You're So Vain...

...I bet you think this blog is about you.

They Call Me Mister Pilch!

Recently I won a landslide election after a very, very dirty campaign by my jealous rabble of enemies. Nevertheless, I was elected President of the City, or somesuch. I ran an exhausting fundraising drive, and managed to accrue several dollars and a peso in a coffee can outside the Wawa, before I realized no one else was running for the position. In a brilliant tactical move, I wrote my own name in, and victory was mine.

As a giant among men, I am duly resented for it, lowly reader. Yes, indeed. The trouble began when I attempted to claim my rightful throne. I arrived at the Mutter Museum nice and early. Some peasants were milling around, to worship me, no doubt. I was a bit surprised by the lack of trumpeters. Fortunately, I am a man of enormous humility, so I suffered the lack of fanfare without comment. I stood importantly and brushed a few cigarette butts off my robe, since none of the peasants leapt forward to carry my train. I actually had to rap my scepter on the table to get anyone's attention. That's when the trouble began. Below is the transcript of the true events that unfolded, without the bias of the military-industrial-frankenfood complex controlling our media.


BlizzMasterPilch: Move aside! This is the king's road — and the knights you joined arms against were his very own.
Fat-Assed Peasant: Pardon?
BMP: You're sitting on a throne of lies!
Fat-Assed Peasant: Sir, the museum isn't open yet.
BMP: What we've got here is a failure to communicate!
Fat-Assed Peasant: Um, yes. If you wouldn't mind...
BMP: Authority is not given to you to deny the return of the king, steward.
Fat-Assed Peasant: Right. One moment, please. Security? There's a guy here in a red bathrobe and Burger King crown. Yes, I'm serious. Get down here.
BMP: Fasten your seatbelts. It's going to be a bumpy night.
Jack-booted Stormtrooper 1: Sir, if you would come with me, please...
BMP: Say 'hello' to my little friend!
Fat-Assed Peasant: Oh, God! He's commando under there.
JBS1: Jeez. Please close the robe, sir. [into a radio] I need backup.
BMP: You've got to ask yourself one question: 'Do I feel lucky?' Well, do ya, punk?
JBS2: Holy crap. What does he want?
BMP: Nobody puts 'Baby' in a corner!
FAP: He seems to want this folding chair.
JBS1: Time to go, sir. [muffled thump] Uh-oh. He's gone boneless.
JBS2: What do we do? Drag him out? I'll get his feet.
BMP: Get your stinking paws off me, you damned dirty ape!
JBS1: Wow, he's heavy.
BMP: Squeezed and pulled and hurt my neck!
JBS2: Oh, ew. Get that robe closed.
FAP: For heaven's sake, give him the chair.
BMP: My precious!
[door bangs]


Of course, the story was covered by the international news, and, as usual, completely distorted. Justice prevailed! I claimed my rightful throne, to which I was duly elected, despite the attempted usurpation by these infidels. The city and the democracy have been preserved, nay, saved by my heroic stance. Which I had to do single-handedly, by the way, since the National Guard mysteriously failed to assist me.

Fortunately, I never leave the house without a body wire since that incident with the Mike's Pink Lemonade. What was a 14-year-old doing out at that hour, anyway? That ID was very convincing, and anyway, I was acquitted.

To the corpulent villein who had the utter gumption to seat your ignoble gluteus I saw your name tag. I'll get you, my pretty. And your little dog, too.

Three Thumbs Down

Such is the enormity of my brilliance that I do not have to see a film to write a review. Dullards such as Roger Ebert gain their opinions of films the lazy way. My reviews are created with sheer brain power, and are therefore superior.

Behold:

I knew straight away that Precious, the sequel to Silence of the Lambs, would be a monstrosity. The dog is at least twenty years old, and they only gave it an Oscar because they gave one to Betty White, that old bat from Titanic. They thought she was ready to croak so they tossed her a statuette out of pity. The mother from Good Times plays the mentally retarded serial killer dog's keeper. Oh, excuse me...the differently-abled African-American caregiver of the dog-with-difficult-to-meet-needs. They only made the character black so we wouldn't be able to ridicule her. This is blatant anti-white racism. I deeply resent that black people can do anything they want, but if a fat, disaffected, white male does the same thing? Heaven forfend! I'm still getting threatening letters from the NCAA for my review of Guess Who's Coming to Dinner.

I refused to see James Cameron's science-fiction blockbuster, Ishtar, because it was far too popular with the proles. Seriously, if people without Degrees like it, how good can it be? Though it's nice to see the Blue Man Group getting some work, there are things in that movie that are impossible. I heard there was some sort of craft that flies through the air. Come now. Let's keep the science in science fiction, people.

Next comes the high-school nerd comedy, The Hurt Locker. All hyperintelligent students, though there be so few of us, carry the painful memories of being stuffed into lockers and forgotten over the holidays. To actually make a make a film glorifying this barbaric cruelty makes a shameful mockery of my...our suffering. I personally picketed theaters which sought to profit from this outrageous insult, but apparently the police officers who arrived to escort me off the premises were the same muscle-bound Neanderthals who saw me as locker fodder in my youth. I have your badge numbers. You'll be sorry. Very, very sorry.

There hasn't been a decent film out of Hollywood since Ray Harryhausen made his series of Bible epics entirely out of Lego.

Genius like that doesn't need gimmicks like serial-killing dogs, Negresses, CSI special effects, or nerd-bashing. I used the Googles and found several people who share my opinion, ergo, I have been PROVED correct. If anyone goes to see these films, I will interpret this as a personal insult. You have been warned.

Guest writer opines on Quizzo Bowl

This past weekend a minor trivia event occurred in Philadelphia, hosted by distant-second-cleverest Quizmaster, Johnny Goodtimes.

Guest writer Regyna Woodpile gives her take on the event at this link: Review of Quizzo Bowl VI

Cut her some slack, people. Not everyone is blessed with rhetorical skills in my league.

Shitholier Than Thou

If you're like me, you heard about some earthquake thing happening in Haiti in a smart-person way, like listening to NPR. Or it could have been while I was watching some reality show on FOX with my beer gut resting comfortably in my lap. (Purely for quiz research, people.) When a shithole country has a tragedy, it's an American tradition to send a few bucks to the Red Cross or somesuch. Then you don't have to think about it anymore. Besides, what better way to demonstrate your superiority to someone than to insult them with charity.

Of course, Haiti was a shithole before the earthquake, which is all your fault for not voting for me when I ran for president. I didn't have to send any money to Haiti before the earthquake because I expressed my outrage by shouting at the TV and rolling my eyes a few times. I also wrote a couple of bilious rants about how Haiti was ruined by James K. Polk when he pulled the baseball industry out and ruined their economy. At 9,000 words each, with facts ripped straight from Wikipedia, Haiti now owes me money.

There were other earthquakes, hurricanes, and genocides, but those aren't worth my time or outrage. Hurricane Katrina happened to Louisiana, so I already paid for that with my tax money for all those poor people who mooch off me. The earthquakes in Chile and Japan didn't kill nearly enough people to be interesting. Haiti itself was pummeled by storms only two years ago, killing 3,000 and leaving 800,000 homeless and starving, but I was busy writing a 17,000-word piece on how Barack Obama isn't really black. Had I known about it, I would have dipped into my beer budget for at least four dollars.

Another plus to the whole charity thing is it not only makes you superior to the Haitians, but to all your friends. The only real point to being large is being larger than someone else. So chunk a few cents in a jar today, crack open a cold one, settle down in front of "Flavor of Love" re-runs, and bask in your smugness.

UPDATE: Japan is now interesting enough to write a 4-million word anti-nuke piece about. Just remember to throw in a link to the Red Cross so you don't look like a dick.

1,000,000 Visitors!

We here at Blizzmaster Pilch's Blovatorium are celebrating our One Millionth Visitor! By "we," of course, I mean "me."

Unlike some bloggers (cough, no names), I would never artificially inflate or misinterpret those numbers. How is that possible?

Some bloggers have no idea that a "unique" IP address becomes "unique" again after its cookie expires. If the cookie is set to expire in, say, 10 minutes, pretty much everyone is "unique" no matter how often they visit.

Some bloggers plaster their sites with clever images from cult films to illuminate their wit. (No bandwidth is wasted because they are all hotlinked. Too many pictures costs money. I'm entitled to free stuff, without having to manage a buttload of images. Did I say me? I meant "them.") People all over the world search for images, so some bloggers load the site and let them rot for the Googlebots to crawl and re-crawl. Next thing you know, the counter of a pissant backwater blog is through the roof. Then said pissant blogger can pat himself on the back far enough to give himself a reach-around.

Of course, that is not the case here.



Every single one of my million visitors came here to sip the nectar of my bombastic rodomontades.

Country Means Country, Asshole

In one of my world-class clever quizzes, I asked for a list of countries west of Germany. Some idiot wrote down "Scotland." Even though most people are pathetically stupid compared to me, what kind of nimrod doesn't know that "country" means only one thing: country. Country means what I say it means and nothing else. Some Brit tried to tell me I am...get this...wrong. I know exactly what I am talking about, because I have a Degree in Political Science. Quizzo in a shithole bar is exactly where a Degree like mine comes in handy.

Here is why Scotland is not a country:

• No one speaks English.
• They can't tell the difference between "soccer" and "football."
• They drink warm beer.
• They wear man-skirts.
• Trainspotting.

In fact, Scotland isn't even there anymore. The United States of Kingdoms call itself a "country made of countries," but who are they to decide? They're not even American! Have your heard how they talk? They can't spell properly and use the wrong words for things. We only allow them to call their bastard language "English" so they'll buy Big Macs and Starbucks coffee. Anyone who is educated like me knows this.

I won't be getting comments for long. As soon as you proles begin to annoy me I plan to heavily censor all comments. It's my right as a man of letters. And the hate mail begins.....now!

Genius Is Pain

As you know, I am extraordinarily clever. When I am not masturbating over pictures of myself, I craft the cleverest quizzes known to the unworthy lesser beings that are humankind. How can you tell my quizzes are better than everyone else's? The best teams in the city do not play them! They're intimidated by my intellect, you see.

Being the best quizmaster ever entitles me to certain right and privileges above the slobbering proles. For example, someone...I can barely bring myself to say it, such is my outrage...removed the link to my site from Wikipedia!

Despite someone dared remove my blabby additions to the Quizzo article, I consider it my personal, private property. My verbose pontifications provided the basis for the clean, simple article that remains, which allows me to confidently claim credit for the entire thing.

Therefore, I have the right to self-promotion.

I (used to) play Quizzo, and I host Quizzo in several dives, ergo the Wikipedia owes me free advertising. There are dark forces at work here, people.

I am obviously the Victim of a conspiracy which most likely involves the Illuminati, the Mafia, and whoever faked the Apollo moon landings. I capitalize Victim because I have been conspired against before. Such is the price of greatness, nay, genius. Genius and greatness.