I Dare You M. Night

I goddamn loath M. Night Shyamalan. Not like I hate J.J. Abrams and Joss Whedon, for genius abused. No, I hate Shyamalan for genius avoided. M. Night has the potential to be the greatest B movie director of all time. Its something that Brian and I talked about a little while ago that has stuck in the deepest place in my craw, because I kinda love B movies and his premises are perfect for the medium. So I've taken it upon myself to right this wrong and set the world right... re-imagining his movies as intentionally bad, instead of just depressing. Starting with The Village

The actual premise of this movie is an 18th century village is accosted by weird fucking werewolf monsters. The twist is that the monsters are really the village elders in costumes who founded the village to escape modern life and exercise their creepily elaborate history professor social experiment. In my version its an 18th century village being accosted by weird fucking werewolf monsters, but the twist is that the werewolves are actually the village elders in bad wigs, who founded the village to escape actual werewolves and exercise their creepily elaborate history professor sexual fantasies. Then at the end M. Night could get torn apart amidst a poorly choreographed werewolf/ history professor blood orgy. Actually, the whole movie could just be Shyamalan being slowly torn apart by people in tweed jackets and furry gloves and I'd pay to see it.

Mounting Mythical Monsters vol. 1: Manticores

Hokay. So I survived getting my face cored and now I'm a functional invalid for the better part of a month. That's fine and dandy but today I'd like to talk about why you should fuck a Manticore. Now, obviously there's the bragging rights that come along with sexually satisfying a murderous beast out of legend, but you've gotta look past that. Manticores aren't like the drunk chimera who volunteered for the frat party, they aren't going to get on board with your frivolous pride. You've gotta be respectful. Classy. Woo your quarry. You don't want to just sidle up and get to work, you'll get a barbed tail right to the grundle. Nobody wants that. So take your time and do it right.

As for why, lets start with the big ones. Three words: Magic. Fucking. Powers. That's right, its a little known fact that the orgasmic excretions of the adult Manticore contain several strains of STPs, or sexually transmitted powers. They change from beast to beast so you might get flight and the ability to control marsupials with your mind, or you might end up with the ability to summon tiny demons to rend the flesh from your foes. Kind of a mixed bag but magic powers are magic powers, take what you can get.

Secondly, their genitals are amazing. Soft in all the right places, firm yet supple. Interestingly laid out. You're never gonna get bored of Manticore bits. Not to mention they taste like fresh apples. Fuji on the females, macintosh on the males. Its great.

The third reason is a bit more nuanced. See, Manticores mate for life, but they have a genetic appreciation for polyamory. This means that while your new monstrous Persian fuck buddy will never leave you, should you decide you want to throw down with that hot Sphinx up the street, your Manticore is probably gonna be down. I mean they'll want to watch but trust me that just makes it better.

Finally, if you fuck a Manticore you naturally obtain a Manticore mount. Lets face it, if you're trying to ride a Manticore you want to ride a Manticore, which is good 'cause they're into it. The practicality of having an intimate relationship with your mode of transportation, especially when that transportation consists of a mythical winged lion with a big ass scorpion tail, can't be overstated. Traffic stops being a problem immediately, road rage has a way of taking care of itself suddenly, and seriously no one is going to get away with stealing your new ride.

So find yourself a Manticore and put in the work, its a tricky business but its well worth the effort. Just remember, they aren't great at oral sex. Three rows of razor sharp teeth does not make for a very friendly nibble.

So you want to be a Kung Fu Legend

Last week Brian set to work trying to help melodramatically inclined achieve a higher level of villainous competence. I had a lot of fun reading it and talking about it with him, so in grand literary tradition I'm nabbing it. Now lets make a better breed of kung fu fighter.

1. Be an orphan: Its unfortunate but everyone knows that having parents is liability to any aspiring head-puncher. Probably something to do with all the hugs. So if you want to be a legend you're going to have to make sure you grow up alone. I recommend, starting at a young age, encouraging your parents to go out to fancy plays in bad neighborhoods or living in a region prone to banditry.

2. Get a (mediocre) Master: Now that your parents are no longer there providing standards of appropriate behavior you're going to want to find a Master to train you. You're going to be tempted to find the most well renowned instructor in the area. Fight that instinct. No-one gets to be the best by hard work and training under a competent teacher. You want to find a second or even third rate instructor, someone who will really go down hard if pressed. Which brings us go point three.

3. Get your Master killed: They don't necessarily have to die, but it's important that they're permanently crippled and you never really talk to them again. It doesn't have to be your fault, but its better if it is. Try spending all your time harassing strangers at the market or in the town square. Maybe invent elaborate stories about how your Master is invincible or how supreme the style they teach is, and make sure to really lean on the baseless arrogance you've no doubt developed by this point. Its only a matter of time before you piss someone off enough to ,at least, clear out your dojo and beat down your Master.

4. Go train on a mountain or some shit: So some clearly superior fighter has taken the bait and murdered the only person willing to teach your douche ass to fight. Now you need to swear revenge and go train somewhere secluded. Could be a mountain, or an undersea trench if you're feeling fucking frisky, what matters is there can be no chance of actually receiving practical experience fighting other human beings. Its really vital that during this period you develop no meaningful social skills or learn about strategies involved in fighting martial artists. Fight a bear or something, maybe some wolves or a giant squid or shark if you went with the marine punchologist option.

5. Have a mystical revelation (optional): Experiencing some kind of, at least pseudo-mystical, enlightenment isn't necessary to being a kung fu legend, but it is pretty much the only way to stand a chance of learning crazy fight-magic, so it is recommended.

6. Play an elaborate game of cat and mouse with your Master's killer: Now at this point its pretty even odds that you're the bad guy in this situation, but hey don't worry, some legends are dicks. What matters is that by this point there could be no possible way you aren't probably a complete kung fu badass. So its time to cash in that oath of revenge. But first you're going to want to throw them off balance. Spend some time being cordial with your nemesis. Not only will it add flavor to the inevitable confrontation it'll allow you the opportunity to study them and learn whatever probable fight-magic they used to beat your Master for you.

7. Vengeance!: Alright, its time for the moneyshot. Throw down with your foe wherever feels natural. The important bit is that you beat them in whatever way is most complete for the given foe. An arrogant or bloodthirsty enemy might be best served by a show of compassion, mercy. Strong, proud enemies should be crushed unequivocally, maybe even go easy on them. Ancient demons or evil sorcerers should probably just be killed or banished with whatever magic kick or sacred fisting you have lined up.

8. Wander: Now that you've done what you set out to do its time to wander the land doing whatever strikes your fancy. This can't be surprising, what with the dead parents and extended isolation from human contact. You're no longer really capable of effectively interfacing with society. Go out into the world and do good works or seek a worthy foe or something. It doesn't really matter, you're a legend or something, do what you want.

An End to All This B&S

Okay, so I'm still a flake. The wells of inspiration have been hard to find and damn near impossible to plumb. Which is why this week the sponsor is Half-Assed Perseverance. Are you having a hard time giving a fuck about shit you do? Just plug away at it whenever you can be assed. You've probably got something else you could do, so see how you feel after doing that. Fuck it, you'll get it done eventually; with half-assed perseverance!



We spent several days with the villagers corroborating their story and establishing a plan of action. In the end our plans for vengeance were co-opted by cooler heads. Plans for fiery retribution were replaced by more insidious, institutional agendas. The village elders were truly brilliant in their maneuvering, not only had the deal with Mr. Portfeld been carefully worded to protect their interests it wasn't their only deal. Several other companies had approached the villagers, a fact that they had used to draw the attention of their local administrator; a brutal man whom they had managed to sway to their sympathy.

Their scheme was a good bit more ghastly than my initial hopes for a whorl of hellfire and gunpowder, almost enough to stir my sense of guilt. Instead we settled for letting them go about their sinister business and returning to Miskatonic. Newberg was displeased by the loss of Mr. Portfeld but quite glad to get underway building his factory. He was even quite happy to accept my recommendation to take on several of my former students as high level functionaries there. The sort of students with strong moral fiber and a ready habit of social responsibility, students with open minds and extensive background in eldritch mysteries. If anyone would be able to do right on that island it would be them.

I just hope that, in time, I'll be able to live down their disappearances.

Up to Our Eyes in B&S

Holy shit! We're back, with more of the random and not so random ranting we do. Today that ranting takes the form of another slap-dashing adventure of Brennan & Smythe, brought to us this week by the ramblings of a disturbed mind. Well, I mean this week and every other week.



The village was the starkest possible contrast to the grove surrounding it. The sinister stench and gruesome statuary encircled the most beautiful, peaceful village I've ever encountered. Lush gardens and clean, vibrantly decorated houses where happy goats and chickens stood guard. There where children dancing and singing, though they stopped abruptly at our intrusion. As the boy led us deeper into town adults started to gather in doorways, clapping each other on the back and smiling at us. At last we came to a great tree in what appeared to be the town square, carved like the ones that had warmed our welcome. It was every bit as handsome as they were grotesque. The wounded tree bore the shape of a stern old man's bearded face wreathed in waves. The putrid blush of the groves wood was replaced by a rich rosewood, carved that the man wept clear, golden sap.

Before the great tree stood a smiling elderly fellow in a brightly colored tunic who patted the boy as we approached. He welcomed us with songs and roasted meats and, over the course of an evening shared with us not just his plans to improve the lot of his people with the proposed rubber factory, but how he intended to expose the insidious Cult that had so long ruled the other villages of the island. The locals claimed that "The Lord of The Great Deep", whom the tree in the square was the likeness of, had taught them how to carve the perverse wood to protect themselves from the evil intents of their neighbors and their gods. The villagers showed us idols and icons, ritualistically defaced of course, that had been recovered from wars and raids past. A few we found uncomfortably familiar as old scars ached and protective tattoos hummed in recognition.

By the time the moon had risen, pale and pregnant against the black sky, the story that had led us here came into focus. Mr. Portfeld had been quite obviously attempting to fleece the villagers, so they took the opportunity to reverse the roles, whilst using the influx of foreign interest to illuminate the wicked doings on the island. I didn't share their optimism but, until Portfeld had disappeared in the night, they may have very well pulled it off. They had even managed to hold out some hope until Silas's defiled corpse had been found lashed to a tree outside of their protective grove. Our mystery had been solved, but I found I couldn't let it rest there.

Ho Shit! Its Brennan & Smythe!

I think it should be clear by now that the sponsors for these are meaningless. I'd rather smoke than drink, Murphey's Law pretty much only kicks in for me when I find it theatrically interesting and clearly I've no intention of getting my shit together. Which brings us to today's sponsor!
It was there for you when you decided to stand up to your asshole boss. When you were an infant and the whole world was new and fascinating, it held you up above your parents and their friends. Every time you've had to choose between what You wanted and what They wanted from you, it had your back. Not Giving a Fuck. Because its not the end of the fucking world.



Consciousness returned dragging agony behind it. I felt as though the shriek had shaken something loose from my essence, in addition to ringing my skeleton like a tuning fork. Once I had managed to convince my eyes to focus, the ache in my bones settled into my wrists and shoulders, where I'd apparently been bound. The camp lay completely undisturbed, though all of my companions were similarly disabled. Patrick, having unsurprisingly beaten me to alertness, sat struggling across the campfire from me. Between the two of us we managed to loose our bonds and set to work freeing our compatriots in short order.

My assertion that our things had been left unmolested proved wrong when, upon checking our packs, we all found a small stone talisman resting atop our belongings. Fortunately, the markings on the talisman proved quite familiar. I had, in fact, had the same mark inked into my forearm after it had proven both quite legitimate and incredibly useful when we'd first encountered it some years ago in Paraguay. Either our assailants had accidentally all dropped their own protection carefully into our closed packs, or these people did not wish harm upon us. The symbol could mean something else to these people, but given it's intricate detail and the general disconcerting similarity amongst the cults we'd investigated so far, I was willing to wager on our safety.

I asked the young Englishwoman we'd conscripted as our interpreter to loudly and clearly express our peaceful intent to the jungle at large, of the mind that whomever had accosted us was also likely keeping us under surveillance. Sure enough, not five minutes had passed before a small child strode into the camp to lead us (presumably) to his people.

The Shocking Endeavors of Brennan & Smythe: Some More Finally

Okay, I know I've been a fucking louse lately. Medical issues and general malaise have left me pretty much incapable of sustained creativity, so the idea of putting together a continuous narrative has been equal parts insurmountable and agonizing. But things are getting better and I love writing B&S so I'm gonna soldier on today. That brings us to our sponsor: Getting Your Shit Together.

Are you tired of all your shit being fucked up? Has the effort of holding the tattered remnants of your life and sanity together effected your work and social life? Try Getting Your Shit Together! You too can bask in the mild satisfaction of generally being okay. You'll be vaguely surprised at how quickly your your life slightly improves! Get Your Shit Together today!



We set out briskly after a sparse breakfast. The locals seemed happy to watch us go, for all their hospitality I imagine they feared the barbarians at their gates taking their kindness to us as some kind of affront. In truth I at least was glad to be underway in earnest. The old man's tales of dark Gods and evil magics had festered in my dreams and made me desperate to learn their truth. Our journeys had given me glimpses of the knowledge and power I craved. I became more convinced than ever that if only I could learn the wicked secret behind the horrors that these cults summoned to their aid I could be a vaccine. That I could use their sickening craft to fight them. If only I could find the Will to look upon their works and the strength to understand. But I digress.

The forest air was thick and stagnant. Oppressive. At least the undergrowth was soft and, for a while at least, yielded readily to our axes and machetes. Though the stink of the bleeding flora made our eyes sting, and their vital juices had dulled our blades irredeemably by midday, we were mostly in good spirits. There was a small clearing near a stream where we stopped for lunch. It was a quiet place, more so than the stretch of jungle we'd passed through. A persistent quietude that one of the younger volunteers, Simmons I think, commented upon with some measure of trepidation. He was right to be concerned, it turned out.

We had nearly finished our lunch when a shrill cry filled the forest, as though the rage and pain of all the world was being forced through the bent and twisted trees. It made my soul ache and my vision swim. Dear friends I wish from the bottom of my heart that I could tell you what transpired over the next few hours, but the cry, that horrid shriek, robbed my of consciousness. I did not wake until at least that night, and the waking was cold comfort.

Brennan & Smythe Episode 3: There's More!

My computer took a rocket-powered, stratospheric shit recently, so today's post might be a bit brief. The fate of my computer does, however, lead fortuitously to our sponsor for today's episode: Murphey's Law. Do you miss feeling like the whole world is conspiring against you? Is the ease of success making you soft? Don't worry! Murphey's Law is here to help. Watch helplessly as things go fuck-headed for no apparent reason. Feel that comforting old panic as your best laid plans are torn asunder by the vagueries of fate. Murphey's Law : Because fuck you! Now on with the show.



The death cast a pall upon our small party as we searched the village and questioned its residents. They were kindly folk, clearly as disturbed by this morning's morbidity as my companions. Patrick managed to calm one of the older gentlemen sufficiently to extract the man's reckoning of the likely course of Jenkin's demise. The village was occasionally troubled by forest folk, madmen who lived in the hills and sustained themselves via a hardy regiment of banditry and rape.

Apparently, they would come to a home in the night, drug the residents, and then proceed to torture the menfolk and drag the women to the hills to cater to their sinister impulses. The man had many theories regarding the reasons for such sadism; they worship evil gods, they use nefarious magics to make themselves immortal, simply that they hate good folk and revel in making them suffer. Standard Boogyman folklore, but given the circumstances, not to be disregarded out of hand.

Our search of the village bore little fruit, and some of our compatriots had started to grow concerned about the merit of our expedition. However, between Patrick appealing to their better nature and my calling for vengeance for our terribly fallen comrade, the majority soon regained their fortitude. We bolstered our spirits and resolved to set out come morning. The rest of the day was spent rechecking supplies and fortifying the room we would be sharing that night. Understandably, there was little resistance to communal bunking and setting watch. The morning would break upon us blessedly devoid of event, the peace granting a renewed confidence as we set upon our way.

The Shocking Endeavors of Brennan & Smythe Ep. 2

Welcome back! Round 2 of The Shocking Endeavors of Brennan & Smythe is about to get underway, but first a word from our sponsor: Supplementary Day Drinking. Are you a creative in a rut? Maybe an office worker run dry on giveafuck. Try Supplementary Day Drinking to give you the competitive edge of a really nice buzz. Why face down that deadline alone when your friends Mr. Whiskey and the Archduke Lord Rummington have got your back? Supplementary Day Drinking: lets get some Giveafuck down you.


I am fortunate that my proclivity for publicly assaulting people with my cane coupled with my tenacious curiosity in regards to certain specialized fields of astrology and geology grants me a delightful amount of liberty in my responsibilities to the University. They quite appreciate having me as a resource, but any excuse to get me off campus is more than welcome. And so it was a simple matter to convince the Dean that I was desperately needed to investigate this pressing matter... and that it would serve the University well in scholarly circles if they where to reopen my "Fieldwork" account that I may be fully prepared for a major discovery that I could then attribute to their generosity. Between Mr. Brennan's broad reaching contacts as a private investigator, and my enthusiasm where spending Arkham's money is concerned we had no difficulty assembling a team for this little expedition. We were kitted and on our way to Thailand within a week of speaking to Newberg.

Other than a few incidents of motion sickness from a former student of mine with a curious disposition, and a frankly unacceptable quantity of stinging insects, our journey to the island was uneventful. I find the long, slow hikes and rickety boat trips on such an adventure almost soothing; at least when I'm not being fucking eaten alive. Someday, there will be a reckoning upon all the crawling, biting, stinging things and it shall be glorious.

We arrived on Ko Surin greeted by a young local man named Aawut, who had been arranged by Newberg to guide us to the relevant village. Aawut was a friendly sort, with a ready smile and keen eyes. He treated our weary little party to a small but hearty supper after the requisite salutations and networking. Our team having been welcomed and fed, the long trek caught up with us and we were shepherded to our respective quarters. The rooms were small, but comfortable as such things go, and for me at least the sleep afforded was quite restful.

Admittedly, the joys associated with a restful sleep were somewhat diminished when the rising sun brought gruesome tidings. Jenkins, a sturdy man in his forties Patrick had recruited in a seaside tavern, was found gutted and strewn about his bedroom after he had missed breakfast. Upon inspecting the body I found evidence of a high degree of precision and the use of a very sharp curved blade. It seemed like the wounds had been made while Jenkins yet lived, at least most of them, but there was no sign of struggle, no defensive injuries. The poor man had been drugged, tortured to death, and desecrated. Our journey had not been in vain.

The Shocking Endeavors of Brennan & Smythe

I've been having a hard time coming up with anything to write about lately, as you may have noticed. So instead of trolling news posts to pretend I'm relevant for five minutes I'd rather practice technique. With this in mind I've decided to write about the adventures of our Trails of Cthulhu group. None of the stories here will be official campaigns, so I wont spoil anything and the characters are original creations of Brian and I. Without further ado; I present the Shocking Endeavors of Brennan & Smythe.


From the Desk of Prof. Alfred Smythe, Arkham Univeristy:

I had only been to Thailand once before my good friend Patrick brought the Newberg case to my attention. Needless to say, a drunken spring holiday spent in unwholesome company did not leave me well prepared to investigate the possibility of an indigenous Cult. According to Mr. Newberg (via Patrick) a Mr. Silas Portfeld, Newberg's local liaison, had failed to make a monthly check in some four months hence. There had yet to be any word from him and, given how much of Mr. Portfeld's work apparently involved wandering the Siamese countryside, this was cause for concern.

Our client was interested in breaking into the rubber industry and had decided that exploiting the rural Siamese population was just the thing for it. Mr. Portfeld had been scouting communities and laying the groundwork for future relations. Much of this revolved around mesmerizing local rubes with meaningless jargon and convincing them to negotiate with the local authorities on his behalf. I've no love lost for such degrading interference, so I was heartened to learn that Portfeld had all but struck out. He seemed to be having some measure of success, however, with a small village on the island of Ko Surin, in the Phang Nga province. The locals seemed quite interested in establishing not just a broader dialog with Newberg's organization, but also with breaking ground for a factory. The correspondences we'd been given in regards to the case immediately made clear why we'd been contacted.

It seemed the villagers were rather preoccupied with what they called "The All-Embracing Sea", the expanse of water surrounding the island. In fact, the reports provided described a rather vibrant and bizarre religious life centered on this Sea. Portfeld had in his writings described men industriously carving great beasts of unnerving design into the living wood of trees surrounding the village. A description made all the more disturbing by the phrase "wood of a pale red color, with a thin black pitch that pooled at strange angles to the earth." I will never understand Man's willingness to overlook concerning details when there is gain to be had. For; like a sailor recently ashore, good Silas had been more concerned with bending the locals over a barrel than with what he'd end up paying.

Citation Needed Part DEUX

I enjoyed writing the post from a little bit ago I have decided to do it again. Here are some interesting facts I found from around the web:

1: Contrary to popular belief, bats are not blind. They can see, however everything is tinted blue.

2: The First person on record to have died of laughing was a Grecian cook named Skatáton Eaf̱tósas did so upon accidentally inventing the laxative at a baccanal.

3: Ecuador is the worlds top exporter of domesticated penguins.

4: There is a breed of jumping spider that can jump so high that it dies from the resulting fall. It is known as Salticidae Conscivit.

5: President John Quincy Adams once funded an expedition to meet the mole people who lived under the Earth's crust. The trade mission failed however as mole people refuse to do buisiness with bald people. They view them as cowards, who are not to be trusted (even their hair runs away).

6: The biggest cause of accidental death in offices is the copy machine. Workers will often try to photo copy their ass and break the glass inside, which can sever the femoral artery.

7: The orange paint used to create the makeup for the oompa loompas in the original Charlie And The Chocolate Factory permanently dyed the actors orange. 

8: Winston Churchill's last words were "I think I just shat on my knob".

9: Cats cannot perceive citrus odors.

10: All photographs of the Loch Ness Monster are fake as Nessie died fighting against British naval forces during Edward I's campaign to take Scotland in 1296 well before the invention of photography. The most famous photograph of "Nessie" is actually a photo of the Loch Oich monster who took up the reigns of Nessie after she died.

Fuck You, You'll Read It

When I was a kid the only thing I ever really wanted was to have real, true love. I know its kinda weird to have a guy admit that but its true, and that goal has played a massive role in my life. I've always prioritized meaningful, intimate personal relationships over everything else; friends should be absolute confidants and partners should be nurtured and embraced as though they are part of the self. This makes me a support character in my own life, and I like it that way. I met the woman who was to be my wife when I was nineteen years old and once it became clear that that was how things were going down I wanted nothing more than to give my life supporting her in her pursuits. I love being a husband, being the support network for my wife, who I met when I was nineteen.

Complete and unconditional love is the only thing I've ever wanted and I got it before I was old enough to drink. How the fuck do you find a new ambition after that? What would be the point? I can (and have) make more friends, but the pressure to socialize is diminished in the face of the ongoing intergalactic genital high-five that is my wife. I could get really into a career if I really wanted to alienate my wife and betray every principle to which I've given myself. I know I sound like I'm bitching but I'm really not, its just struck me lately how awkward it is in our society to not really respect self-sufficiency or independence, which made me think about how I came to that place.

I don't value being independent because none of us really are, and the insidious lie that we are is the source of some very deep-seated issues. Self-sufficiency is just laughable as soon as you aren't completely alone, why work hard just to keep yourself going when a group cooperating provides for more people with less individual effort. The problem here arises from the fact that since I don't value those things I also don't understand a lot of the barriers people put up around themselves.

If there is a bullet point to take away from this its that I'm socially retarded and I don't fucking understand why you aren't, but I don't know. Fuck you, you read it.