My first brush with Dave & Busters hatred came at the age of 10. My friend Drew was having his birthday there. It was a small party: only four of us in total, plus his mom. We were all quite excited. At that age, all we had to go on were vague legends, old myths and odd folk stories about an Earthly video game Shangri-La. But our plans hit a snag. Dave & Busters had a policy back then (and may even have it now, I have no reason to suspect that they have learned basic human decency in the meantime) that stipulated no more than three minors per adult could enter. For those keeping score at home, there were four of us. Drew’s mom begged to be let in, but they were unmoved by the fact that it was his birthday. In the end, his mom had no choice but to call his dad, and ask him to join us. His divorced dad. My defining memory of that day is not the 6 straight games of Tekken 2 that I won, but of the two of them, standing at the bar, 12-dollar rum and cokes in hand, trying furiously to ignore each other. Dave & Busters, where families come together. Assholes.

My next run-in with them came a few years later, and was much more personal. I was there with my brothers (only three of us, fortunately), and my mom. I was playing that old Simpsons beat-em-up. You know, the one where Mr. Burns abducts Maggie Simpson. As anyone who’s played old beat-em-ups knows, those damn games are a money sink. Winning has nothing to do with skill and everything to do with the size of your allowance. Well, on that day I was on a mission. I was gonna beat the game. 5 whole dollars later (the game only cost 25 cents!), I had reached the final boss (Mr. Burns in a big robot suit, tee hee). But right in the middle, a Dave & Busters employee came over and demanded to know where my parents were. Well, fuck if I knew, I was there to play video games, not talk to my mom. This made him angry, as it was company policy that minors must be with their parent or guardian at all times. He was deaf to my protests that I was on the last boss, and would be done shortly, and made me leave the game and come with him to find my mom. 5 carefully saved dollars down the fucking drain. That was a whole pack of Magic Cards I could have bought. Assholes.

But what really crystallized my hate for me happened much more recently. Last Friday, in fact. I was playing House of the Dead 4. You know, the one with the badass Uzis. I was drunk and cocky, so I paid for both players, and used both guns simultaneously. I was riding high, feeling like a John Woo character. I even had an audience, as this little boy was standing next to me, watching. But then an employee came over, and asked where that kid’s parents were (seriously, what do they have against minors?). As he hauled the kid off, the kid started shouting, “I just want to watch him a little more!” And what did I do? I could have claimed that I was the kid’s guardian. I could have offered to watch the kid until his mom came back. Hell, I even could have raised a stink about their discriminatory, age-ist policies. But I didn’t do anything. There were zombies to kill and, well, I didn’t want to make waves. So thank you, Dave & Busters, for teaching me a lesson about fascism, about how good people can be made accomplices to bad regimes. And that is why I hate them. They finally made a Nazi out of me. Assholes.

Christian Bale, 51, the disgraced ex-actor, has apparently sent himself back in time to halt production of Terminator: Salvation; the legendary 2009 flop that he feels is responsible for the destruction of his career.

“By the time you see this, it will be too late to stop me,” said Bale in a pre-recorded holo-message that was posted on CNN’s Mental Uplink yesterday. “Soon, my career will be renewed.”

“I’ll be back,” said the 4 dimensional avatar of Bale later in the message, while donning a pair of black biker shades.

In addition to playing John Connor in Terminator: Salvation, a performance widely compared to a dysentery outbreak, Bale is best known for playing Batman in Batman Begins and its six sequels: The Dark Knight, Batman Finds Bin Laden, Batman and Robin (a remake of the 1996 classic, featuring Shia La Beouf’s first appearance as Robin), Batman vs. the Wolfman, You Got Served…By Batman! (the last project Andrew Lloyd Webber completed before his death in 2014), and most recently, Full Frontal Batman, which also marked the beginning of Bale’s current status as a gay camp icon. However, for much of the past 10 years Bale has been a virtual Hollywood non-entity, finding occasional work in gay pornography and cheap Blaxploitation flicks.

“He was always moaning about how it had all gone wrong. He was always looking for a way to right the mistakes of the past,” said 5-time Best Director winner Uwe Boll and a close friend of Bale. “I offered him a spot in my upcoming film, an adaptation of the classic 80s arcade game Tron, but he refused. He said the last thing he needed was to fight against another malevolent computer.”

The details of Bale’s time machine are not known. The Cosmological Self-Consistency Treaty signed in 2021 of course, strictly prohibits all unlicensed time travel. Indeed, there is already speculation that the United Nations’ Timecop division will deploy Chief Inspector Max Walker to halt any attempt by Bale to tamper with the Space-Time Continuum.

“Time machines are too dangerous for humans to use,” said Doctor “Doc” Emmett Brown, Adjunct Professor of Quantum Physics at Hill Valley University and noted collector of antique DeLoreans. “What if Bale, using his knowledge of the future, placed bets on, let us say, the Lions to win the Super Bowl in 2010,2011, and 2012? I know their dynasty seems obvious in hindsight, but those bets back then would win him a fortune. Who know what sort of dystopian, cyberpunk future that might send us to?”

Doc Brown was later heard to mutter to himself: “I wish I had never built that infernal Time Machine.”

Bale, for his part, seems to have anticipated such criticisms. He ends his message by promising, that, once his primary mission is complete, he will attempt to undo 2009’s other big mistake.

“I will kill President Obam-sorry, I almost spoke You-Know-Who’s name, but anyway, I will assassinate him. I promise. And to all those who would try and stop my plans, look into the eyes of the thousands of orphan beggars and child prostitutes outside your door. Look into their eyes and then tell me my cause is not just.” Clunkline was forced to admit that anything, even the revival of Bale’s acting career and the unraveling of the Space-Time Continuum, would be worth saving all those billions from He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’s megalomania.

I just got back from my 8th tour of duty. After the 3rd, they stop giving you tour guides.

This is Bill. I say “he’s from Boot” and you’d think I mean I met him at Boot Camp, which I did, but also he was from Boot, Arkansas. I said I never knew there was a Boot in Arkansas. He said, “Yeah, we all go around barefeet, and also have no homes.”

One day right before we were supposed to ship out, Bill went CPA, and we never heard from him again.

That’s me with the stache.

Susie was my girl. We did our sixth tour together. She was my very own Molly Pitcher, bringin’ me my ammo and nursing my wounds and the other non-combat things we actually let the womenfolk do. It was the saddest day of my life when she got blown to bits by an IED shaped like a ham sandwich. That was the last sandwich she ever brought me.

Oh Renilde, you so funny.

Renilde was a stand-up guy, liked people, liked to laugh. He was the black guy in our squad and thus came to represent, to us, all black people. He became the amalgamation of a whole race rolled into one, all its good and bad, its courageous and shameful. That was how we saw him. He’d always say to us, “I don’t know any gangsters, I grew up in Iowa,” and we’d laugh and point out that he must have been mistaken because he was black. That was when he would usually get quiet and start polishing his rifle. Oh, those black people and their guns! When will they learn.

What a fun night we all had.

I don’t remember where Lyddie went, but before she disappeared, we all had fun putting bags on our heads and making human pyramids with the prisoners. Abu Ghraib was just like that, with prisoners and guards intermingling, sharing jokes, having a poker game, generally kickin’ back and relaxin’. I hear the laid-back attitude got us in the news or something, but politicians will never understand war. They should leave it to us soldiers.

In late 2006, a money grubbing O.J. Simpson published a book entitled If I Did It, a totally hypothetical discussion of how O.J. would have killed his wife and Ronald Goldman. This book caused a firestorm of bad press and was tragically recalled before it reached stores. In O.J.’s memory, I wrote a tribute to him entitled If I Did It, a discussion of how I would have killed those two people. This book was also killed before reaching the shelves, but that might have had more to do with my poor penmanship and general aversion to personal hygiene. But seeing as O.J. is about to go to prison for the next ten years, I though it an appropriate time to pimp my forgotten masterpiece.

The book begins with a description of my hypothetical football career in the NFL. I was drafted in the second round by the Oakland Raiders. I was a Wide Receiver at UCLA, but Coach Jefferson on the Raiders saw something in his lanky and handsome rookie, and tried me out at Quarterback. The first few chapters delved into my experience maturing from untested rookie to league champion in my 4th season.

It is at this point in the story that Ronald Goldman and Nicole Brown Simpson enter the picture. Goldman and I meet at a party celebrating my marriage to the former Queen of Saudi Arabia, international supermodel Nicole Brown Simpson. The scene is rife with dramatic, tragic irony, as the audience knows that these people are fated to die by my hand. In a truly inspired bit of writing, Goldman and I become friends. Goldman, by the way, is scheduled to be the first American on Mars.

The next few chapters show me at the peak of my powers in the NFL. My Raiders win four Super Bowls in a row, and I win the MVP every year. This culminates with my 7th year in the league, when I pass for 58 touchdowns, throw for 5,667 yards, and also return 4 punts for touchdowns. My face is on every magazine cover, my hip-hop album is number 1 on every chart, and my cologne “Musk of a God” is the most popular male fragrance ever. But as successful as my career is, my personal life in is shambles. My marriage to the Queen is crumbling. I am openly unfaithful to her. Once I was caught doing lines of blow off the First Lady’s ass in the Lincoln Bedroom. To top it all off, her old husband, King Hussein bin Laden of Saudi Arabia, wants her back and has been buying her very expensive gifts. He even buys the country of Luxembourg for her. The only thing that keeps me sane is my friendship to Goldman, who will be leaving for Mars next year.

Things come to a head when I spot Nicole and the King cavorting in a skybox at the season opener. In a rage, I ask my good friend Brian Urlacher to be my second and challenge King bin Laden to an Honor Duel. Brian even loans me the legendary Sword of Urlacher. It is a tense duel, reminiscent of Burr vs. Hamilton. It even gets broadcast pay-per-view on HBO. I was a 3-to-1 favorite according to Vegas, and I covered the spread. The image of me, limping slightly, blood pouring from gashes on my forehead and face, raising King bin Laden’s severed head on the end of my sword becomes the defining photograph of the decade, voted even more significant than the later picture of Jesus descending from the clouds over Jerusalem.

A fatwa is put on my head. After I personally foil several attempts on my life with my kung fu prowess (I am a 22nd level black belt, in case I forgot to mention that), Goldman cleverly executes a desperate plan to save his best friend: he sneaks me into the Kennedy Space Center, and gets me aboard the Mars rocket in his place. By the time NASA realizes the switch has been done, the rocket has already activated its engines.

The next section dealt with my amazing two and a half years spent in space. I quickly grasp astrophysics, orbital mechanics, quantum physics, and relativity theory. I become beloved by my initially skeptical crew. In the end, everyone was so impressed with me that they unanimously chose me to be the first on Mars. As I survey the bleak Martian landscape, I utter the most significant words in human history: “Let me back in the ship you assholes! I really gotta pee!”

I return to Earth a hero. The fatwa has been rescinded. My years in space have taught me to respect women, to not do drugs, and to stay in school. I resolve to be the world’s greatest husband and father. I will be a shining example for future generations of all that humanity can achieve. It is then that Nicole informs me that she and Goldman have married.

My life spirals out of control, and I acquire a serious death wish. But I am such a hero that no one will touch me. I go on a multi-state drinking and mass-murdering spree that leaves 8 dead, and receive a warning. I release weaponized Bird Flu in Boston, and I get a pardon. I steal the atomic arsenal of Pakistan and menace the nations of the free world, and I get elected Commandante of Earth. All I want is my insanely beautiful wife back. Finally, in a fit of severe depression, I activate the worldwide nuclear launch code. But I aim them at the moon. I’m not stupid. I just want to blow up the moon to make me feel a little better. Unfortunately, I forget gravity (my age-old nemesis). The various fragments rain down upon Earth, sterilizing it instantly, killing (among uncountable trillions of other lifeforms) Nicole Brown Simpson and Ronald Goldman.

And that’s how I did it. If I did it. To this day I cannot believe that no one wanted to take a chance on this book. Oh well, only the best artists get to be ignored during their lifetimes. Only hacks get famous before they die.

Just now I was checking my email and listening to my iPod on shuffle, when a song I had not heard in several years came up: “The Village of Dwarves” by Italian metal band Rhapsody of Fire. A nostalgic smile spread over my face as the band’s lyrics about, well, a village of dwarves enfolded me with their mighty power, and I was reminded once again that Rhapsody is far and away the nerdiest band to ever walk the Earth.

The inclusion of “Through the Fire and Flames” by Dragonforce on Guitar Hero 3 was the first exposure many Americans had to European power metal. I remember watching friends laughing at that song’s silly lyrics about the “flames of death’s eternal reign” and “fighting hard, fighting on for the steel, through the wastelands evermore.” Well, Rhapsody manages to be orders of magnitude lamer than that. The key is that Rhapsody’s albums all tell a continuing narrative called the “Emerald Sword Saga,” the most laughably, idiotically juvenile fantasy saga ever told.

The tale takes place in a magical land of enchantment called, creatively, the Enchanted Lands. These lands are under attack by some guy called the Dark Lord Akron. Opposing him is the hero of this tale, a mysterious warrior known only as the Warrior of Ice, whose lack of a proper name should tell you all you need to know about the characters in this story. In order to save the world, the Warrior of Ice needs to embark on a baffling quest to get something called the Emerald Sword. As vocalist Fabio Lione falsettos in the song “Emerald Sword”:

For the king for the land for the mountains
for the green valleys where dragons fly,
for the glory the power to win the black lord
I will search for the Emerald Sword!

The Warrior of Ice claims the mythical Emerald Sword, but only after his friend Tharos (who, I might add, is a dragon) heroically sacrifices himself. The Warrior of Ice stands over his fallen friend (who, and I cannot stress this enough, is a friggin’ sweet dragon!), and makes this solemn pledge to the evil Akron:

Rape of earth I want your head
sadist pig I can’t forgive what you did
all the blood you’re sucking out of my land
But my sword will soon come for you

This is where the story really gets interesting. The Warrior of Ice gets captured somehow by Akron, who has his evil demonic minions rape the lovely princess Airin right in front of him. Why is it that bad guys can always summon demonic minions like it’s a clearance sale at the apocalypse, but good guys can never manage to summon a single damn angel? Ah well, I digress. Anyway, Akron is about to kill the Warrior of Ice, but he manages to escape at the last second. Still, all still seems lost, for evil Akron now possesses the Emerald Sword!

The Warrior of Ice bravely battles on. He assembles an army and attacks Akron. Some sort of magical higgly-piggly happens that releases an army of Gargoyles, which I think is a bad thing, but I’m not sure. An ill-defined character known as the Queen of the Dark Horizons somehow impedes our hero, and finally the Warrior of Ice faces his enemy Akron. But Akron is too strong, the power of the Emerald Sword will not be denied. The Warrior of Ice is about to fall when… aw hell, I’ll let them tell it:

The powerful energies of the furthest secret cosmos heard
so the prayer of our mother Gaia, the supreme spirit
who gave us the miracle of life… and her
dark son breathed new life…
The power of the dragonflame was realizing
what had seemed to be impossible…

Thus empowered, The Warrior overpowers Akron, and pulls the both of them into a swamp. Peace is restored to the Enchanted Lands.