No one has more Calc problems than the mayor.
No one.
I must get called at least once a month to rid his property of the bony bastards.
I have never quite figured out what it is about his place that seems to draw them in. Sure, the guy is well off enough, but it's not like he's sitting on a PILE of gold.
Well, I'm not really going to complain, because it helps pay the rent, and has allowed me to get close enough to the mayor that I can get by with most of the property damage my line of work brings without having to go to COURT.
Anyway, I got a call from the mayor at about midnight, saying he had some stuff missing from his house, and thought the Calcs might be sneaking in and robbing him. I considered suggesting that it could be run-of-the-mill thieves, but I needed the money, so I grabbed my gear and got ready to head out.
I wasn't having any luck sleeping anyway-- my neighbor had some kind of weird music playing and the sound was shaking my walls. He must have had some kind of rave going on, because when I left I saw all kinds of colorful lights coming from his windows. This happens AT LEAST twice a week. I am going to have to talk to him about that.
I get to the mayor's place at about 1:30 am and ask him what is missing. The mayor tells me that they seem to be going after boxes and chests. Typical Calc thinking: a box is a treasure chest, and must have something valuable in it. So far, they had just got a couple shoe boxes full of receipts and some wrapped presents the mayor had under his Christmas tree.
The confusing part was how they were getting in; not a single door was left unlocked or a window found broken. I decided to camp out on the mayor's couch and wait to see what happened.
It wasn't too long before I found out what was going on. About an hour after I arrived, I heard some scratching noises on the roof. Didn't think much of it at first. Thought it must be birds, but I grabbed The Bat all the same.
Imagine my surprise when I see a pair of legs wearing red pants drop down the chimney by the tree. The shock was even greater when a Calc crawled out of the fireplace, FULLY DRESSED as Santa Claus, fake beard and all.
Now you know ole Jonesy's seen a lot in his time, but this takes the cake and throws it out the window and then asks for another and there's not even an extra cake so all around everyone is pretty upset. I mean where did a CALC even get this idea? Did he steal someone's TV and see some Christmas cartoons? I don't know, but The Bat quickly put everything back in order.
I smashed the damn thing's filthy skull, and decided to check the roof, just to make sure there weren't any of his buddies lurking around.
That was when it went from weird to FUCKING STRANGE.
The roof was clear, but there was an odd shadow on one corner of the estate. As I approached, I made out the shape of a sled with eight Calc REINDEER tethered to it.
This bastard went all out.
I didn't even want to think what a MESS it was going to be putting the damn things down. Calc animals tend to be real biters, so I didn't want to get too close. They looked mean anyway.
Jonesy pulled through, though. I quickly ran back to the mayor's house, grabbed some alcohol, made some Molotov Cocktails, and set the ugly beasts on fire.
The one downside was they went crazy and ran into the mayor's shed, burning it down, before eventually dying.
The mayor wasn't too pleased about the shed, but that is the way this job goes. Sometimes you gotta burn a few sheds to make an omelet.
Watch your chimneys, people.
Merry Christmas,
Jonesy Sawbones.
Friday, December 5, 2008
Thursday, July 24, 2008
God-dammit, OR, The Bone-Headed Media, Part 2
July 15, 2008
Dearest Mr. Sawbones,
Mr. Burton would like to thank you for your interest in his work. Tim takes his connections with the darkened people amongst our younger citizens very seriously. After all, it can be a big, confusing world where our kind is easily or intentionally misunderstood. Just look at how much sunlight there is on any given day, and consider our easily our porcelain skin would scorch beneath its loathsome rays. Unfortunately, it seems only we chosen few shall understand the true dark and dangerous whimsy of this earth during our short time here.
Enclosed please find one (1) ten dollar gift certificate to your local Hot Topic store and one (1) limited edition print of Tim's character design for Ringo Grover, the main character of Mr. Burton's upcoming animated feature film Rock and Roll Them Bones. Knowing how much his fans enjoyed Johnny Depp's amazingly powerful singing voice in his adaptation of Sweeney Todd, Tim has again cast his friend in the role of Ringo Grover, a down-on-his-luck skeleton with dreams of becoming a rock star. Rock and Roll Them Bones, in theaters this Halloween! Featuring guest artists Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, and Prussian Blue!
With Most Sincere Regards,
Mrs. Judith Mason
Secretary of Mr. Burton
GOD-DAMMIT. WHAT THE HELL. A FORM LETTER? ALL I GET IS A FORM LETTER? And get a load of this:
Has that jackass ever even SEEN a Calc? This looks like a God-damned gray alien that fell into its sister's makeup kit.
God-dammit.
Dearest Mr. Sawbones,
Mr. Burton would like to thank you for your interest in his work. Tim takes his connections with the darkened people amongst our younger citizens very seriously. After all, it can be a big, confusing world where our kind is easily or intentionally misunderstood. Just look at how much sunlight there is on any given day, and consider our easily our porcelain skin would scorch beneath its loathsome rays. Unfortunately, it seems only we chosen few shall understand the true dark and dangerous whimsy of this earth during our short time here.
Enclosed please find one (1) ten dollar gift certificate to your local Hot Topic store and one (1) limited edition print of Tim's character design for Ringo Grover, the main character of Mr. Burton's upcoming animated feature film Rock and Roll Them Bones. Knowing how much his fans enjoyed Johnny Depp's amazingly powerful singing voice in his adaptation of Sweeney Todd, Tim has again cast his friend in the role of Ringo Grover, a down-on-his-luck skeleton with dreams of becoming a rock star. Rock and Roll Them Bones, in theaters this Halloween! Featuring guest artists Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, and Prussian Blue!
With Most Sincere Regards,
Mrs. Judith Mason
Secretary of Mr. Burton
GOD-DAMMIT. WHAT THE HELL. A FORM LETTER? ALL I GET IS A FORM LETTER? And get a load of this:
Has that jackass ever even SEEN a Calc? This looks like a God-damned gray alien that fell into its sister's makeup kit.
God-dammit.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
On The Road Again
Some days a reputation can be more trouble than it's worth.
I bet you're wondering where I've been.
I got a visit from a government boy back near the end of May. It seems someone had just been in their office causing quite a stir about some fishy business in a seaside town not far from here, and demanded they investigate.
Well, I don't need to tell you that the government boys don't much like these little poverty stricken hovels, and if they can get someone else to check it out, they will. (Side note: Matthews once told me about how back in the mid-90s the Clinton administration contracted him to single-handedly get rid of a Likho that had somehow wandered out of the forests of Eastern Europe and set up camp in the Oval Office. For two whole weeks not a single government agent would go near the White House, he says, and they were keeping Clinton in a bunker somewhere. Though how far you're going to trust Matthews on that should be proportional to how far you can throw him.)
It just so happened this field agent of theirs had heard about my little golem stunt, and a bit about all the boneys I put in the hurt locker, and decided to pay ole Jonesy a visit.
Now you all know me as a calc hunter first and foremost, but business has been a little dry, (heh), rent was coming due, and I am also a licensed Adventurer.
I took the job.
Catch was, I had to keep it real hush-hush, not tell anyone about it. That's big government for you.
A day's journey by dirtbike saw me in the old dilapidated town, and I was none too impressed from the start. The buildings were falling down, many abandoned, the streets were shockingly empty and the few people I did see were downright ugly, and thanks to the local fishing trade, the whole town STANK.
These folk never blinked neither. Creepy.
So I found my way to The Gilman, the only hotel running in this dump, and unpacked my stuff. Let me tell you, this place was a wreck. No pool, no cable, no internet (looks like keeping quiet for Uncle Sam wouldn't be a problem), one dingy old electric light in the room, no running water, and a lot of scuffling around and muffled noise at night.
All I got out of the locals were stares and general avoidance, and I didn't even dare go near that god awful factory of theirs. Who knew smoke from a GOLD REFINERY would smell so damn disagreeable?
Anyhow, all these people were downright rude. Nearly two months there and the only words that pass between me and the hotel owner, for Pete's sake, is a "Good morning" on my part and and some kind of bubbly grunt on his part. An old drunk was the only company I found when he accosted me one day as I came out of the grocery with a newly purchased fifth of whiskey.
Now, recall that I'd been hanging around this forsaken place without so much as a lead for about a month. I mean, they have a GOLD REFINERY, remember, so if anything's going to attract the stick-body no-meats it's probably THAT. But so far there'd been nothing, no hint of calc or golem or what-have-you, just a quiet little fishing village with a population that didn't take too kindly to outsiders.
I was understandably starting to feel like a fish out of water, so you'll understand how I reluctantly gave the old drunk a belt of my whiskey with his promise of information. Not a sparkling gem of a plan, as it turns out. He spilled out a long and boring story in a terrible accent about only God knows what. I couldn't understand a word he was saying. At one point I thought I actually caught him talking about having sex with fishes. Wonderful.
Anyway, time went on, things stayed pretty boring, and the whole town stank of fish.
I never saw the bum again, but it's just as well, because after a while, even booze stopped being a distraction from the mind-numbing boredom.
Once my investigatory period was up, I gathered my belongings, went home with the paltry sum I got for my services rendered, and told the Feds in my written report the only problem with the town was the uppity people and the smell.
Their man on the inside didn't keep quiet, though. From what I understand, they went in and bombed some reef off the coast of the town just to shut the guy up. I guess the squeaky wheel gets the grease, but what do I care.
It's not all high adventure.
I bet you're wondering where I've been.
I got a visit from a government boy back near the end of May. It seems someone had just been in their office causing quite a stir about some fishy business in a seaside town not far from here, and demanded they investigate.
Well, I don't need to tell you that the government boys don't much like these little poverty stricken hovels, and if they can get someone else to check it out, they will. (Side note: Matthews once told me about how back in the mid-90s the Clinton administration contracted him to single-handedly get rid of a Likho that had somehow wandered out of the forests of Eastern Europe and set up camp in the Oval Office. For two whole weeks not a single government agent would go near the White House, he says, and they were keeping Clinton in a bunker somewhere. Though how far you're going to trust Matthews on that should be proportional to how far you can throw him.)
It just so happened this field agent of theirs had heard about my little golem stunt, and a bit about all the boneys I put in the hurt locker, and decided to pay ole Jonesy a visit.
Now you all know me as a calc hunter first and foremost, but business has been a little dry, (heh), rent was coming due, and I am also a licensed Adventurer.
I took the job.
Catch was, I had to keep it real hush-hush, not tell anyone about it. That's big government for you.
A day's journey by dirtbike saw me in the old dilapidated town, and I was none too impressed from the start. The buildings were falling down, many abandoned, the streets were shockingly empty and the few people I did see were downright ugly, and thanks to the local fishing trade, the whole town STANK.
These folk never blinked neither. Creepy.
So I found my way to The Gilman, the only hotel running in this dump, and unpacked my stuff. Let me tell you, this place was a wreck. No pool, no cable, no internet (looks like keeping quiet for Uncle Sam wouldn't be a problem), one dingy old electric light in the room, no running water, and a lot of scuffling around and muffled noise at night.
All I got out of the locals were stares and general avoidance, and I didn't even dare go near that god awful factory of theirs. Who knew smoke from a GOLD REFINERY would smell so damn disagreeable?
Anyhow, all these people were downright rude. Nearly two months there and the only words that pass between me and the hotel owner, for Pete's sake, is a "Good morning" on my part and and some kind of bubbly grunt on his part. An old drunk was the only company I found when he accosted me one day as I came out of the grocery with a newly purchased fifth of whiskey.
Now, recall that I'd been hanging around this forsaken place without so much as a lead for about a month. I mean, they have a GOLD REFINERY, remember, so if anything's going to attract the stick-body no-meats it's probably THAT. But so far there'd been nothing, no hint of calc or golem or what-have-you, just a quiet little fishing village with a population that didn't take too kindly to outsiders.
I was understandably starting to feel like a fish out of water, so you'll understand how I reluctantly gave the old drunk a belt of my whiskey with his promise of information. Not a sparkling gem of a plan, as it turns out. He spilled out a long and boring story in a terrible accent about only God knows what. I couldn't understand a word he was saying. At one point I thought I actually caught him talking about having sex with fishes. Wonderful.
Anyway, time went on, things stayed pretty boring, and the whole town stank of fish.
I never saw the bum again, but it's just as well, because after a while, even booze stopped being a distraction from the mind-numbing boredom.
Once my investigatory period was up, I gathered my belongings, went home with the paltry sum I got for my services rendered, and told the Feds in my written report the only problem with the town was the uppity people and the smell.
Their man on the inside didn't keep quiet, though. From what I understand, they went in and bombed some reef off the coast of the town just to shut the guy up. I guess the squeaky wheel gets the grease, but what do I care.
It's not all high adventure.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Some Q & A
Seeing as it's a Sunday, and I'm already awake, I figure I will take some time to answer some questions I have been getting from readers.
Q: Have you ever got any worthwhile loot from calc hunting?
A: Well, this depends on your definition of worthwhile. Have I found any caches of gold? No. Have I found anything worth keeping for myself? Once.
You see, when I first started hunting calcs, I carried a sledgehammer with me. In my youth I saw only how awesome it would look smashing through a Calc's skull, and reducing it to powder. And boy, did it! I hadn't, however, considered how heavy and inconvenient it would be.
Luckily for me, not far into my career, I happened upon a Calc dungeon.
After an hour or so of cleaning it out, I saw an old wooden treasure chest.
"Finally," I thought, "I have found one of these caches of gold the Calcs are said to horde."
I eagerly opened the chest and my excitement quickly turned to anger.
"What kind of asshole puts a baseball bat in a treasure chest?"
Well, I resolved that I would use this "treasure" of theirs to kill as many of them as I possibly could.
Needless to say, it quickly proved itself a worthy weapon, and replaced my hammer.
Looking back, it was the best treasure I have ever found.
And to those who wonder why I continue despite the fact that Calc hunting barely produces enough loot to pay the rent, I will just say killing Calcs is its own reward.
I may answer some more questions soon. For now, I am going to have some breakfast and give the ol' dirtbike a well-deserved oil change and tune-up.
Q: Have you ever got any worthwhile loot from calc hunting?
A: Well, this depends on your definition of worthwhile. Have I found any caches of gold? No. Have I found anything worth keeping for myself? Once.
You see, when I first started hunting calcs, I carried a sledgehammer with me. In my youth I saw only how awesome it would look smashing through a Calc's skull, and reducing it to powder. And boy, did it! I hadn't, however, considered how heavy and inconvenient it would be.
Luckily for me, not far into my career, I happened upon a Calc dungeon.
After an hour or so of cleaning it out, I saw an old wooden treasure chest.
"Finally," I thought, "I have found one of these caches of gold the Calcs are said to horde."
I eagerly opened the chest and my excitement quickly turned to anger.
"What kind of asshole puts a baseball bat in a treasure chest?"
Well, I resolved that I would use this "treasure" of theirs to kill as many of them as I possibly could.
Needless to say, it quickly proved itself a worthy weapon, and replaced my hammer.
Looking back, it was the best treasure I have ever found.
And to those who wonder why I continue despite the fact that Calc hunting barely produces enough loot to pay the rent, I will just say killing Calcs is its own reward.
I may answer some more questions soon. For now, I am going to have some breakfast and give the ol' dirtbike a well-deserved oil change and tune-up.
Saturday, May 24, 2008
Stupid dream.
I had a dream about the mess in Boulder last night. It was exactly the way it was seven years ago: I was a bright-eyed young Adventurer, the ink not even dry on my degree, and I was giving my first-year thesis presentation to a PACKED auditorium. Like in real life, I was giving a revised theory of the Olstermann Hypothesis (for those of you not of the Life, the theory that instead of our bodies being supported by "skeletons" that become Calcs on death, our muscles and organs etc are in fact supported and protected by a BONE-LIKE structure of hyper-condensed meat). Since this was a dream I'd come up with some startling new conclusion that made sense at the time, but I can't recall for the life of me what it was.
Anyway, everything is going along just as it should. It's like when I take the dirtbike over a hill and soar through the air, time just seems to slow down and my moment of glory will last forever. Or whatever.
And then, just as I start in on my synthesis of Aquinas and Olstermann, it starts.
TOE BONE CONNECTED TO THE -- FOOT BONE
FOOT BONE CONNECTED TO THE -- SHIN BONE
SHIN BONE CONNECTED TO THE -- KNEE BONE
Soft at first, and I think someone's pranking me. Maybe it's Matthews or Thompson... but no. It gets LOUDER. I realize it's coming from EVERYWHERE, a chorus of people standing up from their seats, singing in unison.
Young people, my age or not much older. Everyone is just dead silent, watching as these jerkoffs march out to the center aisle and proceed to dance toward the stage. There's about two-dozen of them in all. Are they CRAZY? Who would be ballsy enough to make a mockery of the National Adventurers' Conference?
KNEE BONE CONNECTED TO THE -- THIGH BONE
THIGH BONE CONNECTED TO THE -- HIP BONE
HIP BONE CONNECTED TO THE -- BACK BONE
They march right up onto the stage and start ripping off their clothes. (It's not what you think, trust me.) Underneath their regular clothes they've got some kind of black Lycra or Spandex painted with Calc-pieces, as if they were a PART of their OWN BODIES. It's disgusting. Even remembering it makes me feel like I'm gonna spew a bit. Hell, I'm surprised I didn't upchuck right there on the stage back in 2001. I know there are even some Calc hunters raised Protestant that would've lost their lunch at this grotesque... well, whatever it was. The jerks keep singing:
DEM BONES DEM BONES DEM DRYYYYY BONES
NOW THERE'S THE WORKING OF THE LORD
And as I'm standing there, dumbfounded, one of them steps forward and GRABS my MIC like I wasn't just giving a presentation. He starts rambling on and on about civil rights and the decomposition of flesh and some crap like that. I realize what this is. A God-damned DEMONSTRATION. Here, of all places, and DURING MY THESIS.
Even now I can still see him, burned into my mind like he was seven years ago. Short, shorter than most. Thinning brown hair. Stubble. Wire-rimmed glasses. Southern accent. Southern accent? Ha! A damned DRAWL is what it is.
Calaveras, he says his name is. Calaveras.
And in the dream, just like on the stage seven years ago, I can't hold it in anymore. I take a running jump at him, make contact with his lower chest, and we both go flying off into the aisle. I'm punching the everloving crap out of this guy, showing him what's what, and I know if I had The Bat with me then Calaveras wouldn't be the thorn in my side he is today.
But this was a dream so of course Calaveras basically folded in my hands like wet construction paper. Then I got hungry and went looking for a sandwich, but a bridge was in the way so I jumped over it. Don't remember any more.
Yeah, it got stupid there at the end but for a good while it was pretty vivid. I wish I could remember what sort of discovery I'd made in my dream, maybe it was something that would get Calaveras off my case once and for all.
Anyway, everything is going along just as it should. It's like when I take the dirtbike over a hill and soar through the air, time just seems to slow down and my moment of glory will last forever. Or whatever.
And then, just as I start in on my synthesis of Aquinas and Olstermann, it starts.
TOE BONE CONNECTED TO THE -- FOOT BONE
FOOT BONE CONNECTED TO THE -- SHIN BONE
SHIN BONE CONNECTED TO THE -- KNEE BONE
Soft at first, and I think someone's pranking me. Maybe it's Matthews or Thompson... but no. It gets LOUDER. I realize it's coming from EVERYWHERE, a chorus of people standing up from their seats, singing in unison.
Young people, my age or not much older. Everyone is just dead silent, watching as these jerkoffs march out to the center aisle and proceed to dance toward the stage. There's about two-dozen of them in all. Are they CRAZY? Who would be ballsy enough to make a mockery of the National Adventurers' Conference?
KNEE BONE CONNECTED TO THE -- THIGH BONE
THIGH BONE CONNECTED TO THE -- HIP BONE
HIP BONE CONNECTED TO THE -- BACK BONE
They march right up onto the stage and start ripping off their clothes. (It's not what you think, trust me.) Underneath their regular clothes they've got some kind of black Lycra or Spandex painted with Calc-pieces, as if they were a PART of their OWN BODIES. It's disgusting. Even remembering it makes me feel like I'm gonna spew a bit. Hell, I'm surprised I didn't upchuck right there on the stage back in 2001. I know there are even some Calc hunters raised Protestant that would've lost their lunch at this grotesque... well, whatever it was. The jerks keep singing:
DEM BONES DEM BONES DEM DRYYYYY BONES
NOW THERE'S THE WORKING OF THE LORD
And as I'm standing there, dumbfounded, one of them steps forward and GRABS my MIC like I wasn't just giving a presentation. He starts rambling on and on about civil rights and the decomposition of flesh and some crap like that. I realize what this is. A God-damned DEMONSTRATION. Here, of all places, and DURING MY THESIS.
Even now I can still see him, burned into my mind like he was seven years ago. Short, shorter than most. Thinning brown hair. Stubble. Wire-rimmed glasses. Southern accent. Southern accent? Ha! A damned DRAWL is what it is.
Calaveras, he says his name is. Calaveras.
And in the dream, just like on the stage seven years ago, I can't hold it in anymore. I take a running jump at him, make contact with his lower chest, and we both go flying off into the aisle. I'm punching the everloving crap out of this guy, showing him what's what, and I know if I had The Bat with me then Calaveras wouldn't be the thorn in my side he is today.
But this was a dream so of course Calaveras basically folded in my hands like wet construction paper. Then I got hungry and went looking for a sandwich, but a bridge was in the way so I jumped over it. Don't remember any more.
Yeah, it got stupid there at the end but for a good while it was pretty vivid. I wish I could remember what sort of discovery I'd made in my dream, maybe it was something that would get Calaveras off my case once and for all.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
"Skeletons"
Okay, I've got to address this issue. The Calc-Sympathizers are claiming that Calcs are really just human remains, or "skeletons," that have been re-animated by greater forces. While on one hand, this makes some degree of sense and explains why they look so much like us. On the other, it in no way explains why the Calcs are such magnificent assholes.
Sure, I've known assholes. I've been one from time to time. And I'm pretty sure that son of a bitch Calaveras is a Secret Calc. But constantly hoarding gold for no good reason? Hanging around in dungeons where nobody in their right mind would go? Those just aren't the kind of things dead humans would do. And people wear CLOTHES, not just furred boots.
No, the Calcs are a totally different race. They do their own, terrible, thing and they answer to the call of the Bone Bitch (I've never understood that name, but that's what the other Adventurers call it. [I understand the "Bitch" part]).
I don't know, these guys just don't understand the clanky sons of bitches like I do.
Sure, I've known assholes. I've been one from time to time. And I'm pretty sure that son of a bitch Calaveras is a Secret Calc. But constantly hoarding gold for no good reason? Hanging around in dungeons where nobody in their right mind would go? Those just aren't the kind of things dead humans would do. And people wear CLOTHES, not just furred boots.
No, the Calcs are a totally different race. They do their own, terrible, thing and they answer to the call of the Bone Bitch (I've never understood that name, but that's what the other Adventurers call it. [I understand the "Bitch" part]).
I don't know, these guys just don't understand the clanky sons of bitches like I do.
Monday, May 19, 2008
The Bone-Headed Media, Part 1
So I realized I've come pretty close to slipping away from this blog AGAIN. I decided the best way to keep my interest up until I get into the habit of writing so often is to discuss issues I have strong feelings about (That is, things that piss me off). One of these things is the Calcs and their portrayal by what we that live the Life like to call the "bone-headed" media. I have a whole notebook of this stuff, more than would make an entry, and my pals have got some of their own gripes that I'll write about if I ever feel low on creative juice. For now I'm going to focus on one thing per entry, so consider this part one of whatever.
I've talked about Hollywood and Calcs before, but only in passing. The most obvious and flagrant Calc-sympathizing, however, comes from a rather unfortunately and incomprehensibly POPULAR director, Tim Burton. Rather than spell everything out a second time, here's a copy of a letter I sent to him last week:
I've talked about Hollywood and Calcs before, but only in passing. The most obvious and flagrant Calc-sympathizing, however, comes from a rather unfortunately and incomprehensibly POPULAR director, Tim Burton. Rather than spell everything out a second time, here's a copy of a letter I sent to him last week:
Tim Burton
c/o Mike Simpson,
May 13, 2008
Dear Mr. Burton:
My name is Jonesy Sawbones. It has come to my attention as a lawful citizen of this country with the interests of future generations in mind that your films promote the most VILE possible variety of subversive behavior in today’s youth. I refer, of course, to your obvious sympathetic stance on the matter of Calcoids or, as I’m sure you prefer to refer to them, “Skele-Americans” or “the flesh impaired.”
I call them Calcs, Mr. Burton, because I like to call things what they ACTUALLY ARE. I am a professional, licensed Adventurer with an emphasis on Calcoid Studies (BA from Notre Dame, class of ’00). I know my area, Mr. Burton, and I know it damn well. I know that your portrayal of no-meats is erroneous and dangerous. I will admit that your films display a capacity of imagination that is admirable, but the ends to which you turn your imagination must have value as well. Children in particular are taken with your pictures, seeing as how you have a gift for fantastic worlds that would appeal to them. But you poison their minds, Mr. Burton, by telling an entire generation of children that boneys are not dangerous. They grow up thinking that Calcs are “cool” or “rad.” They buy clothes patterned with Calcoid faces from Hot Topic -- merchandise based EXPLICITLY on your films.
I know the truth. I know that a no-meat would just as soon congratulate them for wearing a “Corpse Bride” t-shirt than it would slaughter their family and ransack their gold reserves.
Your film The Nightmare Before Christmas is a pretty outrageous piece of calc propaganda. The HERO (if I can even call it that) is himself a hideous stickpile of a no-meat with designs to conquer the cherished holiday of Christmas. I will point out that this has never been attempted by any Calc in history, and probably wouldn’t be unless it is revealed that Santa Claus had a considerable cache of gold-pieces or, perhaps, a unique flail. I also take issue with your portrayal of a singing Calc. While not unheard of, this is fantastically rare (the last documented case of a so-called “musicalc” was the discovery of one in a Thule Society bunker by Allied Forces in
When that happens, Mr. Burton, you’ll need people like me to set things straight.
Sincerely,
Jonesy Sawbones
Adventurer
I'll let him mull that over for a while, let him reflect a little. If I get a response I'll let you guys know.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)