Category: Letters from Your Editor

Site updates and other general news about how your Patreon dollars are spent from your Editor and retired Brainlord, Gabriel Beefsapien Morton

I have to have a talk with custodial

I have to have a talk with custodial

The Exterminators have finished scraping the last of the parasitic head goo. There’s still a dent in the wall from where a 150cm tall Glenn Ridge head was smashed by a 160cm tall John Burgess head but, aside from that, things are almost back to normal. I can still make out the line of Glenn Ridge’s resplendent forehead in the dent. You know what? I’m not going to have Maintenance up here to fix it. That majestic pressing can remain. It will invigorate the staff and serve as a reminder that tendril heads can make a cute pet but they grow into a big responsibility. It’s probably just the right dose of Glenn Ridge forehead too. A hint to spark the muse, any more would be like mainlining savant cerebrospinal fluid and I got off that shit in the 80s. Gah! The bright light of sobriety burns.

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Heads

Heads

There are three major groups who suspect me of having precognitive abilities. The Psionic League assume I’m an unregistered, the Temporal Hive thinks I’m pottering about in time, and the general population just assumes I’m some kind of wizard as anything they don’t understand registers to them as magic. Well, the useless lot of them can suck The Cosmic Schlong as the whole thing is merely good, old-fashioned screaming paranoia and royal jelly from the Pluto sized beetle thing we sold Jupiter to. So naturally I saw an awful lot of what is currently besieging me coming and am duly prepared with an office I can fully seal off from the outside world. This is a kind of catch-all solution, like having a lot of money you’ve leeched from internet peasants, it makes you look an awful lot cleverer than you really are. After all, I’m no telepathic time chimp or whatever the hell the Hive is looking after these days, I just know that sooner or later my fuckwitted mess of employee goo will do something that will require I completely cut myself off from them.

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I’m a fair man.

I’m a fair man.

Well I’m still in the market for a Marketing Department. The Baboon Collective had to be demoted to a small dog house near the door where the Mail Boy comes in after it lost a square fight with Janice. Now, squaring a fight between a secretary and and science’s worst interpretation of a barrel of monkeys isn’t easy but balancing such seemingly imbalanced conflicts is an innate skill of mine. It’s how I know you can kill an adult human with 47 fighting roosters. I don’t even need to test this and my confidence is reflected in the fact that the crate in my office only ever contains 47 fighting roosters.

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Everyone say Hello to our new Marketing Department

Everyone say Hello to our new Marketing Department

Hwaet and lo, you gibbering genetic typos, stop murdering and buggering each other for a few moments and concentrate on your cerebral cortex, you’ll need some language skills for this. Against my better understanding of him and his potential, Aaron has gotten the site up and functioning again. The selection of you who at least managed to pause your buggering will probably have gathered this already but it’s important to write so that even the worst of you vile warning signs can eventually figure it out. “Inclusion” and all that business. The good news is, this means I have something to do again and your shitful existences are now blessed with some bootstraps to yank yourself up by. The bad news is I owe the 3D printer two litres of my own semen.

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