea. Herman accepted Polly's invitation. Herman dressed up in his finest suit for his date with Polly. After tea, they went to a movie. The movie was an action movie. The action movie starred Will Smith. Will Smith was playing the good guy. The good guy won in the end. The good guy won by defeating the bad guy. The bad guy was an Arab. Will Smith is Black.

The Arab was played by Saddam Hussein. Saddam was a bad man in real life, as well. Saddam didn't like candy. Saddam didn't like sunshine. Saddam just liked evil and hate. Will Smith defeated Saddam's character, but he couldn't defeat Saddam. After the movie, Saddam and Will Smith had a cocktail and discussed politics. Saddam said he liked dictatorship. Will Smith said he liked democracy. Will Smith called Saddam a tyrant. Saddam was sad. Will Smith apologized. They found to their surprise that they had a lot in common. Both had a cousin named Bill. Will Smith's cousin was Bill Smith of Montana. Saddam Hussein's cousin was Bill Jones of Indiana.

Herman and Polly didn't see any of this because it was long after the movie had ended and the cameras were turned off. As far as Herman and Polly knew, Will Smith had defeated Saddam. Herman slipped Polly some tongue. Polly reciprocated.

Six months later, Polly gave birth. Polly's baby was Herman's as well. Herman was the father. Polly was the mother. They had made the baby together, but it came out of Polly's body. The baby was a vampire. The baby was born with sharp teeth. But it was a baby.

Herman felt happy, but Herman also felt a bit strangled by being a father. Herman wondered if he could cope. Polly said Herman would be a good father.

Six years later, Herman took the baby to the movies. The baby wasn't a baby anymore. It was a child. The child liked the movie. The movie was a comedy. The comedy starred Julia Roberts. After the movie, Herman took the child to a coffee-shop. The coffee-shop served coffee. Herman had some coffee. The child had some lemonade, and some ice-cream. The child liked the lemonade, but the ice-cream was too cold. The ice-cream hurt the child's teeth.

Polly was at home, cleaning the house. The house was very dirty. Polly was singing as she worked. Polly was singing a rap song. The song was about love and carnality. The song had dirty lyrics. Polly didn't know all the words. Polly hummed some parts of the song. A lamp was destroyed. It was an accident, but Polly felt guilty. Polly picked up the shards.

Six minutes later, Herman and the child came home. Polly greeted them. With sadness in her ice and voice. Her ice were sad. There was sadness in them. Polly asked the child if it had been a good movie. The child told Polly about the ice-cream. Polly smiled. Herman smiled. How did the child feel?

On the other side of town, right in the middle of the town, far away from the town, in the outskirts of the town, everything was happiness and ice-cream. A birthday party was taking place in the basement of Crocodile Bill, a man who worshipped Panjo, the three-headed snake. The birthday party was for Panjo. Of course, Panjo had never been born in a conventional sense, but who among us can say they have?


Chapter 20: When Panjo Was Hungry

Panjo was eating a Snickers bar. A Snickers bar is a chocolate bar. The Snickers Corporation didn't pay to appear in this novel. Panjo was eating a Snickers bar. It was good. It tasted nice, Panjo thought. Panjo ate it all up. But when the Snickers bar was eaten, Panjo still felt hungry. So he ate the world.


Chapter 21: Everything is Finally Explained to Everyone's Satisfaction

The ancient Azteks believed that the reason Panjo still hungered even after eating the entire world was that he had three heads. Only one of his heads had eaten the world. The other two weren't satisfied. Now, this doesn't make much sense, because even though it is true that Panjo had three different heads (each one uglier than the last), he had only one stomach. So why should it matter if he had three heads? That's just dumb. But it's what the Azteks believed. They believed all sorts of stupid stuff like that, and that's why it was easy for us to wipe them out.

Anyway, Panjo still felt hunger, and so he ate the Moon. Then he read the newspaper. It was the New York Times - OF DOOM. The New York Times of Doom was a paper published only in the Hell that Panjo inhabited. Panjo read the sports section.


Chapter 22: My Train is Faster Than Yours

Everything I do is great, everything you do sucks elephant balls with elephantiasis. Or should I say... lymphatic filariasis?

My urine smells like lavendar, your urine smells like piss.

My train is faster than yours. In fact, yours isn't even a train. It's a BUS. Bee you ess. A bus. Is that anything to brag about? Owning a bus you like to call a train? You stupid hamster.


Chapter 23: Hairspray Ruins the Planet

(AUTHOR'S NOTE: I didn't feel like writing this chapter.)

To be continued.

Photo #66: The Love Machine

Soon you will experience the full blogging powers of Uncle Sammy! Just hours ago I unpacked my newest computer and as soon as I have mastered its awesome capabilities I will be able to blog faster, better and sexier!! You just wait and see...

Until then, here's a little propaganda movie about why the Swedish way of selling booze rocks so hard. Pay attention and you'll see drunken people from Falun.

Baby Time!

This is Klovnen Knut (in English: Knot the Clown), the famous Norwegian showman. He is to the right in the picture. To the left is a screaming baby.

This SUPERBLOG!! post is dedicated to my friend Agnes.

A Monkey Might Love A Donkey

Love Calculator results

These are the results of the calculations by Dr. Love:

a monkey [heart] a donkey

88 %

Dr. Love thinks that a relationship between a monkey and a donkey has a very good chance of being successful, but this doesn't mean that you don't have to work on the relationship. Remember that every relationship needs spending time together, talking with each other etc.

Heroin Is Good For You!

That's what mom taught me. Always trust your mommy. Never trust the lying Russian people responsible for these wax figures. Commies are always deceiving and they also want to feed upon your flesh. But the exhibition with the scary figures can be worth a visit because they claim (the commie bastards) that:

Visitors, however, can also learn how to roll a “proper” joint /

Learn more about drugs here, here, here, here and here.

The Book of Koala, Chapters 16-18

Yeah, this is a novel I'm writing, you see. It will be done before November ends or it will die a thousand deaths. Love it or leave it.

Chapters 1-3
Chapters 4-14
Chapter 15


Chapter 16: Billy Bratwurst, the Nastiest Man in the South West

Billy hadn't slept in days. He lay there in his king-sized bed, sweating and eating french fries, trying to get to sleep, but failing - most likely because he was eating french fries all the while, the moron. The fucking moron! What a moron! I wish I had him hear so I could strangle him with my bare hands. The moron. I hate him SO much. He killed my heart and devoured my soul, that Billy.

But that wasn't the whole truth, or even the entire truth, or even the smallest part of a glimpse of something that could honestly be called the Truth. Part of it was that he was nervous about his upcoming gunfight with the so-called "Tastiest Gun in the South West", Gobbly Gobbly.

Of course, the newspapers ate it up. "Nastiest vs Tastiest", they proclaimed, "In a Fight to the Finish". With little regard for whom they were hurting. And boy, were they hurting Billy! Poor Billy. I wish I had Billy hear so I could hold him in my arms, and tell him he's cool. Billy. You my main man, Billy. You're great. Don't ever let anyone put you down.

Was Billy's opponent nervous as well? Who can say? But yes, he was. Gobbly was up all night before the scheduled gunfight. He was drinking gasoline and pissing wine.

Billy's duties as Reichskansler often saw him confronting people, but the showdown with Gobby was different in many ways. Gobbly and Billy had been childhood friends, but they'd drifted apart, and this gunfight would be the first time they saw each other in fifteen years. To heighten tensions, Gobbly was a Jew. That had meant little when they were little kids playing together in the sandbox. Since then, however, blue-eyed, blonde-haired Billy had risen through the ranks of Germany's National Socialist Party, while Gobbly's family had been put in internment camps and experimented upon. A number of atrocities had befallen them in the camp. Gobbly's uncle, Sammy, had been made to grow a tail. His mother, Sarah, had been thrown from a great height to see if she would bounce. Alas, she hadn't.

The upcoming firefight could well be seen as being between the forces of Evil and the forces of Good. But, as I said, it was merely regarded as a matter of "Nastiest vs Tastiest". Keep in mind that this took place in 1942, when people were kind of stupid.

Suddenly, Churchill ended the war!! Gobbly was reunited with his family, and they were all cured and healed. His uncle's tail was cut off and bandaged, and his mother's crushed carcass was scraped off the rocks, patched together, and stuffed with cotton. All was well, or as well as could realistically be, given the horrors of a couple of paragraphs ago.

And, irony of ironies!, now it was the Reichskansler, Billy Bratwurst, who was put in a camp. However, it was a camp of gypsies, and they showed him the way of love, and he learned what an evil man he had been, and how not to be evil in the future, and from that day on, Billy was a nice guy!


Chapter 17: Solace, Quagmire, Normal

ANGST was the order of the day, but, really, isn't it always? I stared directly into the Sun for forty-five minutes and now all I see is you.

A million monkeys at a million typewriters, working away from sunrise to sunset, without food, without air, without hope, without fear. What might they produce? In all likelihood an astonishing load of bullshit.

Last night I had a dream of cars, riding fast, flying high. The cars were made glue, but the people inside were made of tin. One of them was trying to get out.
"Let me off!", he screamed. "I'll make it worth your while!"
But then he flew another thousand miles into the sky.

I can't abide food that looks at me. That's why I prefer minced meat to pig roasted whole. Pig sucks.


Chapter 18: When I'm With You, I Feel Secure

... no, wait, I mean sick.

Evil Comics #9 : The Cleverest One Yet!

Aside from changing Superman's line and the text of Lois's diary entry, I have made a number of subtle alterations on this cover. Can you spot all the changes? A cookie for you if you can! Well, can you?

Previous Evil Comics:
#1: Superblog!!'s Pal, Jimmy Olsen (cover)
#2: Superblog!!'s Girl Friend, Lois Lane (cover)
#3: Jimmy Olsen's Fist of DOOM! (cover)
#4: Marco Polo's Journey of Fucking, Part One
#5: The Origin of Superblog!!, Part One
#6: The Origin of Superblog!!, Part Two
#6½: Countdown to Absolutely Static, Hayfever-Inducing Normality (cover)
#7: Superblog!!'s Bitch, Lois Lame (cover)
#8: Marco Polo's Journey of Fucking, Part Two

Photo #65: Photo Instead of Blogging! Haha!!

Hi there, this is a photo of a photo I took when I was in The US of the Americas. It is a squirrel. As usual. Once a squirrel bit me in Central Park and it hurt real bad. Othert things I have done that was painful includes running and jumping into stuff and falling from stuff. Bye now.

ps. Dario Fo. ds.

pps. I can improve my blogging skills but you dear reader will still be ugly. dds.

The Book of Koala, Part 3 of X

This is a book I'm writing while you sleep. It's a good book. Parts one and two.

Chapter 15: The Fireman, Engulfed in Flames

See the fireman.
See the fireman burn.
Burn, fireman, burn.

Such were the words written in the notebook of esteemed poet and life-long Nobel Prize candidate Rajiv Lickdick. Monsieur Lickdick was sitting in the shade of a big giant huge pineapple tree, a tree that sprang pineapples as fruit. Such a remarkable contraption! Only God can make a pinapple tree.

Monsieur Lickdick had recently taken to walking like an Egyptian. You know, with his arms flailing about, and dancing a dance of death, to call down the evil god PANJO to Earth. In his syphilitic mind, Lickdick saw the god destroy EVERYTHING. Cars, women, humanoid donkeys, engines, everything. Visions of life and laughter and DOOM.
"Panjo will cleanse us", Lickdick said to himself, licking his dick in anticipation. I mean his lips. Licking his lips.
"What's that, Rajiv?", the tree barked.
But from Lickdick's dick, answer came there none.

(His lips, I mean. His lips were silent. Not that his dick gave an answer either, but you don't really expect dicks to talk, do you? Lips talk. Dicks dick around. It's the circle of life.)

His dick, in fact, his dick, it was the dick of song. During his ill- considered, some might say squandered but what the fuck do they know?, youth, Monsieur Lickdick had toured the nightclubs and theatre stages of Europe, performing as "The Amazing Singing Penis (With Guy Attached)".

Yes, under the alias of Guy Attached, Esq., Lickdick had toured with his penis. Could the penis sing? Of course it couldn't! His penis was no more amazing than mine. And let me tell you, my penis is pretty unspectacular. If it was interesting in any way, do you really think I'd be sitting here writing completely improvised stories about a guy who toured Europe with his singing dick? In flashback, no less! No, I'd probably be walking around the harbor, offering my services for petty cash. "Fancy a shag, sailor boy?", I'd say in an unconvincing British accent. Then I'd get the shit kicked out of me.

One day the nightclub owner said to Rajiv, "Guy, you think you're pretty hot with your penis that can sing 'Somewhere Over the Rainbow' in B flat, but you know what? The crowds are getting bored. You need to teach your penis other songs, or you need to get yourself a new job. You're not welcome here at The Dickatorium anymore." (The nightclub the nightclub owner owned was The Dickatorium.)

For a moment, Lickdick was stunned. Then he threw a glass of water in the face of the nightclub owner, and walked into the wall, disappearing.

He didn't resurface until the Second World War, now posing as Reichskansler Billy Bratwurst, the nastiest man in the south west. But that is a completely different story, which you'll likely NEVER get to read.

You May Call Me Dr. Hard-On

Today I attended a lecture in clinical sexology. I learned a lot!! Sex is supposed to be fun for your partner too and there's a thing called foreplay! Most important of all: I learned how to cure impotence in 5 easy steps. The only string attached is that you really need a partner to practice these steps with and since most of our readers are lonely geeks I have no high hopes for you. But hey! Who knows! There's always prostitutes!! Send me a mail when you've hooked up with that special someone and I'll teach you how to get a boner. Oh, I also know a lot of things about vaginism now and I even know things about speculums.

Vaginism is perfectly recognizable as opposed to an unusual phenomena. It is the impossibility of having sexual intercourse as result of painful spasm of the muscles in the lower third part of the vagina.
These muscles around its opening contract at the approach of an object, whether a finger, penis, or speculum.

Koala's Novel, or, The Gospel According to SUPERBLOG!!

This is a book I'm writing in my spare time. I started yesterday.

Chapter 4

At the same time as all that other stuff was happening (exactly what is impossible to remember, unless you have the memory of an elephant, of course) there was a contest for who could eat the largest amount of boots filled with dung. The previous redord holder, from last year, the year 2004, had just died in a mysterious accident that involved walking, talking hams. Yes, HAMS that seemingly came alive in some strange manner and walked around, scaring people. Fucking lousy hams! They should be eaten, not walking around scaring people.

Is what Jambola thought as he was standing in line at the airport, trying to eat an ice-cream (AUTHOR'S NOTE: obvious phallic symbolism). The plane went to Spain.

Suddenly Jambola was in Spain. It was raining cats and dogs and gods and birds and turds and words and drums and scum and whipped cream and whipping boys and leatherboys with whips and sexual imagery (AUTHOR'S NOTE: If you've been paying attention during the last few paragraphs, you'll have seen that Jambola has been established as homosexual. Please remember this as it will be important in later chapters.)

Suddenly a comet fell down out of the clear blue sky and seemingly killed Jambola! But he wasn't really dead, only sleeping. Jambola looked very peaceful while he slept, but still, somehow, full of life and vigor and vigour and liquor. The comet was made of cheese, just like God. God is a cheddar. It's in the Bible, you know. (Luke 20:34)


Chapter 5

On a very distant planet, far from our own planet, the planet Earth, Terra Firma, Tellus to some, was another planet, very distant from ours. That planet was the planet Maloppus. Maloppus was heaven on Earth, except it wasn't on Earth (it was on Maloppus). Everyone walked around blissful as fuck, full of bliss and shit. That was because they were doing a lot of drugs. The moral of the story in this chapter is that drugs are the Answer. (And I spell Answer with a capital A to make sure you realize I'm talking about the ultimate answer, not any fucking kind of stupid answer you picked up in a bar at 3.00am because you thought she could bring you happiness. She couldn't, of course, and you should have realized by know that that approach can't ever work. What is the answer? Give me a D! Give me an R! Give me a U! Give me an M! Give me an S. DRUMS.).


Chapter 6

"At this rate we'll never get to the end of this stupid novel", Mrs Asshole said to her husband, the highly respected shitfarmer Mr Asshole (Richard to his friends). They were reading a novel together, you see. Mr Asshole was blind, blind as a bat, blind as Justice, blind as other poetic likenesses and similes and metaphores and stuff I can't be bothered to think up right now. And so he couldn't read on his own, so Mrs Asshole (her real name was Laura) had to read to him, every fucking night. She thought they would never get to the end, and that is basically the concern she was voicing just as we enter her remarkable story, which is what we are doing just exactly pretty much now, at this point in time.

The book she was reading to him was The SUPERBLOG!! Novel by K. Mentala, a retired plumber from Wisconsin. It was a thick novel, but really juicy. Filled to the brim with full-page illustrations of chicklets licking each other, and other pornographic and/or erotic images.

"What makes you say that, dear?" asked the pathetic and ugly fucking stupid goddamn lousy piece of Mr Asshole (dickless wimp). At this, Mrs Asshole was angered. She picked up the same knife Jambola used to kill Bobo with and shoved it into his sternum. Mr Asshole died later, at hospital.

But first he was rushed to hospital!
"We're doing everything we can to save him!" shouted the ambulance driver into Mrs Asshole's ear as they were cruising Sunset Boulevard in the limo, pretending to look for the hospital. But it was useless. She was deaf with sadness.


Chapter 7

Look, I've written around 1,500 words, and I'm starting to realize it's not that fun. It's a hassle and a burden. Google Calculator informs me that I'll have to write 3 571.42857 words every FUCKING day to meet the goal of 50,000 words in 14 days. That's more than twice as much as I've manage today (granted, it hasn't taken long), but I'm already bored shitless. Maybe I should cut my losses.


Chapter 8: A New Dawn

My skeleton glows with a healthy green hue. Look out, World, The Creepiness is starting to set in.

Mrs Asshole fucked the ambulance driver in the car, and also in the ear. She used a sort of kind of whatitcalled, thing. You know what I mean! Chicks insert them into their vaginas in lieu of dicks! What the fuck... You know how irritating it is when a common word, a word you've known since you were a kid (you probably learned it in kindergarden, if you didn't already know it in the uterus), when it just disappears and you can't... a DILDO. A fucking dildo. Why in the holy name of our Lord and Savior, Jebus Kreist, couldn't I remember what a dildo is called? It's called a dildo, stupidhead!

So Mrs Asshole inserted the dildo into the ambulance driver's ear a few times, to give him pleasure. That's really all I wanted to say, it wasn't intended to be a huge part of the story (or even this chapter), it just became important when I couldn't think of the fucking word.

"Ouch!" said the ambulance driver, a nameless gentleman from Toronto, Canada (a town full of pigs and prigs). "I'm bleeding! That didn't give me pleasure at all! Why did I think it would?"
"I don't know", said Mrs Asshole, stupidly.
"It must have been the drugs", whined the ambulance driver, looking down at his toke and holding his injured ear. Blood was dripping from it, and not in a sexy way.
"Now don't you go blaming the drugs, Mister!" shouted Mrs Asshole. "They give you bliss! Everyone knows that! Why, way up in the sky there's even a far away planet called... not Blisstonia, that's from The Simpsons... (AUTHOR'S NOTE: I probably ripped off the idea of a planet full of bliss from The Simpsons. But it's a common belief in many religious religions.) It's called MALOPPUS, the Planet That Gives You Bliss. And the people there, they never fucking whine. Because they're happy and full of life and love and so on."
"Yeah, I need to get to a hospital", Mr Hufkspsladk said. (That was his name all along, but don't expect me to repeat it. From now on, he will go under the alias Mr X, because it's faster to type, and also because you should shut the fuck up with your stupid criticism of my brilliant story. It's brilliant, you fuck!)
"I REALLY need to get to a hospital", Mr X said, as he laid down and died. (See, I didn't see that coming. If I had, I'd probably have gone with "Mr Hufkspsladk" (it's Czech) just now, seeing as how I probably don't have to type it a lot in the rest of the story, seeing as how the character is now dead as a can of spam, from a shot in the back. Yeah, he was shot, I just didn't tell you until now.)

P.S. Mrs Asshole fucked his corpse. D.S.


Chapter 9: The Dangerous Giraffe

"Boy, it sure is mild outside today".
The speaker was Dr Constantinople, a physics professor from the tiny, unknown town of Antwerp.
"In my native Antwerp, it's never this mild. Boy, is it mild today."
His assistant was startled. "But Dr Constantinople! James! May I call you James?"
"Certainly, but my real name is Judah."
"James, Doctor, there's a horrible thing that perhaps you don't realize and probably you don't, no."
"What is that, my dear boy or girl or whatever the fuck you are? (Assistants come in all genders, after all.)"
"It's after 7pm! It's not TODAY any longer, it's TONIGHT. You should have said, 'it sure is mild TONIGHT'!"
"Sweet Jebus, you're right, boy (girl)! An inforgivable error on my part. I'm stupid! I'm ugly! Kill me with a scythe!"

And the boy/girl/whatever did as she/he/it/they/them/huh was instructed and killed the Professor, no, wait he was a Doctor, killed the Doc with the scythe. (AUTHOR'S NOTE: The topic of gender balance is one we'll be returning to in later chapters. Also: hamsters.)


Chapter 10: Drama at the Book Fair

"How can you write so much stupid drivel?" said the really hot chick, as she approached the good-looking but kind of shy author at the book fair. He was signing books or something.
"The secret is not caring", I answered, staring into her eyes in a creepy manner. They both (especially the foxy chick) realized they were in love, and would have sexual intercourse later that afternoon. Shit, I meant that the AUTHOR said that thing about the secret. Not me. I'm just the omniscient narrator, totally disconnected from this story. No character in this story is supposed to represent me. No. Never.
"Yeah, but how do you do it?" the chick said, sultrily.
"I'm channeling the gods. In particular one God, the evil but kind-hearted God of Fucking Things Up, PANJO the three-headed snake!
"Panjo!" said the girl! "He's my favorite!" And then she dropped her clothes, and they fucked on the floor.

Hmm. If there's a recurrent theme to these stories, it's that I really need to get laid. I just noticed.


Chapter 11: Hedgehog

Suddenly everything exploded in a flash of light. A lonely little antropomorphic hedgehog (you can't go wrong with animals) was preparing a breakfast consisting of toast and coffee and more toast and coffee and tea and eggs and bacon and salmon and cerial and milk and honey and marmelade (three different kinds) and even more coffee and sugar and orange juice, and PCP, angel dust.
"Gosh", said the hedgehog, "Angel dust sure is good with coffee."
He spent the rest of the morning jerking off and doing the dishes, in that order. Now that little hedgehog isn't quite as fucking cute as you imagined him being when this chapter started, is he? See how appearances can be deceiving?

There was a knock on the door. The hedgehog hid his marmelade (it had won prizes and was worth BILLIONS on eBay) and opened the door, cautiously. All the while he held a can of mace, prepared to squirt it in the eyes of the visitor, if it was a cop, or just someone he didn't like. But luckily, the visitor turned out to be another antropomorphic animal, his best friend Crocodile Bill!
"Crocodile Bill! said the hedgehog, startled as startled can be. "When did you get out of prison?"
Crocodile Bill smiled ominously. "I escaped just last night", he said as a drew his long, sharp knife.
"Oh shit", said the hedgehog. "You're not gonna stab me in the eye, are you, Bill?"
"Of course I am", said Crocodile Bill.

And stab he did. Not once or twice or even three times, but again and again, long into the night. And if he hasn't found anything better to do with his time, he's probably still right there, stabbing away. That is, unless he's died from starvation. Do you think it might have occurred to him to try some of the hedgehog's breakfast? (Not the marmelade, of course, because the hedgehog hid that very well, but the rest of the food is probably still right there on the table. The milk is starting to turn sour, maybe. The cereal is all lumpy and disgusting. Meanwhile, Crocodile Bill is all too busy stabbing to notice what goes on all around him. It was just the same way back in the 1980s, when Crocodile Bill had a family. He just couldn't find the time to talk to his wife and play with his children. He was always too busy stabbing. Stabbing, stabbing. Now, what kind of life is that, I ask you? Eventually his wife grew tired and took the kids and moved to Seattle. But when Crocodile Bill realized what had happened he got REALLY mad and took the next flight to Seattle where he of course butchered his family.

He regretted that later, partly because he missed his family a little bit, but mostly because he was sent to jail for 45 years. The only reason he got out is because a cellmate helped him hide in the laundry. And then he went directly to his best friend the hedgehog's house, and what did he do? He stabbed him! Not once, or twice, or three times, even. But repeatedly. We all thought he had changed in jail. You know, he found religion inside (a weird religion dedicated to the pursuit of bliss), and we were sure he was all through with the stabbing. But he's outside for five minutes, and he just falls back into his old, bad patterns. Why is that? I blame the parents.

MORAL: Stabbing can be counter-productive.


Chapter 12: Back in 1989

Inexplicably, Bobo had started his own Internet company and was now trying to take over the world, or at least the country. (The country being Uruguay. Bobo was travelling in Africa as a missionary for the One True Faith (found in its original form only on the faraway planet MALOPPUS). Now he was living in Montevideo, in a small hostel just outside of Montevideo, in central Montevideo. Anywhere, really.)

The walk that tore him to shreds was the same walk that filled his life with meaning. It was when he was out walking that he noticed how everything seemed to be made of mist. The trees, the forest, the buckets of sand, the children playing in the park, even the mist itself was mist.

Bobo exhaled. "I have to go home and polish the floor."
"With your tongue!", cried the leper.
"With my tongue", Bobo grimly confirmed.


Chapter 13: The Fireman Can Take a Joke

"How can you see that a car is from Poland?"
"You, er, you can see it on the, uh, the polish. The polish. Get it?"
"Ah, 'polish' slash 'Polish'. I get your meaning", said the fireman. He walked away without a word, never once looking back.

The fireman was one of a select breed who was travelling the country, starting fires. One time, he had even doused himself in gasoline, and tried to get his wife to light him up.
"This way", he had said to his wife (while dripping all over the kitchen floor), "I'll be a REAL fireman". And then he had grinned his toothless grin, which always creeped her out.


Chapter 14: The Contempt of Astronaut Pete

Gazing down from the Moon, Astronaut Pete felt nothing but contempt for his fellow man. "Look at them down there!", he said to no one in particular. "Scurrying about with not a care in the world!

What do they know about REAL suffering? Puny ants! I should spit on them from up here, so that the saliva will travel through the atmosphere, increasing in velocity and growing ever huger, finally reaching the ground and overflooding the entire planet!"

With that, he removed his helmet and promptly exploded.

To be continued.

I'm Alive And Kicking

I don't feel like blogging though. But I am. Again. What's wrong with me? Nothing. Whatever. That novel Koala think he's gonna write sucks. Not. I think it's allright. I bet Bobo will come back and rape that knife guys ass. Big time. I like to write. Short sentences. Because my English, you know. It sucks. Not really. Once upon a time I dated a girl from Chicago. In Chicago. Not Gooooo. Another girl from the windy city of broad shoulders and so on and so fort blah blah. We broke up. She was way to bossy. But before we broke up she mentioned that my skills in the English languages were awesomely. She also liked my ass and she admired the fact that my back wasn't covered by hair. Now I want to take the opportunity to tell you about how koala the fat fuck (he's very thin) ignored my suggestions for a new slogan for SUPERBLOG!!

We Will Rock You!

Huh? Not bad I think, but not good enough for Koala and I'm not allowed to change things in the template. Partly because Koala aint a very trusting person and partly (as I believe I have mentioned somewhere in the archives) because I am a big jolly delete this blog button pressing person.

The SUPERBLOG!! Novel, or, The Boy Who Could Lick His Own Balls

Foreword

Hello. This is a work of fiction, written to celebrate National Novel Writing Month [http://www.nanowrimo.org], which is "a fun, seat-of-your-pants approach to novel writing. Participants begin writing November 1. The goal is to write a 175-page (50,000-word) novel by midnight, November 30." As you may have noticed, it's already evening, November 16. That's not a huge problem, though - what takes lesser people a full month usually takes me two weeks, tops.

One of my goals with this project is to write a novel in less time than it takes to read it. Will I succeed? Probably. Everything I do turns to gold. I am a very successful and handsome person. The only setback I ever suffered in life was the other day, when I bought a bag full of Gorby's piroger (my dictionary says they're called "Russian pasty" in English, but I don't trust it) and the bag said there was a "surprise" inside. And naturally, I'm thinking, "Fuckshit! I'll get a golden ticket to the Gorby factory where Willy Wonka will give me a golden shower and make me his heir!" But you know what? The gift was a fucking reflex that said, "Gorby's: We don't give a fuck about you". Those fucking fuckers, someone should fuck them in the ass.

But that's neither here nor there. Now is the time to put up or shut up, and, as loyal SUPERBLOG!! readers know, I'm not one to shut up. I'm the kind of guy who would gladly show his penis to a stranger on the street, if only someone asked.

I am also doing this to better myself. And make a lot of money. So if anyone wants to publish this novel in paper form, let me know via the usual channels. Random House, I am looking at YOU.

I haven't actually written the book yet, but I don't think I'm exaggerating when I say that it will, without a doubt, be the single best book you'll ever read in your entire life. (I'm guessing it will be around 8-10 times better than the runner-up, which is probably some piece of trash Booker Prize winner you'll pick up in an airport in Hong Kong in 2016.)

Please note that any and all typos is and are the fault of you, the reader.

Now: enjoy. That's an order.


Chapter 1

It was a dark and stormy night. Bobo was looking out the window, at all the people passing by way down below. It was October, October 31st, and Bobo was sitting at the window, writing a letter to his friend Jambola. Jambola was a guy who lived in Pakistan, in a town called Sukkur. (AUTHOR'S NOTE: I didn't make that up, there really is a Pakistanian town called Sukkur. I looked it up in the CIA World Fact Book [http://www.cia.gov/cia/publications/factbook/].)

Where was I? Oh yeah, Bobo was sitting at the window. Suddenly, a bird flew by! Bobo was terrified, because he was scared of birds. Plus and also, this specific bird looked to him like... THE RED-THROATED LOON OF DEATH!


Chapter 2

It later turned out the bird Bobo had seen wasn't the red-throated loon of death. In fact, it wasn't even a loon, but a horned grebe. What an amusing mistake! thought Bobo to himself, as he was sitting there in the room, looking stupid.

Suddenly someone walked into the room! The room filled with laugher. The laughter came from the person who entered the room, who was... Jambola, Bobo's friend (from Chapter One)!
"Hello Bobo, my friend", said Jambola, Bobo's friend.
"Hello Jambola, what time is it?" answered Bobo mysteriously.
"Time... TO DIE!" screamed Bobo's former friend Jambola as he screamed and also lunged at Bobo with a very, very sharp steak knife that he had sharpened. That's how it got so sharp. He had sharpened it especially to kill Bobo, his former friend from way back. Anyway, Jambola screamed as he LUNGED!


Chapter 3

As Jambola was licking the blood from his steak knife (he killed Bobo with it, you see), everything got very ominous. The air, the milieu, even the environment all around him.
"Now", said Jambola to himself, "there is but one thing that could make this a better day, and that would be if my good friend Bobo was here to share it with me." He took a few steps into the wall, and then he disappeared like a shadow.

To be continued.

SUPERBLOG!! Celebrates National Pastry-Eating Day

Today's Random Jessica Biel Fact: Jessica Biel is a recovering vegetarian (true).

I'm so fucking weak! I wrote most of this entry over a week ago, and then I forgot all about it. Last Whateverthefuckday was World Usability Day, so I thought I'd check in with Danish pastry chef Jacob Nielsen to see what he has to say about blog usability, and how it relates to SUPERBLOG!!, the blog you're reading just now.

Here, in no particular order, except the exact order he mentions them in, are My Nielsen's top Usability Issues for bloggityblogs (for the sake of convenience, I'll cut and paste relevant bits below, but if you have a blog yourself, I urge you to check out the complete article):

1. No Author Biographies
It's a simple matter of trust. Anonymous writings have less credence than something that's signed. And, unless a person's extraordinarily famous, it's not enough to simply say that Joe Blogger writes the content. Readers want to know more about Joe. Does he have any credentials or experience in the field he's commenting on?

I do have credentials. Trust me.

2. No Author Photo
Even weblogs that provide author bios often omit the author photo. A photo is important for two reasons: It offers a more personable impression of the author. You enhance your credibility by the simple fact that you're not trying to hide.

I'm a Gorg. Just kidding.

3. Nondescript Posting Titles
[...] Users must be able to grasp the gist of an article by reading its headline. Avoid cute or humorous headlines that make no sense out of context.

As the kids say: LOL. (Not really. Tears are streaming down my face. Tears now of hilarity but of saddity.)

4. Links Don't Say Where They Go
Many weblog authors seem to think it's cool to write link anchors like: "some people think" or "there's more here and here." Remember one of the basics of the Web: Life is too short to click on an unknown. Tell people where they're going and what they'll find at the other end of the link.

SUPERBLOG!!'s stated goal: To fill the few remaining days of its reader's lives with unnecessary clickiness into the Unknown.

A related mistake in this category is to use insider shorthand, such as using first names when you reference other writers or weblogs. Unless you're writing only for your friends, don't alienate new visitors by appearing to be part of a closed clique.

You listening, SUPERBLOG!! bitches? We're gonna ignore you from now on.

5. Classic Hits are Buried
Hopefully, you'll write some pieces with lasting value for readers outside your fan base. Don't relegate such classics to the archives,

Yeah, this is something to think about, actually. Maybe you've noticed we've added a "greatest hits" section, but the posts selected are maybe not all that great.

6. The Calendar is the Only Navigation
A timeline is rarely the best information architecture, yet it's the default way to navigate weblogs. Most weblog software provides a way to categorize postings so users can easily get a list of all postings on a certain topic.

But fucking Blogger fucking doesn't.

7. Irregular Publishing Frequency
Establishing and meeting user expectations is one of the fundamental principles of Web usability. For a weblog, users must be able to anticipate when and how often updates will occur. [...] Certainly, you shouldn't post when you have nothing to say. Polluting cyberspace with excess information is a sin. To ensure regular publishing, hold back some ideas and post them when you hit a dry spell.

I've actually done that ever since SUPERBLOG!! started. These last few days, though, I was out of town, and Sammy was busy doing mysterious stuff.

8. Mixing Topics
If you publish on many different topics, you're less likely to attract a loyal audience of high-value users. Busy people might visit a blog to read an entry about a topic that interests them. They're unlikely to return, however, if their target topic appears only sporadically among a massive range of postings on other topics. The only people who read everything are those with too much time on their hands (a low-value demographic).

Ouch.

9. Forgetting That You Write for Your Future Boss
Whenever you post anything to the Internet -- whether on a weblog, in a discussion group, or even in an email -- think about how it will look to a hiring manager in ten years. [...] Years from now, someone might consider hiring you for a plum job and take the precaution of 'nooping you first. [...] What will they find in terms of naïvely puerile "analysis" or offendingly nasty flames published under your name?

Yeah, could this possibly be why we write under aliases?

10. Having a Domain Name Owned by a Weblog Service
Having a weblog address ending in blogspot.com, typepad.com, etc. will soon be the equivalent of having an @aol.com email address or a Geocities website: the mark of a naïve beginner who shouldn't be taken too seriously.

I agree, but a proper address costs money. It's alright for wealthy Danish pastry chefs like Jake Nielsen, but the rest of us barely make ends meet as it is. A domain name costs several thousand bucks a month, for crying out loud!

Yes, it's tempting to start a new weblog on one of the services that offer free accounts. It's easy, it's quick, and it's obviously cheap. But it only costs $8 per year to get your personal domain name and own your own future. As soon as you realize you're serious about blogging, move it away from a domain name that's controlled by somebody else.

Hey Sammy, are we serious about blogging...?

Join us again tomorrow for another exciting Random Jessica Biel Fact.

SUPERBLOG!!: Not very super, but definitely a blog.

Go Fuck Yourself

Sometimes I like to rip off Tom Spurgeon's links and act like I found them myself. This is one of those times. Case in point: Bunny Suicides. That's cartoons of rabbits killing themselves, yes.

Yet another case in point: here's an alternative New Yorker caption contest I found a little bit amusing. Some of the real winners are pretty funny, too. (But most of them suck something fierce.)

I Worship a God with an Elephant Head

How About Some Mental Harakiri?

I felt like living on the edge so I did a search at Google for "fuck google" and that's how I found this. Very inspirational and also very educational! Inspirational, because it really inspired me to go out and fuck around with people and educational because I learned that when it comes to being fucked up, nothing can beat being Japanese. You don't believe me? Google will prove it for me in three easy steps.

One,

Japan was initially a trial/test by some emperor.
He sent 100virgins to a distant land.
Basically, japs are chinese. They have inbred to the point their population is now 80million or something.

two, three !!

(Sorry for editing out the URL in the picture but it was out of respect for our younger viewers. I wont blog about weird japanese sex until I'm drunk or psychotic whichever comes first.)

What! The! Fuck!

I had an extremely interesting blog post prepared, but my dog ate it. Or maybe I decided it was too good for the likes of you, who can tell? So instead I'll just reproduce Jessica Simpson's latest blog entry (with her permission, of course):

1.9.04
hello you guys:
my life is soooo crazy. I am sorry that it has been so long since i have had a chance to touch base with you guys. these camera guys just won't leave me alone!! how are you guys doing? i can not thank you enough for all your support and belief. it looked like we were in trouble for a second. your prayers worked.... i have been so blessed. i thank god everyday that i have you guys on my team. looks like the single will go top ten next week. our record sales were higher last week by 20% than in august when we released the record. i'm recording the next single "take my breath away" . that was the theme song from "top gun". it was also the song that was playing the first time nick kissed me..... nick and i are going to make the world premeire on oprah winfrey february 13th. make sure and watch.....
our next season of newlyweds starts january 21st. it is going to be as funny as last season. you know me, i am always saying something crazy. the show is going to start with our first wedding aniversary... don't miss it.

oh yeah, saturday the 17th, nick and i are hosting saturday night live. now that is going to be crazy. maybe i'll get even with justin timberlake... oh well, again i want you to know how much i love you all. keep me in your prayers.

love, jess

That could have been the end, but I also want to take this opportunity to publish a masterful haiku, written by my friend and co-blogger Uncle Sammy:

booby boobs penis jessica
hot sexy stuff fisting
fucky dollars
anal fucking donkey horse dog
desperate housewives
atari

I am blinking away tears right now. I promise you I am.

Are You Worthy?

If you're feeling like a SUPERBLOG!! bitch, why not tell it to the world? Send us a mail if you want one. Be sure to include your size, address, sexual preferences and lots of other things in your mail.

A Blog By Any Other URL Would Smell As Sweet, Except It Wouldn't

Now it's easier than ever to be a hard-drinking SUPERBLOG!! fan. Instead of having to remember our long and boring Blogger address (what is it, www.superblog2000.bloggy.blog.spotblogger.com or something?), you can just think to yourself, What is my favorite hobby? And the answer will come: To come to SUPERBLOG!! Yes, our new address is http://come.to/superblog, through the miracle of unpaid URL forwarding. (Sadly, http://cum.to/superblog doesn't yet point to SUPERBLOG!!, but we will work on that.) As an added bonus, the come.to address is delivered complete with popups, spyware, and probably viruses! All three basic food groups!

In other words: Stop using www.superblog2000.bloggy.blog.spotblogger.com immediately, and start using http://purl.org/NET/superblog instead. Huh? The fuck?

So... should we invest in a domain name or what?

SUPERBLOG!!: Probably the best blog in the world

Sammy's Fortunate Night

Hi y'all! I really need to share this with the world. I just had me some supper; Bullen's Beer Sausage and sandwiches. Sometimes bad things happen but tonight everything works to my advantage! I dropped a piece of bread and it fell butter-side up!!! How about it?! I get the feeling everything is gonna change from now!

The angle imparted by the ungainly divestiture of the bread causes the bread to rotate as it falls, fuelled somewhat by the uneven mass distribution of the butter or other viscous substance (ugh! like Marmite) on the bread or toast slice. This rotation has a period and unfortunately the floor intersects this cycle exactly at the half way point, resulting in the deposition of the bread slice with the viscous side down.

A Tribute to Our Bitches!

5 minutes ago there was a very long funny story here but it was too long even for SUPERBLOG!! Here's the link instead.

..and here are our bitches!

The Afe Blog
Life in the Trenches
The Mookster
Soul Shizzle
Shenaniganism
Shamus
Scotty

My Drunken Self-Portraits are Legion

As previously alluded to on SUPERBLOG!!, there are quite a few blurry photos of me standing in front of a mirror in a restroom, looking drunk. That's because most of those pictures are taken in various pubs. I started doing this as a sort of pathetic hobby around Summer 2004.

This particular picture is #28 (you realize I pulled that number out of my ass, right?) in the series, and it's from... somewhere. I can't remember and I don't recognize the place. It seems to have been taken November 2nd last year, though, so maybe one of SUPERBLOG!!'s readers remembers drinking with me on that date, and can fill us in? Maybe even Uncle Sammy?

Oh, and happy Usability Day!

Can I Interest Anyone in a Chocolate Swirlie?

Just two short months after Sammy Sneeze, I finally got around to watching my illegal copy of Tim Burton's Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, first mentioned on SUPERBLOG!! back when it was five days old and mostly written in Swedish!

I thought it was a pretty cool film, but there's no way I'd have given it five Michael Keatons, (unlike some SUPERBLOG!! contributors I know). Not sober, at least.

One thing I'd like to mention: if you think you recognize the guy who plays the Oompa-Loompas (Mister Deep Roy), it might be because he was the Tin Man in Return to Oz, which you of course immediately ran out to buy after reading about on SUPERBLOG!! this summer.

Since Sammy already laid claim to being Augustus Gloop, I guess I'll pick Veruca Salt as the character I identify most with. Like Veruca, I'm fucking spoiled, I have a band named after me, I was born in Sweden to Swedish parents, and I speak fluent Swedish. Don't believe me? Check this out:

Jag bra prata! Mig bra svenska talare! Mapa skrika malopp!

I wrote that entirely without help.

P.S. About that title... D.S.

Photo #64: The Luxurious Crapper

Outstanding! Best crapper in South America! Unlike Koala I have few photos of myself inside various rest rooms but since this was no ordinary place of easement I had to take a picture. This golden lavatory can be found at Terraco Italia in Sao Paulo.

A gastronomic and tourist landmark for more than thirty years, the Terraço Itália is located at the top of the Itália building, 41 storeys above street level. The spectacular view, dance floor with live music, and the deeply romantic atmosphere, together with some excellent food on the menu, make this one of the favourite eateries for both tourists and paulistas alike.

Can't believe that they're not mentioning the shit-house.... Maybe they do mention it here?

SUPERBLOG!! readers interested in latrines and doo-doo can enhance their learning and further their wisdom by visiting one or two of the following links.

Welcome to Analtech
ANALTECH developed the first commercially prepared TLC plates in 1961.

Crappers Quarterly
Review our guidelines for courteous crapping and rush up on your crapping skills. First, there are some basic skills that need to be refined before you can become a gentleman crapper.

Britesmile for Bungholes
She told me that she would wax the anus first, then apply Pink Cheeks Amazing Anal Bleaching Cream, a product the salon developed, to the area. I scanned the label: The active ingredient is hydroquinone (4 percent), a substance used to lighten dark skin, commonly found in products used by African Americans to even out skin tone. "We just tried it on some buttholes and realized it worked," said Esser-Thorin.