Flagstaff, AZ— We stepped right into it—right into a Hefescheiss as it’s called in Deutschland. Clearly the powers that be wanted us to stay. For the record, it was the only time I had ever gone to Mother Road Brewery for Purposes Other Than Ale (POTA). Hey, wasn’t POTA just struck down by the Supreme Court?

By the way, the Discord/Mother Road video is set to release July 13^th… and I am just thankful we made it out of there before then. Our cameraman, Greg, and I needed to see about a P. A. system for our next video release extravaganza (VRE). Earlier we ran into Lauren @ Flag Brew, a Mother Road barkeep cheating on her alma malter, and she recommended a place adjacent to the brewery. As the dark clouds loomed, we drove the whopping two blocks southward.  I pulled into the brewery parking lot—something I never do—thinking, well, we’re only going to be here a few minutes…

As I have come to learn, never think…especially in italics.

Shit, the P. A. equipment is booked for the 13^th, so we head back to my Impala, greatly saddened. Then we find a beer truck blocking our egress. The master brewer of Mother Road, Urs Riner, tells us they have a few pallets of malty magic to Mother Load, sooooo…

…Let’s just get a little one.

The guy’s name is Urs (Oars) Riner; isn’t that the coolest name for a brewer ever? I actually prefer Urs Light myself.

So we get a beer, which at Mother Road is not a great hardship. Their black IPA, Lost Highway, rocks. Just as we down the last of our hoppy goodness, the beer truck pulls away. We say our goodbyes to Sharon, the barkeep, and again head toward my Impala—we might has well have struck off for Mordor on ‘shrooms (which I have).

Just then a second beer truck pulls across the exit.

Crap.

Urs tells us it won’t be long to load but, still…

…Let’s just get a little one.

Halfway through this loading procedure the skies have some unloading to do themselves, and the area is assailed by dime-sized hail—which would have been awesome, were it legal tender.

Zano vs. the Hail

So, this freak storm of ice and rain grinds this beer loading procedure to a proverbeerial halt.

“Hey, Greg…”

“What?”

…Let’s just get a little one.

Did I mention they have 10 OZers @ Mother Road? …which is usually reserved for my filet mignon or NY strip, but these were desperate unsure times, like that time I wore a Free Mubarak T-shirt in Tahrir Square.

Finally the storm ends, the beer loading is complete, and those trapped by the weather and the business related activities were free to go…or so we thought.

The truck refused to move from the entrance.

Hey Greg…Let’s NOT get a little one.

We jump into my Impala and pull to the end of the parking lot and beep. The truck pulls forward and the beer gods finally permit our escape.  However, the flash flooding caused by the storm made for a harrowing ride home.

The Ride Home

The moral of this story? Never go to your favorite brewery in your hometown without ordering a pint; otherwise the Beer Gods have a way to exact revenge…on your entire town.

 Stupid Beer Gods.

Hey…Let’s just get a little one.

Whenever a major apparition is captured on film, you can bet the Discord’s Ghost Blunders are there…um, or at least sleeping down the hall. My daughter captured the best image to date with her iPhone, several feet from my bedroom. Did I mention I’m her inspiration for ghost hunting? Okay, she thinks I’m an idiot but, hey, I paid for the iPhone that took the image. So there. Click to see this truly creepy picture!

Here’s the story:

One morning my daughter, Alley Zano, explains how the night before while half asleep she saw a little ghost girl sitting watching television. The ghost was facing the television while resting comfortably on my daughter’s very own Archie Bunker chair (old reference alert). So I immediately explained the unreliability of half states and how hypnopompic and hypnogogic hallucinations are often associated with the semi-conscious mind.

She then stops me, “No, dad. I took a picture of her.”

Great…I travel all over the southwest doing important para-abnormal investigations and I’m about to be bested by my own kiddo…in my own condo…with her I-something that I purchased. Alley looked at the ghost, leaned over the railing of her bunk-style bed and snapped this picture before drifting back to sleep.

So she sees something, snaps the picture, and then there’s something in the image. That takes the cake for The Ghost Blunders. I immediately fired the rest of my team: Alex Bone, Tony Ballz, and Cokie McGrath. I’m a blamer, after all. Hell, we’ve been in the market for a new Cokie anyway, ever since “The Prescott Incident” here.

When I enlarged the image, I immediately saw the little skull face at the bottom of this mongo-sized orb. Not everyone sees the face right away; it’s kind of like the movie Mall Rats—stare at the picture until you see the sailboat.

Here’s the blown-up image:

To me it looks like the skull face from the Evil Dead 2 poster. Do you see it yet? Yikes!

“Not another peep, time to go to sleep.”

“Not another peep, time to go to sleep.”

Speaking of sleep, I asked my daughter if this strange occurrence would make her afraid to go to bed at night. She said, “No, it’s cool. I see dead people.” I’m glad she’s such a trooper. Of course, I now sleep in my Impala parked on the driveway (with the dome light on).

Not only does she get one of the best ghost pictures, ever, she totally blows my own theory out of the water in the process. I believe paranormal images are created through beer, or what I have come to refer to as ecto-pilsner—ecto-pilsner is a beerular energy as yet unidentified by science. It’s my life’s work. But there’s no beer in her room! Well, she is 13, so maybe I had better check.

Of course, the ghost girl started showing up right after we upgraded to the 42-inch flat screen. We just gave Alley’s room a makeover and she must approve of the renovations. My daughter explained she usually has these encounters with ghost girl when Honey Boo-Boo or other reality television shows are on. I guess somewhere Siskel and now Ebert are giving afterlife television two thumbs down. Hey, can I claim a tax break by adding another dependent? I don’t know much about paranormal tax returns, but I feel I am owed something for these constant intrusions.

Okay, okay that last paragraph is bullshit, but the image and the rest of the story is accurate. You see, I’m a “spoof” ghost investigator. My daughter apparently hasn’t gotten that memo. The image has not been enhanced or photoshopped in any way. It’s kind of like our situation in the Weatherford Hotel. The Ghost Blunders have held regular meetings at the Zane Grey ballroom for many years.  Only recently, however, did we discover the very table where we plot and plan our ghost adventures is, in fact, haunted. Yeah, I as I said in the story here, not much gets by us…and by not much I mean everything.

I guess I have to start bringing Alley along on our investigations. Anything would be an improvement, I suppose. Here’s the video preview for our Weatherford ghost investigation. Now this part may have been doctored. Enjoy.

Against my better judgment I decided it was time to visit Zano again.  Might have had something to do with the constant “Hey, Bald Tony, I’ve visited you 635 times since you last visited me!”  Well, I do enjoy Flagstaff. It is not as fully loaded as Vegas, but it more than holds its own as a great little tourist town…despite Zano’s residency there.

I am big on “reduce, reuse, recycle,” so I kept the printed directions from my last trip there in 2011.  What could be easier than step-by-step turn-by-turn directions to Zano’s front door?  Unfortunately for me a street name change detoured me into parts unknown.  I called Zano and told him I was at the Flagstaff public library.  I immediately interpreted his silence as confusion.

“We have a library?” he said, finally.  “What else is around you?”

Looking for landmarks Zano would recognize I told him I was across the street from the police station.  “I’ll be there in 5 minutes!”  When we arrived at Chateau de Zano I showed him my directions in an attempt to figure out where I went wrong.  It turns out one of the streets ‘Enterprise’ underwent a name change to ‘Ponderosa’.  Who the hell is naming the streets in Flag?  Some TV Land executive?  If I have an accident do I go to a General Hospital or a M*A*S*H unit?  Besides, shouldn’t civilization be progressing?  ‘Ponderosa’ to ‘Enterprise’?  Is this all part of President Obama’s anti-capitalism initiative?

I like Mick.  Strange but true.  And as such I feel the need to tell my friend when he is de-evolving.  As I get older I notice many in my age group start using presidential administrations as reference points.  “My daughter was born during Bush 41.”  “I dated her in the early Reagan Years” etc…  Mick and I were both born during the Lyndon Johnson administration, but the last few times I’ve seen Mick he looks more like someone from Andrew Johnson’s administration.   As such, I decided a good activity would be a hike.  Both Mick and Cokie McGrath—version six or seven, not exactly sure as Zano burns through them rather quickly—espouse the hiking opportunities in the area.  Now I am no athlete, but I can certainly manage a moderate hike now and again.  Moderate at least by President William Howard Taft standards.

I have walked from the Stratosphere to Caesar’s with only two stops along the way (while trying to hail a cab the entire trip, Zano reminds me).  Now Cokie is in shape.  It helps when you exercise like a fiend and are ridiculously young.  How young?  Well, she was Born in the U.S.A. when that song was topping the charts, aka, during the Reagan administration.  So between her youth and fitness it’s fair to say during the hike…(superior posterior joke omitted by the editor).

We decided a hike at Fat Man’s Loop (FML) would be the best option. I hoped FML would not cause me to use my FMLA. Actually, I was a bit insulted, since it sounded like the hiking equivalent of skiing the bunny slope, but both Zano and McGrath insisted Flagstaff’s higher elevation would be challenging for me.  Uh oh.  I had not considered that.  So, off to loop the fat man we went.  When we arrived I saw a sign – “Fat Man’s Loop” 0.2 miles.  I thought “Great, this will not be so tough.”  We all did some light warm ups, which for Zano involved microbrews, and started the hike.  Right away I knew I was in trouble.  The hikes I’ve done in and around the Las Vegas valley have mainly been on flat land at sea level with intermittent benches and water fountains (manly hikes), aka, nothing like this.  Now we were in the mountains, and ascending.  It did not take long for me to start huffing and puffing like the Big Bad Wolf, aka, I felt like someone born during the Roosevelt administration (Teddy’s….even if I wasn’t exactly charging up San Juan Hill).

And no one took my suggestion of setting up a base camp seriously.

If I die here my last question would be, how in God’s name was 0.2 miles taking so long?  We’d been hiking for what seemed like days.  Even Zano, who wore sandals while I wore sneakers, was far and away ahead of me.  Do I say I have to pee? Do I scream SNAKE! Do I pretend I twisted my ankle? I got it!

“Wait up! While I was peeing a snake bit my ankle!” I was about to scream.

Before I could put my plan into action, mercifully a ledge, or a log, or something of substance appeared in the rocky terrain, so I plopped down like The Ghetto Shaman on a bar stool.  Barely winded, Zano and McGrath stood over me like disapproving parents who just caught their 15 year old in the liquor cabinet.   How was this possible?  With Cokie I understood, but Zano? He had personally added at least four more deadly sins to the original seven, because—as he put it—my sins go to 11! He can’t touch his toes these days!  How was he hiking circles around me, while wearing inferior footwear?  To add insult to injury, once I got going again I lost my footing at one point, something neither of them did the entire hike.  And again, why was this hike taking so looooooooong?  I am no cartographer, but this was the equivalent of many leagues if we were sailing (or bowling, for that matter). 

They guesstimated we were over halfway done. 

Half? I thought. How had we only traveled 0.1 miles?

“Why don’t we have hiking sticks, and hiking boots, and protein bars, and canteens of water, and canisters of oxygen…?”   I screamed, you screamed, we all screamed for…well, I just screamed for the vehicle at this point.

“Because it’s Fat Man’s Loop!” came the unsympathetic response.  Zano later admitted this had actually been the first time McGrath had not coaxed him part or all the way up the actual mountain attached to this trail.

Now I’ve heard some pleasant sounds while enjoying the natural beauty of North America, and I assure you Zano and McGrath screaming the same words at the same time after what seemed like a marathon is one of the most frightening sounds any human ears have ever endured.

Finally the ascent stopped and the descent started.  On the way down we passed hikers who were professionally outfitted, with all the aforementioned gear.

“Why do they have all that stuff and we don’t?”  I begged of them.

“They’re going on a real hike up to Mount Elden.  It would cripple or kill you…apparently, even if you looked mistakenly toward it,” said McGrath.

Exasperated, I finally asked, “Haven’t we been hiking a lot more than 0.2 miles?” 

They both looked at me like I farted in church (pew joke omitted).

 “Why do you think this hike is 0.2 miles?” they asked in unison.

“Because the sign at the beginning of the trail said so.” 

They burst into simultaneous laughter informing me the sign was showing the distance to from the parking lot to the trailhead, not the distance of the hike itself. 

(The below passage is to be read like Samuel L. Jackson’s, “Get these mother &^%ing snakes off this mother &^%ing plane!)

“Well how mother*&^$ing long is this mother &^%$ing hike!”  I cried. 

By the time we returned to the car a week later my feelings toward Cokie had changed dramatically.  I was still impressed with her, but I wasn’t exactly a huge fan anymore.  A week or so later I sent her this link of a place I frequently hike, just a few miles from my home. 

She responded “ROTFLMAO!  That’s not a hike.  That’s barely a stroll.”

On a side note, back in the days when I had connections in both the broadcasting and professional wrestling world, I was able to get an advance copy of the BBC documentary GAEA Girls.  This is a fascinating in-depth look into just how tough pro wrestling can be, and just how rigid Japanese culture and discipline can be.  Even if you don’t want to watch the entire documentary, and I recommend everyone do indeed watch it, please go to 3:20-3:45 of this clip to see my YouTube wish list for you, Cokie. Just to be clear, Miss McGrath, I envision you as the woman in the blue shorts and black shirt.

I was happy to have survived the ordeal. Since something called Fat Man’s Loop was too arduous, the next time those two want me to go hiking I’m going to suggest heading over to the paraplegic pass or maybe the flat part of granny’s gulch.

Now get out there and stretch those legs! …but read the trail signs carefully, the pride you save may be your own.

Have you ever stopped at Prescott’s Whiskey Row? For those unfamiliar with the southwest, Prescott is a town nestled in a mountainous section of central Arizona. There’s a time I would have loved this rustic row of bars…er, like shortly after it debuted in 1877. But there’s at least one place on that block worthy of a stop. The Palace Saloon is old, historic, and quite haunted. It’s also the focus of The Ghost Blunder’s latest para-abnormal investigation.

Truth be told, we did this investigation a couple of months ago and I lost all my notes, so bear that in mind as I try to piece together this entire sinister episode…hopefully before Mr. Winslow fires me again. First, let me take a moment to sum up the rest of Whiskey Row:

Don’t go there if you’re over 21 and if you’re under 21 you can’t go there. Do the math. Keep in mind, this is a great place for those underagers with fake IDs.

About a year ago I started an article to review these bars, but I shifted that forsaken quest to my laptop’s trash can before my first pee break. I do remember one story, though, as I was strolling into Matt’s Saloon the bouncer said, “Sir, we need to take your backpack while you’re in here.“

I responded with, “Okay, what’s your best beer?”

He replied, “Uh, we got Michelob.”

“No. You cannot have my backpack.”

As I hyperlinked to Matt’s website for your enjoyment—which, in retrospect, I really shouldn’t have—I made the mistake of reading the whole thing. Wow. It’s really called Matt’s Longhorn Saloon, which was apparently too longhorn for the sign out front. Help, I really can’t stop reading this website. Someone call my therapist. The cute one, please…she’s helping with my sex addiction.

Here’s an excerpt from the site:

“Matt’s Saloon has become an internationally recognized and highly acclaimed destination place for country music. Great country western acts such as Buck Owens, Lee Hazelwood and Waylon Jennings….”

Wow, Waylon Owens! And to think he once opened for Willy Rogers. It reminds of that Blues Brother’s line when they end up at Bob’s Country Bunker and someone goes, “We got both kinds of music here, country and western.” Geesh. Sorry to go on a tangent, but it’s my M.O. It sure beats when I’m focused. Did you read that last article when I was focused? Yikes.

For some historical context, Whiskey Row suffered two major fires, July of 1883 and May of 2012. I can assure you I had nothing to do with the fire of 1883. The history of paranormal occurrences at the Palace Saloon is considerable; in fact, the Discord crew already scored an apparition before we were even ghost hunters. My sister took a picture of the Discord’s Crank at the Crystal Palace a few years back. In the mirror above a ghostly apparition appeared. The picture was taken on old style film so we don’t have a suitable version for you, but I was sure we’d get plenty more…in fact, I’ll bet my reputation on it. Hell, I don’t have a good rep anyway.

For this mission, Cokie McGrath, “Vegas Great” Bald Tony, and our two interns Helena and Barb made the arduous 300 yard journey from The Raven Café to the Palace Saloon. Don’t laugh; I don’t like to leave that place, especially when the rooftop bar is open. Thankfully Prescott Brewing Company was en-route, or I’m not sure we would have made it.

When we arrived at The Palace, six pints later, I realized the mirror in question—the one my sister captured that ghostly apparition—was no longer there. Apparently, it was removed a couple of years ago and is probably stored in Warehouse 13 or something. Cue spooky music.

The Palace Saloon opened in 1877 and Matt’s “Longhorn” Saloon is right next door. I don’t know when Matt’s Place opened. I finally managed to pry my eyes off his God forsaken website and I’m not going back. Holy shit! Clint Presley’s playing there! Sorry.

After doing some research I discovered the Palace Saloon was not your average watering-hole—way back in the day people came there from miles around to eat, drink, dance, socialize and screw. Okay, not much different from today. Oh, and you can still see actual bullet holes in the high ceiling from an old western-style gunfight. I’ve lived near Newark, New Jersey, so that doesn’t particularly impress me, but I still thought it was worth mentioning.

I’ve visited the Palace about five times, and every time it’s like walking into a polder. Not that guy from the X-Files—a polder, a liminal land beyond space-time, like Briga-La or Shangri-Doon. Did I mention I’m an idiot? When you walk into the place there are always people dressed like cowboys, or civil war soldiers, or drag queens. No wait, that’s that other bar.

So the picture above is not that unusual. Cokie’s always hitting on old Civil War era guys. For a related ghost adventure, check out the Ghost Blunders in Haunted Gettysburg. That was back when I had a real passion for this shit. You’ve sucked the life out of me, Winslow! You bastard!

Meanwhile, the two gentlemen above are not ghosts, because we asked them. We’re professionals, after all. Since I had lost my notes, which were meticulously written on a bar coaster, we will call them Bill and Ted. And they told us of their most excellent adventure. Now both of these guys had some strange experiences in that old place. One time they were getting photographed in the backroom and their images ended up surrounded by countless orbs. I went back there to conduct my own photo shoot, but had no such luck. Especially after Cokie warned Helena about my standard “I’m going to make you a star” line, women. They’re smart and stuff.

Bill and Ted also told us of the strange noises often heard after hours as well as some other bizarre tales of macabre…and even some about men wearing fishnets and singing show tunes. No wait, that’s that other bar again. This pair really did believe the place was haunted. In fact, everyone we spoke to had a tale to tell. It’s all written on that coaster. If you find it please hit our contact button at the bottom of the page. That could reeeally help me out about now [or maybe not; it’d also help the FBI].

The team wasn’t surprised this was a very active spot, after all, The Palace had both elements we have come to associate with hauntings: a bar and stuffed animal heads on the wall. You see, the Ghost Blunders have discovered ecto-pilsner, a substance as yet unknown to science, which is either manifested through beer or…awe, heck, I’m not going through this again. You can read our important theories for yourself as summarized in my Haunted Durango feature. That one is sure to win me a Pulitzer. Hey, while you were doing that I found some orbs!

On closer inspection, the orbs between each mounted deer head turned out to be track-lighting, which is not exactly paranormal in origin, or particularly interesting…but it looks nice.

The mannequin next to me, or more accurately womennequin, is a doppelganger. When staff arrived one morning the first model was found shattered on the floor after presumably being shoved from the balcony. This Who-Dummied-It is still a cold case file—a very cold, almost plastic-like. We interviewed the new womennequin and her quotes are also on that coaster. Could you imagine what she goes through? Umm, sorry we’re going to lock you in here alone again tonight, oh, and the last chick who had this gig was murdered by a ghost. The heartless bastards! I’m coming back for you tonight, honey, and we’re going to start a new life, together. Yep, time to call that therapist lady again.

After interviewing the staff, Bald Tony decided to conduct an EVP session (electronic voice phenomenon) [reverse acronym joke], during which we captured a slew of truly chilling sounds and voices. They are also on that coaster. It was a big coaster…and I used the back as well.

I was beginning to think I’d really botched this case, which is not uncommon, but in double-checking all of the photos I noticed something strange. Even though I hadn’t captured any orbs during this investigation, I did find this:

The caption of the picture says Gurley Street circa 1870s. Gurley Street is one block over from where the Palace now stands, but what’s with the shadow dude? Who’s giving off that one prominent shadow of that one prominent looking man? There’s no one with a matching hat and, besides, he’s around the wrong side of the building. Then, when I zoomed in (to the image you see above), you can clearly make out he’s wearing a white cravat/ascot thing…um, white…in a shadow? BWTF? It’s actually BWTFCAT? But Why The F***ing Cravat/Ascot Thing?

Did they do ghost hoaxing in the 1870s? I remember the Loch Ness Mobster and the Abominable Hippie, but this far back? And he’s looking right at the camera! Can anyone explain this? If you have a theory, hit the contact button. Well, the picture is still hanging on the wall somewhere in the Palace Saloon in Prescott so you can check it out for yourself. Unless, like that mirror, they already smuggled it off to Warehouse-13. The womennequin isn’t there anymore either. I don’t know what happened to her. What? I don’t…really. So just drop it…but not off a balcony (badum bum). My therapist wants me to bring her to our next session, but I don’t know…

I still think that last picture is downright chilling. Heck, I might not sleep for a week. Okay, I’m not really that scared, I just snorted way too much meth tonight. Who knows what evil lurks in the old photos of men? The shadow of the BWTFCAT knows! Mwhahahahah.

That’s a rap. Mick Zano, “Vegas Great” Bald Tony, Cokie McGrath and our interns Helena and Barb signing off. But don’t worry, folks, Alex Bone will be back in our next thrilling episode Night at the Route-66 Museum Club. Oh wait, he’s barred from there too. Well, we’ll get someone…anyone free Friday? Holy shit, Garth Haggard is playing next weekend!

Arkham, MA—Good evening, gentle readers. My name is Baron Von Hallens. But let me warn you, if I hear one more David Lee Roth joke, I will lay waste to the entire state of New Jersey! Unless Sandy beats me to it. I have been an immortal for six centuries and I have not seen worse politicians since Ambrosio Spinola back in the 1500s. That guy made W look like Stephen Hawking on ginkgo biloba.

Considering the current state of intelligence during this time period, you are probably unaware that periodically vampires slip into a torpor. In this partial-hibernative state, beyond even the reach of Zoloft, we can sleep for decades. Take that, makers of Ambien! It’s sort of a vampire’s version of a Saturday morning sleep in. I have recently awakened from such a slumber and have found the world has become a horrible place in my absence, except for Survivor. I love that show.

As you can imagine, when I awoke, I felt depleted and starved, so I went on a killing rampage. I had just cornered my hundredth or so victim, a rather rotund man wearing some peasant cloth over his girth which read, May The Fourth Be With You. I was intrigued, for this is the same date as my rebirth, so I allowed him to beg before feeding.

He told me he worked in something called an IT department, which I assumed had something to do with monsters. He begged for his life and in return promised to help me control a place known as the World Wide Web. Interesting. I assumed the IT they were raising must be a nest of giant Shelob-type spiders.

Naturally, I was intrigued. He said he must first build me an identity. I told him I already had one and then he laughed and laughed…well, until I tore off his finger. His whimpering and quaking form got back to work and he assured me that soon I would be able to control this web. First, he made a cartoon version of my face and sent it into this mysterious web.

He set up site after site, but I was barely paying attention, because Survivor was on. He showed me his glowing signals that looked like a window into the abyss or one of those damn paintings my old friend Van Gogh used to paint…before I bit off his ear. Soon I knew this web would be mine and thousands of new victims would be caught in my Internet of doom!

But there were problems. He spoke of such things as an army of Followers that would soon be mine, but when I looked with the help of this little tweeting blue bird, I saw only nine victims had followed me to their demise. And on the ‘Book of Faces’ things proved even worse!

I demanded to know what the problem was, but my new ghoul only hid behind the sofa and tried to offer me something called True Blood, which tasted like sugar soaked in urine.

He explained how hundreds of people pretended to be creatures of the night and, to the masses, I was just another of these poseurs. Spam he called it. This was not going well, especially when they started calling me Nosferyahoo and Spam the Impaler. The insolence!

After teaching him to eat flies, rodents, and those disgusting creatures you call house cats, I made my henchman get back to his task. My ghoul worked until his fingers bled over those foul square letters, but when I awoke the next evening, I saw my followers had only risen to twenty-two! Damn that blue tweeting bird! I demanded that he change the image to a bat, but he said this was beyond his puny powers.

I shaved him bald with a shard of glass, made him eat his own fingernails, and forced him to watch American Idol, but nothing seemed to work. He told me he would try Reddit, but they almost immediately banned us for Spamming. I haven’t eaten solid food for centuries and now this!

We tried other sites, like something called StumbleUpon, which sounded better suited to promote zombie prey, but my ghoul said we should throw everything at the wall to see what sticks. On the third try, my ghoul friend stuck to the wall…or, more accurately, parts of him did.

Then I took up the torch and discovered The Daily Discord. Ahhhhh, Discord! The floodlight of intelligence within a sea of flatulence jokes and pictures of your damned cats doing wacky hijinks. With the Discord behind me and the creatures of IT…the Web will soon be mine! What is that you say? We have only gotten a hundred page views so far. Well, it is a start Mr. Gates, it is a start.

Happy Halloween!