Quick! Someone Hand Me An E-Club!

Earlier today, while ensconced like a zebra mussel at the redundantly-named Nina's Coffee Cafe, I was looking through previous posts in this blog to remind myself of what lies I have already told you. Since I cherish my remaining readers, it is my fervent desire to be consistent if not truthful as I crank out new entries. Eventually I led myself to an old blog entry called "Sadly, It's Come To This Once Again," published in December of 2006 (!). That post contains the following paragraph:

In conclusion I would remind you that these rules are in place to ensure your comfort and safety while at the Hulles blog. Also, let me once again point out that when the day comes when I open the gates of New Lugburz and release the ravening hordes of Hulles Death Commandos in slightly-modified Hooters uniforms upon an unsuspecting world, you will want to be one of those with the correctly-drawn Smiling Mamegoma on your door so they will pass you by. And you will only find that Smiling Mamegoma on this blog. So please check back here early and often for your own continued well-being and that of your family.

After reading the above post, I found myself chuckling at my own subtle wit and dry humor as usual: "Ravening hordes, hah hah, Hulles you kill me. Not to mention Smiling Mamegoma!" It was then that I realized that I had absolutely no idea of whatever the hell a Smiling Mamegoma might be. I immediately turned to the Hulles Mythos (which is why it exists) and found this entry:

Smiling Mamegoma

No idea what this is either

Well that wasn't very helpful, but at least I was honest. Time to google "smiling mamegoma". I did this, and on the first page of the search results I found this:


Check it out! My Hulles Mythos page is in the top 10 results! Unfortunately, this links back to:

Smiling Mamegoma

No idea what this is either

Lucky for me there were a couple other search results that were more promising. The one that fascinated me the most was an entry in Destructoid, a gaming forum. This entry contained the following video:

WARNING: THIS VIDEO CONTAINS INTENSE CUTENESS AND IS NOT FOR THE SQUEAMISH, SO TIGHTEN YOUR NETSUKE STRAPS AND GRAB YOUR OMIJUKIS



The person who wrote the Destructoid entry said this about the video:

Between the ability to dress your tiny aquatic friend in wigs or anachronistic finery and staring into its beady eyes as you coo sweet promises of a life free from e-clubbings, I think it's safe to assume that this sort of thing is expressly designed to moisten the underoos of Japanese teenage girls (and a few of my female friends).

One thing I noticed immediately is that this person thinks a lot like I do. In fact, it crossed my mind to rip off the e-clubbing comment, it was so good. My atrophied moral sense was able to kaff weakly and hack out an objection to this idea however, which suprised me as much as it no doubt surprises you. As a result of this I (forgoed? forwent?) resisted the temptation to steal the phrase except for in the title. However, I should mention in passing that I thought that "moisten the underoos of Japanese teenage girls" was pretty Hulles-like as well and it provided a similar temptation.

I Still Have A Friend In Japan!

So once you're done puking day-glo pink foam over the cuteness of the above video, you'll probably start wondering where the hell I ran into Smiling Mamegomas (and Netsuke Straps and Omijukis) in the first place. I know I wondered, so I traced this all back to another blog entry of mine, called "I Have A Friend In Japan!", which contained the following paragraph:

Even better than the seal mascot costume rentals was a web site called “J-List – You've got a friend in Japan!” I found this on their site:

”Mamegoma is a super cute seal mascot franchise from San-X (Tarepanda, Nyanko, Rilakkuma) that features colorful and genki seals. This netsuke strap not only features a smiling Mamegoma, but also has an omijuki that tells your fortune!”

Yikes! I only know what three of those words mean. But I really like the idea of a seal mascot franchise.

So there you have it, the Smiling Mamegoma story, soon to be made into a cable TV miniseries. If you want to know more about seal mascot franchises etc. I leave it to you to read the aforementioned blog entry. It is, of course, subtly witty and drily humorous like everything I write except for the stuff that isn't. And if you're in the market for genki seals yourself, in spite of it sounding like a Jewish dating service try J-List for all of your inscrutable Tarepanda, Nyanko, and Rilakkuma accessory purchases. You also have a friend in Japan!

I need to wrap this up now, because my own personal omijuki just told me my fortune: "Tonight you will be lucky in love." I imagine that means the roller girls are back in town so I need to go knock over a liquor store for some cash. This fortune is ever so much better than the last one I got: "Help! I'm being held captive in an omijuki factory!". Good Lord, a Japanese Alan King is out there somewhere.

- Hulles

Please, Hulles, Don't Hurt 'Em

The Place: The redundantly-named Nina's Coffee Cafe, Saint Paul, Minnesota
The Time: 10:12AM CST, Friday December 15, 2006
The Place: The redundantly-named Nina's Coffee Cafe, Saint Paul, Minnesota

We, the imaginary audience, step into Nina's Living Room Type Thing and immediately notice two things: one, it's packed with geeks, and two, there's an extremely attractive-looking older man sitting over there at the table with a laptop computer. He looks to be in his mid-thirties. He's wearing a black “Harley Davidson of Kuwait” baseball cap, sweatshirt, jeans and sneakers, and has wire-frame glasses and a short mostly-white beard. The man is a total sex dog. We noticed his cute ass earlier when he got up to go to the can. Hmm, we wonder if he'd consider sexing us down in the Unisex Bathroom....

We give our imaginary head a shake to snap out of it and head further into the Living Room Type Thing. We see that the handsome older man we noticed earlier is pounding away at his ancient laptop, alternately grimacing as if in pain and smiling evilly. Apparently he's writing something, Lord knows what, probably some dorky blog about dessert recipes. But wait – now we see him sit back, put a pair of headphones on over his Harley hat, close his eyes and smile beatifically....

Hi, everybody, it's me, Hulles. Thanks for the “mid-thirties” thing by the way, I get that a lot but it's still nice to hear. And it's sex god, not sex dog, get it right. I'm here at Nina's, and I'm about to give the performance of a lifetime. I've spent countless hours practicing and countless more hours working out to get in shape for this, and today is the big day, the culmination of all this work.

I'm about to chair-dance to “Beat It” by Michael Jackson. Wait, it's starting:

[concert volume in the headphones]

bing, bing, bong, bong,
bing, bing, bung....

While the instrumental intro is getting my juices flowing and I start nodding my head to the drum beat, I should mention that I've watched the “Beat It” video about a gazillion times, more even than that one guy watched all the Smurfs TV episodes. I've memorized every move, every gesture, every facial tic that Michael Jackson does in the video. In fact, for the next four minutes and seventeen seconds I'm going to become Michael Jackson, even though I intend to remain sitting in my chair. (The 1982 Michael Jackson that is, not the creepy current version, duh.)

Okay, start silently lip-synching and making intense faces, there:

They told him don't you ever come around here
Don't wanna see your face, you better disappear
The fire's in their eyes and their words are really clear
So beat it, just beat it

All right, it's all coming together, I'm in the pipe, five by five. Little head shake, move the right arm, do that little sashay-thing that was so difficult to master, there:

You better run, you better do what you can
Don't wanna see no blood, don't be a macho man hoo!
You wanna be tough, better do what you can
So beat it, but you wanna be bad

I am so ready for the chorus. My eyes are still closed, but I know that by now people in the cafe are probably starting to watch me. God, I hope they realize that this is a chair-dancing performance and don't call the paramedics because they think I'm having a seizure. Well, too late now, I'm committed. And I hope I didn't accidentally do that “hoo!” thing out loud, I might have, I get so into it. Who cares, it's the chorus, really intense facial expression, there:

Just beat it, beat it, beat it, beat it,
No one wants to be defeated
Showin' how funky and strong is your fight
It doesn't matter who's wrong or right
Just beat it, beat it
Just beat it, beat it
Just beat it, beat it
Just beat it, beat it oooh!

Dang, this is great! Although I might have hit something while I was flailing my arms, I hope it wasn't breakable. Probably one of those cheesy little lamps, oh well, who gives a shit, no loss. Quick turn of the head, gyrate the hips, ow, should have taken the wallet out of my pocket, shimmy the shoulders, there:

They're out to get you, better leave while you can
Don't wanna be a boy, you wanna be a man
You wanna stay alive, better do what you can
So beat it, just beat it brrrrrrd!

I am so on. That “brrrrrrd!” thing was hard to get right, sort of like a Spanish rolled-'r' sound. And I know I did that one out loud, I could feel myself spit. Too late to stop now, but I hope this doesn't get me eighty-sixed from the coffee shop. That would be a first. Lots of bars, sure, but never a coffee shop. Another shoulder shimmy, weird arm gesture, even weirder facial expression, hip gyration, ouch again, there:

You have to show them that you're really not scared
You're playin' with your life, this ain't no truth or dare ungh!
They'll kick you, then they beat you, then they tell you it's fair
So beat it, but you wanna be bad

Hot damn, the chorus again. This is great! Too bad I don't have a web cam, I could make a music video and stick it on YouTube. Chicks dig that shit. Head shake, hip thrust, grab my omijukis, swing my left arm, shoulder shimmy, there:

Just beat it, beat it, beat it, beat it,
No one wants to be defeated
Showin' how funky and strong is your fight
It doesn't matter who's wrong or right

Just beat it, beat it
Just beat it, beat it
Just beat it, beat it
Just beat it, beat it (heavy breathing) ah, ah, ah!

And now we're at the part I'm the proudest of – the Eddie Van Halen air guitar solo. I thought about doing all the weird gang dance shit but give me a break: I'm a guy, I have a vintage Fender Stratocaster air guitar, and it's Eddie Van Halen, for chrissake. Air guitar it is. I had to choreograph it myself since the video has the weird gang dance shit but I think it turned out pretty well. Slide into a G-chord, wiggle my fingers on the air frets, wave the neck of the guitar around so the wire thingies sticking out of the tuning keys shake, a sexy Eddie Van Halen smile, more finger-wiggling. Oops, hit somebody's shoulder with that note, probably the Lisa Loeb wannabe sitting to my left, although come to think of it unlike Lisa Loeb she has a decent body. Fuck her, this is art, you have to expect some casualties. Slide my fingers down the guitar neck, pick the strings like crazy, set guitar down, more dancing and lip-synching coming up, there:

Just beat it, beat it, beat it, beat it,
No one wants to be defeated
Showin' how funky and strong is your fight
It doesn't matter who's wrong or right

Shakey thing with the right leg, shoulder shimmy, grind hips, grab my omijukis again, not sure that was in the video but I'm starting to like it, there:

Just beat it, beat it, beat it, beat it,
No one wants to be defeated
Showin' how funky and strong is your fight
It doesn't matter who's wrong or right

Make intense face, move arms back and forth in a very cool fashion, shake head curtly, also very cool, wiggle hips suggestively, there:

Just beat it, beat it, beat it, beat it,
No one wants to be defeated oh no!
Showin' how funky and strong is your fight
It doesn't matter who's wrong or right

[fade out]

Yikes, that “oh no!” was definitely not lip-synched. Pretty loud, in fact. Didn't know I could hit that note. Well, time to open my eyes, although I don't hear any thunderous applause. It might just be the headphones.

Hunh. Well, I certainly got their attention. Looks like the Lisa Loeb girl got the hell out during the finale. And everybody else has pretty much edged away from me -- in fact they look ready to bolt for the door if I make any more sudden moves. Oh well, once again I cast my pearls before swine. At least there aren't any flashing lights outside on the street yet.

Should I get up and bow? Sure. Oops, there they go, didn't know that fat guy could scamper quite that fast. Cool, somebody left an uneaten bagel on their plate. To the victor go the spoils, I always say.

Serves them right for hosting that damn AA meeting the other night, heh heh.

Uh-oh, gotta go, the next track is “Billie Jean” and I've just about got chair moon-walking down. But here, you showed interest, take this air guitar pick.

She was more like a beauty queen from a movie scene....uh! (grabs omijukis)

-- Hulles

Outside Of A Dog

“Outside of a dog, a book is a man's best friend. Inside of a dog, it's too dark to read.” -- Groucho Marx, as quoted on Lucille's mouse pad

I woke up late this morning after a grueling night of satiating myself on female flesh so I had to dump most of my morning cup of Kahlua into a travel mug and race like mad to get to the coffee shop on time -- these days I need to get there early so I can score an outlet for my laptop Lucille. The poor thing needs to be on external life-support or she remains comatose. Luckily I made it just in time, so now Lucille's awake and reasonably alert and I am happily ensconced at the redundantly-named Nina's Coffee Cafe. And I want to write a book.

I know, everybody and their Aunt Marge in Cincinnati wants to write a book. What, you think I'm too old and decrepit to still be able to jump on a bandwagon? Hardly. These days bandwagons are required by law to be curmudgeon-accessible. Granted, it has to stop and lower a special platform that I can hobble onto that then raises me up to the same level as everyone else, but making all the rest of you chafe for ten minutes on your way to bestsellerdom as I creep aboard bitching about the shitty bandwagon service these days pleases me to no end.

One thing that makes me different from you (unless you're Anne or Amanda or...) is that I've already published a book. Two books, in fact. A few years back I took a stab at being a children's book author. As I found out however, and much to the chagrin of both me and my creditors, this is a much harder market to crack than appears at first glance.

My first children's book, A Lutheran Boy's First Book of Tits, didn't do particularly well as far sales were concerned, although it did receive some critical acclaim in Canada. I'm still a bit puzzled by this lack of success. I did a lot of research prior to writing it, and carefully selected the models so that none of the women depicted in the book had a cup size bigger than a C. I already knew, never mind how, that lusty little Lutheran lads tend to be intimidated to the point of dysfunction by tits bigger than C's. Fine, no problem, lots of lovely breasts out there that don't require structural steel in the manufacture of their brassieres.

I also somehow managed to convince my publisher to print the book with washable pages and little flap thingies that you could lift up to get beaver shots. They drew the line at scratch-and-sniff, however, the cheap bastards. Unfortunately, all this effort was to no avail. Lutheran parents stayed away from the bookstores in droves. I still have a garage filled with unsold copies of ALBFBTs, which, by the way, make great Christmas gifts, send me an email.

I'm sure you'll be relieved to hear that I emerged bloodied but unbowed from this initial foray into writing for the younger set. My next book, A Child's Treasury of Single Malt Scotches, was even more thoroughly researched than the first, but it too landed with a thud that rattled the chandeliers. To this day I privately believe that the reason most people don't start drinking single malts until they reach middle age can be directly traced to the failure of this book on the shelves.

But at last I think I'm ready to jump back into the ring like Stallone and crank out another book or two. Initially I thought I'd combine the current craze for zombie stories with my hard-won children's book expertise so I started working on a young-adult title called Zombies Ate My Homework. Sadly, I had to abandon this project when my publisher informed than young adults today are neither willing nor able to read books.

My next thought was that I could forget young adults as easily as I seem to forget everything else and go back to children's books, and yet somehow still keep the zombies. However, after much agonizing thought I decided that young children weren't really ready for large-format illustrated books of zombies staggering around with partially-chewed human flesh hanging from their decaying lips so I had to abandon my first few story ideas. Great, no problem, I'm a creative guy, I'll figure out something.

At long last I came up with a new concept that I'm pretty pleased with: werehamsters. It still has all of the disturbing and bloodthirsty elements of occult/horror that seem to be so popular today, yet it wraps the unrelenting gore in cute little hamster packages that are easy to market. Perfect.

Imagine: Jimmy the Ex-Hamster lies dead and buried in the back yard because little Billy used him for a badminton shuttlecock once too often. Night. The moon is full. The hamsterbane is in full bloom. All of a sudden, the earth over Jimmy's shallow grave stirs, a shoe box appears [note to self: call kid's shoe companies, get tie-in, so to speak], the cardboard lid is pushed ajar, and out staggers Jimmy. This Jimmy, however, has inch-long fangs, can suddenly speak in an Eastern European accent, and has a craving for blood. Pet blood. Blood like that flowing through the unsuspecting veins of Doris, Billy's beloved Shih Tzu lying peacefully asleep in the dog house near the driveway....

The franchise is worth billions. The netsuke straps and omijukis alone will buy me that candy apple red AH64D Apache attack helicopter I've had my eye on.

Remember you saw it here first when the cheesy copycat were-guinea-pigs start appearing.

-- Hulles