Tuesday, August 17, 2010

Count Dappula

Dear Readers,

After some serious thought (or in this case... after some serious Bloody Marys), I've decided to enthusiastically exploit this whole Vampire craze sweeping our fine country. If George Hamilton can do it, so can I, Dammit! And it's not really much of a stretch for yours truly. I tend to slumber all day as it is, prowling the village lanes all eve looking like death warmed over; I love the cape and sash thing, AND have been told, on more than one occasion, that I suck the very life out of people.

If I may first bore you with my historically inaccurate pontifications... Apparently, this whole Dracula thing is loosely based on some dapper Transylvanian (or is it Pennsylvanian?) Cat by the name Vlad, with a panache for sticking people on poles like human corn dogs or something... which is the craziest coincidence, since my prep school chums bestowed the epithet "Link the Impaler" on me after that series of unfortunate javelin incidents in the school cafeteria.

That said... I am hard pressed to think of a more dapperly ghoulish incorporeal being. So who of the master thespians of vampire lore do I emulate? Grampa Munster? Bela Legosi? Count Chocula? Perhaps Blacula?

A trip to the Young Squires department at Shempley's is in order, post haste! Luckily my personal tailor, Señor Tito keeps late hours for us denizens of the dusk. He recommends a cape made of Megachiroptera bat fur, teamed with an ox blood sash, but I want something more macho so I choose a Ladakh pashmina cape with a candy apple red velvetine sash. Très virile!

In true Count Dappula™ style, I've festooned my sash with my many medals from my time as a soldier of fortune in the service of the Liberian junta. Actually, I have no idea how to fire a weapon. I was just there for the blood diamonds, but my dapper camo safariware and pistol-shaped cigarette lighter was apparently misconstrued as war mongeresque. C'est la guerre!

But I digress...

Donning my new accoutrements, I venture out into the gloomy eventide, looking for fresh meat to feed my insatiable appetite for blood. Blah! First stop... the local watering hole for a libation. Can't do any of the Devil's work on an empty liver! But, as I sit there, perched dapperly on my bar stool, I'm sensing a palpable lack of love from my fellow lovers of the bottle. The amount of stink eye is unbearable... and where did they get the pitchforks and torches? I decide to slink out while the slinkin' is good, only to find myself being chased by this pitch-fork wielding mob of angry liquor-fueled town folk. Who knew George Hamilton had such a negative impact on people?

Into my apartment building I fly, hammering on each and every door looking for an escape, only to be surprisingly handed small individual-sized chocolate confections and stale popcorn balls by befuddled neighbors, who apparently thought I was a tad early on the trick or treat gig.

Well, that was certainly a bust. No young fleshy women to sink my plastic teeth into. No succulent vampire-inspired aperitifs. No nuttin'! Just a handful of sweets that I'd get anyway from my weekly shakedown of the neighbor kids. Frankly, I'm starting to rethink this situation...

In retrospect, I'd be open to the whole werewolf thing instead, but I just got a full Brazilian.

Friday, August 13, 2010

Link Takes a Load Off...

While perusing the expansive Charmant Cabbage selection at the local green grocer (because as you well know, I have an unquenchable Slaw fetish), I noticed, neatly stacked in a fetchingly pyramid-shaped end aisle display, Glen Plaid-imprinted Chubbies Brand Diapers. Now, I'm more than familiar with the usual kiddie character-festooned poop pants, but these were downright dashing! In fact, dare I say... they were truly... Dapper... Crapper... Trappers™!

My mind was a flutter with steaming hot corn infused potential! So I grabbed a pack of XL Chubbies (For the portly child), to take for a test run... or should I say test "runs" in my case, given all the slaw I consume.

And what cat doesn't get a bit perturbed by having to cut short life's more scintillating activities to visit the powder room? I know I do! So, now sportin' my new Crapper Trappers™, I can continue to charm that lovely lass, play a rousing game of badminton, or even graze at the snobbiest supper clubs, all in the knowledge that I can simply "let it all go".

Since the pattern matches my favorite sport jacket, I don't have to bother with trousers. Plus, it makes clean up a snap! I just simply recline on the Le Corbusier, or if out and about, a park bench, or billiard table, lift up my legs skyward, and holler to my man-servant Chatsworth to wipe, powder, and replace. Viola!

But as any ecologically-minded gent, I worry about these doodie dungarees filling up our precious landfills. So, I have Chatsworth gather and deposit them in a special brass repository on my penthouse veranda. There they come in handy on warm sanguine afternoons to hurl at my recalcitrant Beatnik neighbors as they sun bathe and play those God-forsaken bongos!

Score one for the MAN... the MAN in the diapers, that is.

CHATSWORTH! I made a stinky!