Bumble! Fuck! Four!

The Life and Times of Frederick P. Bumblefuck

Part 4

I have been trapped in my chair for a week. The bodies have begun to decompose, filling the room with the acrid stench of putrefaction: cadaverine and putrescine locked in foul coitus, looking up at the moment of simultaneous orgasm in order to say “fuck you, Fred.”

Every day.

For a week.

My time is spent in meditation, bringing my consciousness away from my vile room stained with hobo blood and into a state of near-Zen. My mind’s world is lush, green, one of waterfalls and bamboo forests, a paradise of sunshine, rainbows, and goddamn bunnies. I do not seek enlightenment, only solace. An escape from the small, bitter world that I currently inhabit, the world of darkness, of krazy-glue, of dead homeless people on the floor.

In a moment of consciousness, a moment away from my happy fantasy, I take time to regard the rotting corpses. Chainsaw Hobosworth PegLegington, lying alongside Hobo Number Two. Two warriors, fallen in mortal hobo combat. That, I realize, is what I want. A blaze of glory. Death in battle. But unlike the Fred Bumblefuck from a week ago, I will not give in when mortality comes. I will go down fighting. I will not die of starvation in a sticky fucking chair in some goddamn basement. I feel the adrenaline rising in my body, the strength returning to my muscles. I twist and torque, moving around as best I can against my krazy-glue restraints. The chair bends, gives, and finally breaks. I stand victorious, pieces of wooden chair still held fast to my clothing, but no longer hindering motion. I take what feel like my first steps. My legs falter for just a moment before I am once again in control, moving over the corpses and toward the door. I take #2’s shank and PegLegington’s drill. I might need them.

Light. Through the door is the most light I’ve seen in a week. It’s blinding, and I squint as my eyes adjust. But I don’t stop. I continue moving forward, into…

Into my building. Into the 16^th floor, on which are located both the penthouses and various storage rooms. I half expected a trapdoor directly over my study, so that they could poke their heads through my ceiling and monitor my every move.

Ceiling Hobo is watching you masturbate, lolz.

Not that I ever masturbate. It reminds me of that which I’ll never have, and just makes me feel worse in the long run.

I make my way down the hall. I reach the elevators and sucker-punch the DOWN arrow button. I wait for me elevator to arrive.

Will, a janitor, stands in the elevator, tapping his foot as he listens to some vile butt-rock. He’s going up to the 16^th floor to put away his mop and bucket before going home for the night. There is a ding and a whoosh, and the doors slide open, revealing a bloody-faced, scraggly man, his tattered clothing covered in krazy-glue and splinters. He holds a power drill in one hand and a knife in the other. He stumbles into the elevator as Will exits.

I consider killing Will for a moment, but I just want to go home. I press the “15” button and wait. The doors open, I get off. I walk to my door, fish out my keys, and open it up. There’s someone sitting at my computer, jerking off like there’s no tomorrow. He’s dressed like a butcher. There are bloodstains on his apron.

“Excuse me, but you’re sitting at my computer there.”

The butcher looks up, wiping off his hand on his white pants.

“Hobosworth didn’t kill you?” he says.

“Mr. PegLegington has been taken care of. Are you the man in white he told me about?”

“Yup. I orchestrated everything that’s happened to you in the last week and a half.”

“My cat?”

“…Almost everything.”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

“Because you ruined my fucking life, that’s why not!”

“Was your life really any better before this?”

“Well, no, but…”

“I made your life interesting.”

It was at that moment that I charged at him, bowled him over, and drove my drill into his stomach. There was blood everywhere, and the very satisfying noises of electric motors and rupturing organs. I was death. I was vengeance. I was pure hatred with power tools. I fucked him right up and stuffed him in my freezer. I ignored the blood on the carpet (and on my clothes) and went out for coffee.

Memoir 3 of Frederick Bumblefuck

The Life and Times of Frederick P. Bumblefuck

Part 3

So here I am, sitting in my 15^th-floor apartment, sans cat, sans hubcaps, sans dignity. I could have called the police about the hubcaps, but considering that I caused a huge accident by murdering my cat, I don’t think it’d be a good idea to draw attention to myself. The theft honestly baffles me. They weren’t even great hubcaps. They were cheap, and on top of that they were old and dirty and some of them were partially damaged. One had a giant penis scrawled on it in what I assume was permanent marker. Looking back, it’s a definite possibility that Chainsaw Hobosworth PegLegington had wanted the penis hubcap, since it was fairly well-drawn. The perspective, especially, had been impressive, and each individual hair had been meticulously illustrated. I’d have been flattered to have such a piece of art in my possession if it hadn’t been a fucking penis scribbled on my hubcap.

I get out of my chair. I walk to the bathroom. Methodically, I remove my contact lenses, brush my teeth, wash my face, and bash in the mirror with my forehead. I kick a hole in the wall. I put a band-aid on my forehead and go to bed. I cry myself to sleep.

Saturday, 9 AM. The sound of the alarm clock jerks me awake, destroying the night’s dream of a nice, normal life. My mood hasn’t improved, so I go back to sleep.

Saturday, 3 PM. Fuck! It’s 3 PM! Fuck! Fuck! I get out of bed, shower, shave, brush my teeth. I peel off the band-aid. I fish a small mirror out of the drawer, and inspect myself. I realize that I should have done that before I’d shaved. I look like the product of an unholy union between Wolverine and Harry Potter. I don’t care. I throw on some clean clothes and go for a walk.

So here I am, sitting on a bench in the park, giving serious consideration to the thought of trying to bum a doobie off the funny-looking stoner kid leaning against a nearby tree. Artificial happiness is sounding pretty good to me right now. I walk over. Before I manage to say a word to the kid, something catches my eye.

A man, dressed in tattered clothing, his dark hair and scraggly beard a mess, has caught a squirrel. I can’t see him very well, but my curiosity is piqued. I move a bit closer.

He raises the squirming rodent above his head and, exhaling deeply, tears it in two. He squeezes, exsanguinating the fragments of squirrel and letting the blood flow onto his face, down into his mouth. He roars. Roars like… like Godzilla. As he hobbles away, I make out what is clearly a peg leg.

I give chase.

As I run, I realize that I’m enjoying myself. I’m running down my prey like a cheetah on the African savannah or wherever, thinking of what it will be like when, finally, I catch up and pounce, sinking my teeth into the jugular of the foul-smelling, squirrel-sucking, crippled gazelle that is Chainsaw Hobosworth PegLegington. I’m gaining. Screeching a battle cry, I tackle the bastard to the sidewalk. I begin hitting him, and I don’t stop.

“Where are my hubcaps, Hobosworth?”

Hobosworth makes that confounded Godzilla noise again and wraps his legs around me. I don’t know if he’s trying to seduce me or do some UFC shit. He grabs me by the collar, pulls my head down, and starts punching the fuck out of it with his other hand. UFC shit. I decide that a clinch is a bad situation to fight Hobosworth in, and, painfully, I extract myself. He stands up, surprisingly fast for a man with a peg leg, and uppercuts me. Okay. Great. I feel an impact, and my knee gives out. Goddamnit, he kicked me. He roundhouse kicked me with his goddamn peg leg. As his hands find my throat, I give up. My kung fu was not strong enough, and I was defeated. I hope only for death with honor.

There’s a bright light, calling me out of my sleep. The sun. The walk, the doobie, the awful battle with Hobosworth, they were all a dream. Oh, thank god. I ease my eyes open and get up. I can’t.

Oh.

There.

Is.

No.

God.

I’m in a chair. I’m krazy-glued to the chair, and there’s a flashlight in my face. I can’t make out the figure holding it, but ten-to-one it is my arch-nemesis, Chainsaw Hobosworth PegLegington. The Godzilla noise confirms my theory. I guess I should say something.

“You should have ended my life when you had the chance, Hobosworth. That which doth not kill me makes me stronger, and soon I will strike you down.”

His voice was raspy and dusty, possibly because he roared more than he actually spoke.

“Bumble…fuck…”

Bumblefuck. The phrase instantly triggers a response, hardwired into my brain from my high school days. I am overwhelmed by humiliation and fear. I half-expect one of my captor’s hobo compatriots to come in, dragging a locker to stuff me in.

When I was a freshman in high school, I had a terrible stutter. On my first day, in my 1^st-period class, we went around the room, introducing ourselves. I, Fred P. Burns, was the first.

“H-hi. My n-name’s Frederick P. B-b-bur-“

I faltered. Under my breath, I muttered “fuck.”

The name stuck, sort of. It got corrupted into “Frederick P. Bumblefuck” and stayed with me for all of high school. When I moved across the country for college, I’d hoped never to hear it again. Now, 13 years after finishing high school, it appears that I’ve been found. With that, I take you back to the present: the horrible, horrible present.

“What!?” I splutter. “How…?”

“Yessssss… Frederick P. Bumble Fuck” he pronounced it as two words. “You have come to me, just as the man in white had predicted. So simple it was… all I needed was… leverage…”

Seriously creeped out now. I entertain the possibility that this is one of my high school nemeses, but I’d think I’d recognize him if it were. Also there’s no way anyone I didn’t like would become a hobo. Fate hates me too much to give me that kind of satisfaction.

“What,” I ask, because I fucking need to. “Is going on?”

He Godzilla-roars softly,

“We,” he rasps, “are playing Assassins!”

“I don’t think Assassins works this way at all.”

“It’s hobo-rules Assassins!”

“I’m going to regret this, but please explain.”

“People are divided into pairs. Each pair has one target, who don’t get told he’s playing. One hobo assassinates target. Other hobo tries to stop first hobo.”

“I... think I get it, yeah, but, I don’t think you’re supposed to kidnap me and glue me to a chair in a… wherever we are. I think you just touch me with a spoon or something.”

“Hobo-rules!” he roars. “I torture you! Then I eat you!”

“You know, I don’t think hobos are supposed to eat people. I thought hobos traveled around looking for jobs.”

“You! Know! Nothing!” Drops of foul spittle pepper my face. Blood is trickling from his rotting teeth, and I pray that I don’t get a faceful of that next.

“I’m going to get the drill. You stays here.”

I don’t have a whole lot of choice. I stay there.

So there I am. Sitting krazy-glued to a chair in a dark room, waiting for a homeless man to torture me to death with a drill because he’s playing some fucked-up variation of the Assassin game. Another day in the life, I guess.

My watch shows the date, and if it is to be believed, I have been here for three days. I am starving. I tried to eat my own arm yesterday, but I couldn’t gnaw through my sweater.

Three days and eleven hours. The past forty minutes have been spent trying to stop my own heart with the power of thought alone. I’m not making any progress. The sound of splintering wood jerks me into alertness as Hobosworth crashes headfirst through the door. A second hobo, spry and lanky, pounces on him. Hobosworth raises his peg leg and stabs it through the torso of Hobo #2. The sound of blood splattering on the floor mixes with Hobosworth’s Godzilla shriek. The second hobo, eyes aflame with pseudo-righteous anger, breaks the peg leg in twain with the ridge of his hand. Hobosworth attempts to stand, bracing himself against a nearby wall, but it’s too late. I see the flash of a new shank as Hobo #2 dashes past my captor. Hobosworth’s head rockets into the ceiling, propelled by a geyser of blood. Hobo #2, smiling, collapses, dead.

So here I am, krazy-glued to a chair, in a dark room I-don’t-know-where, with two dead homeless people. Fuck this, I think. I go to sleep.

Fiction: Memoir #2 of Fred Bumblefuck

The Life and Times of Frederick P. Bumblefuck

Part 2

I hear tires squealing on asphalt, then a crash, metal bucking and breaking against stronger metal. Car alarms. Horns. I walk away from the window without looking out. I have a good idea of what happened: the soggy meteor that was my defenestrated cat had landed on a car. It crashed through the windshield, or maybe the sunroof, and the driver panicked. He swerved, hitting some SUV-driving douchemonkey. A few cars behind him crashed, too, unable to stop in time. Maybe something exploded.

At least, that’s what I’d like to think happened. I know that the truth is probably a bit less awesome.

I go to my closet. Fish out the bare-bones stock keyboard from the dust-covered box. I walk to my computer and plug it in. I dump my ass back into the swivel-chair and look at my IM window.

AngelDemon45173: u ther

AngelDemon45173: helo

AngelDemon45173: dude i totaly got laid yestrady

AngelDemonWhoGivesAFuck is a friend of my brother. His real name’s Dave. I’m going to call him Dave, because his screenname is just stupid.

Everything about Dave is stupid.

Dave: i know ur there. i saw u were typin a message cmon dude

I’mNotGivingOutMyScreename: I was, but then something cmae up.

Moi: *came

Dave: well dude. i got laid

Me: I saw.

Myself: Congratulations?

Dave: shes out of prenancey tests

Dave: could u pick some up 4 me

Why me?: Why me?

Dave: i have a paper do in an our i need 2 b workin on it

Fred: Dammit Dave. Okay, okay. I need to go to the wtore anyway, I guess I can pick you fuckers up a pregnancy test.

I: *store

Dave: thanx bud!

Dave’s sex life is far more active than mine. This is because he is more attracted to vomiting drunken women than I am. I put on a sweatshirt and grab my keys.

In the apartment complex’s parking garage, I find some homeless guy with a peg leg trying to steal my hubcaps. I yell at him and he turns around, an expression of horrifying curiosity on his face. He has a cardboard sign reading “need money for chainsaw fuel” krazy-glued to the crotch of his pants. He lets out a sound that reminds me very much of Godzilla, and hobbles off to the next row of cars.

I climb into the car and drive off.

No, I climb into the car and try to drive off. I get to the exit and realize that traffic is backed up completely around my building, due to my goddamn cat. The bastard continues to vex me from the grave. I park in the nearest open spot, and, grudgingly, walk to a bus stop a few blocks down, where traffic isn’t stopped. The bus arrives. I get on, pay, sit down. Oh my god.

It’s nearly empty. The few people here are being quiet, reading newspapers, listening to music, playing handheld video games, whatever. It doesn’t smell bad. As we begin to move, I realize that the driver is competent. The trip to the department store is uneventful.

I’m practically grinning as I get off the bus. I step on a dead pigeon. I’m not grinning anymore.

You don’t want me to talk about my shopping experience. It wasn’t so bad, except for the scary saleswoman who helped me find the pregnancy tests. She didn’t shut up with the questions about my sex life (lady, I’m not telling you my fetishes, goddamn it. I’m also not going to tell you if I’m bigger or smaller than your husband), ever. I asked her where the coat hangers were, thinking maybe that’d scare her off. It didn’t. She tried to discuss techniques with me. At that point, I just ran.

So I check out, with my new keyboard, a few groceries, and Dave’s pregnancy test. I catch a bus to Dave’s place.

One of Dave’s roommates answers the door. Dave lives in an apartment with my brother and some other douchebag, and goes to college nearby.

“Hey, Fred.”

“Hi, Dave’s roommate.”

Dave’s roommate invites me in. I enter. I talk to my brother for a while, drop off the test, and put as much distance between myself and Dave as possible. When I get back to my apartment, I’ve decided to put Dave’s screenname on my block list. I’m thinking about how awesome that’ll be when I come across my car in the parking garage. It is where I left it.

It is not, however, as I left it. The hubcaps are gone, and there are muddy peg-leg footprints leading away from the scene.

Fiction: Memoir #1 of Fred Bumblefuck

The Life and Times of Frederick P. Bumblefuck.

So.

It’s about 9:30 in the evening. I’m tired and depressed, which is a shitty combination. I’m sittin’ backwards in my swivel chair in front of my computer, my arms crossed. My head is down, resting in my arms, which in turn rest on the back of the chair. My position is almost fetal, but not quite. Eyes are closed, but I’m far from asleep. Unfortunately and unwillingly, my mind is fully alert, too busy being pissy to give me any solace.

At 9:37, I haven’t moved from my melancholy semifetal position. I hear a crisp pseudo-musical sound from the computer speakers, the familiar chime indicating that I’ve received an instant message. The message is probably from someone I have one of three feelings toward: apathy, mild dislike, and intensely blazing “fuck you” hatred. Nobody I give a fuck about is online. I haven’t checked, but I know that those people are never fucking online. Without raising my head, without opening my eyes, I lift one hand and begin to blind-type.

“What do you want?”

At least, I think that’s what I typed. I don’t have a particularly photographic mental image of my keyboard, so it could well have been “Ehay fi you anmt>.” I raise my head slightly, opening my eyes to make sure whoever just messaged me doesn’t think I’m having a seizure when I hit Enter.

Aw, fuck. No wonder the keyboard felt weird.

With my eyes locked shut like the blast doors in the Death Star, I had failed to notice the cat on the keyboard, looking quite content. I had typed the message on the cat. I pick up my worthless smiling animal and dump it on the floor. Looking back to the keyboard, I realize why it had been smiling.

My typing had somehow caused the cat to orgasm. Dear god, it spooged on my keyboard.

I am smoldering with fury at this point. I wish death upon my cat and its entire family, wherever they are. But I keep my head. Sighing, I disconnect the keyboard. I think I have my computer’s stock keyboard in the closet still. I guess I can use that for the time being. I pick up my horrible, vile, jizz-gushing beast and haul its evil ass into the bathroom. I lock it inside. I go to the kitchen, finding latex gloves under the sink. I go back to the bathroom, turn on the water, and calmly wash my cat. I clean its fur thoroughly, removing everything built up on it. I don’t towel it dry. I pick it up, still wearing the gloves, and march toward my window. I put the cat outside.

I live on the fifteenth floor.

It screamed as it plummeted to its death.

I didn’t know cats could do that.

Cool.

"Rougannu", or "Japland Has Some Splainin' To Do"

Let me begin by saying that I am not an anime hater. I'm just not a fan. There are a couple anime that are near and dear to my heart, such as Cowboy Bebop and, to a lesser extent, Samurai Champloo.

That said, let's get right into my rant.

In an act comparable to Pearl Harbor 2: Electric Animugaloo, the Japanese have gleefully ruined one of the most iconic of American superheroes. Now, this really doesn't sound all that bad at first. They've done similar things in the past. Who can forget, for example, the Tokusatsu Henshin Giant Robot Spider-Man show from back in the day, in which Spider would summon his mechanized battlesuit Leopardon (yes, Leopardon. Somehow the Japanese connect Spider-Man with leopards, I guess. At least, I think it was Leopardon. Could've been Leperdon. I think it might've launched its body parts at Spidey's enemies, so Leperdon could be it) to fight giant-sized alien-things? And to be honest, Americans have done some pretty fucky things to Japanese franchises, too. Saban Moon, Godzilla, and Doozy Bots come to mind. But really, all that pales in comparison to this travesty.

I chose the word "travesty" very carefully for this purpose. You see, "travesty" shares a common root with "transvestite", and a somewhat more pejorative term for "transvestite" is "ladyboy".

And "ladyboy" just so happens to be the best way of describing the character design that Del Rey Manga has come up with for Wolverine in their upcoming alternate-universe X-Men comic.

Yes, Captain Manly himself, Mr. I Got Hit In The Face With A Nuke But I Got Better, has been transformed into what white kids who wish they were Asian like to call a "bishonen".



Look at that. Look at it! It seems that Logan's muttonchops, sensing how awful the design would be, fled from the project in mortal terror! And his biceps followed suit! How is he going to fight on his several thousand X-teams if he's too busy binging and purging? Who told Del Rey that this was a good idea? Did nobody learn from "Mangaverse"? I have questions up to here and I'm not going anywhere until they're answered!

...

Not that I planned to get out of my chair anyway. 'S comfy.


Anyhoo, there's more to be written. This new X-Men comic? It's a "shojo manga". They said it was gonna be like (I'm not making this shit up) "X-Men Meets Fruits Basket or Ouran High School Host Club", and that their version of the Xavier Institute was an all-boys school. Except for Kitty Pryde, who's in there for no discernible reason that I'd care to think about. I guess Jean Grey and Mystique fit in here somewhere, too, because they've got new designs as well.
Both of them are generic "shojo" women with swollen eyes and elongated bodies that make them appear to be victims of rack torture. And the whole thing is going to be a comedy-drama. Great. Can't wait to see chibi Magneto.

So, let's recap.

-All-boys Xavier Institute, with "pretty" Wolverine. I'm guessing some shit's gonna go down here that'll put Ulti Colossus to shame.


-One girl. Shadowcat. Who probably has a penis or something, because this is Japanese and she's going to an all-boys school.


-Comedy. Probably of the slapstick and/or facefault variety. The kind that's not really that funny.



You know what? Let's bring Superman over here from the DC Universe to show Del Rey Manga what for.





EDIT- Found out that the last half (the bits that aren't the character designs) is the fault of weeaboos, not authentic Japanese acid-droppers. Which makes it either worse or better, but I'm not quite certain which.

ATTN: WHITE PEOPLE

One does not exclusively frequent hole-in-the-wall Chinese restaurants with words like "buffet" and "panda" in their names, and then bitch about how shitty Chinese food is.

That will be all.

Humor: My goal in life.

I want to become a filmmaker, and I want to be shit fucking loaded. When I achieve this goal, I will buy the rights to make a Pulp Fiction sequel for a sum equivalent to the cost of anal sex with Fred Phelps on Mars, transportation included. And with my remaining resources, I will slap together this travesty of a film, and it will have car chases and explosions and fart jokes and kung goddman fu fights between John Travolta and Christopher fnuck'n Walken, and the script will be written in the blank pages at the back of some filthy erotic novel over the course of one trip to the bathroom, possibly while I am under the influence of something. And at the end, you'll find out what the glowing thing in the suitcase was. Was it gold? Yellow Kryptonite? The Philosopher's Stone? Marcellus Wallace's soul? The mutilated heart of Jehovah himself?

Nope. It'll be a flashlight. And the multitude of fans of the original will rise as one, and I will be slain. And it'll be so goddamn worth it.