The Secrets of Monkey Island

By Sea Captain Manchuria, Privateer of the Bryan Bishop Adventure Island Imperial Navy

May 18th, 2007

Foggy day. Light breeze, that swayed the mist hovering above the town. The stench of opportunity was in the air. I can always sense it -- the smell of dirty laundry, and sure enough, it came flapping by -- a Union Jack flapjacket with the stifling aroma of septic tanks, piano keys, and destiny. I grabbed it with a thrust of the arm and the clench of a fist. It was mine.

In one pocket was an unidentifiable sticky red substance that looked like blood, smelled like blood, and tasted like blood. In the other was a cryptic message, one that sent shivers crawling up and down my spine like the sun-warmed deckhands on my towering mast.

"Dare you discover the Secret of Monkey Island."

Of course, I nodded.

May 28th, 2007

Disguise is ready. Needed to infiltrate the subject incognito so I put on my perpetually oversized Chris Harmer pirate-wench garb and boarded the legendary Ship Of Fooles.

The captain is legendary. They told me the best way to get what I wanted was to grease up his ego 'cause he swung both ways -- was bipolar, like glaciers and snow.

I sucked it up and braved it out. I'll make him spill.

May 29th, 2007

The sun streamed in through the flapping curtains, along with the smell of cannonballs, seamen, and decks (all-hands-on). Now was the time. He was still asleep so I helped open his lips for him.

"Monkey Island?" he asked, now fully aroused.

"You know it."

"Well, it's been going well. Like clockwork. It's been everything I could've hoped for." He chuckled. "Well, you know. Given the talent involved."

I perked up, and he noticed. "What do you mean?"

"Well, this is sort of a secret, and we're trying to keep this on the down-low." He leaned in even closer and breathed into my ear. "It's Uwe. How much can you expect?"

He laughed, but I could feel the tingle of nervousness in his throat.

I'd found it. Uwe Boll. Sultan of Schlock, Film Protector Target, consensus reigning Worst Director on the Planet. This was the dirty secret of Monkey Island.

But that wasn't all.

May 31st, 2007

A ruckus in the captain's quarters. Loud. Threathening. Mysterious.

I quickly dashed my way into the familiar secret passage leading to the bedroom, strained my ear against the floorboards, and listened. The captain was in full bellow, harking curses and insults at another person.

"I can't believe you did that, you red-coated fiend! You back-stabber, you Unionship-jacker!"

I tried to make out the other person, but there was no response.

"You have the hairy balls and the bullocks to do this to me?! FOR A WOMAN?! Don't deny it! Don't you dare deny it, it's all over the paper!! What about our agreement?! Our history!?"

A clinkle of teacups interrupted the good old captain. "It's only a couple of pounds, old chap," the mystery man replied.

"You've doomed us, I tell you. You've doomed the production! Monkey Island will sink! And so will our..."

"YOUR money." I couldn't see it, but I could swear there was a twinkle in the stranger's eye. "Your bloody money, old chap. And she's not just a woman. She's a woman who's my fiance, with a mighty fine arse. So cry me a river, and sing me an anthem, you bloody old buggery fool. I'll see you in two months in my and my woman's new mansion."

"Why, you little pinky-waving..."

"Oh, and stop calling me sweetie, 'captain'," he sneered. "The name's Trax. Marcus Trax. Or perhaps 'Daddy', to you."

Stunned at this development, I launched out of the secret passage and to my slave quarters, pored over the day's paper. Doomed productions? Anthems? Hairy balls? What could it all possibly mean?

And then I spotted it. A new Wormtail Production, released by none other than Marcus Trax's corporate empire, on the same day as his very own Monkey Island. Trax was ignoring good ethics and protocol and lining his own pockets. He'd be double-dipping into the slush money, while the good old captain stands there, getting his pocket-picked with a knife sticking out the back of his chest.

Treachery cuts deep. Especially by the British.

July 9, 2007

It was a dark and stormy night. The sea was sloshing against the ship like the raging ocean sloshes against large boats. My eyes were about to close, as I was about to fall into a slumber, when I heard it. A wail, the sound of despair from outside.

Fearing the worst, I stood up lightning-fast, put on my Chris Harmer costume, and moved like an iceberg towards the door. I burst out onto the deck, and that's when I saw him. The captain, soaked from head to toe. I couldn't tell rain from sea from tears.

"Oh. Oh, it's just you," he sniffed, the epitome of defeat. "I'm sorry if I woke you. It's just... Oh screw it, you understand me! You'll lay by me to the very end! I'm ruined, Chris! RUINED!"

I asked him why, but he just broke down some more.

"I put my faith into that man! I put everything into his hands! Everything! My entire summer, my money, that property, my love..." he sobbed. "...ly ship! I gave him my tentpole, don't you understand?!? MY POLE!! MY BELOVED POOOOOOLLLEE!!!"

I sighed and I stiffened as the stunning image flashed through my head. "I'm sorry about that. I heard about the Anthem issue, but..."

"Oh, it's not just that! I wish it was, but it's not! I was nearly over that! He had his woman, his love, I can surely relate! But yesterday... He told me... He told me..."

"He told you what?"

"HE WAS FAKING IT!! HE DIDN'T FINISH, HE NEVER FINISHED!! I couldn't... get him... to finish..."

The rain drummed on, along with my heart, as my pulse beat pure pity for that broken man.

"He's only halfway done the movie, it's as if he was saving it all for her! He only gave me his half-ass, don't you see? He only gave me half an ass! I'm ruined..."

And the rain drummed on.

"I'm ruined..."

And the rain drummed on.

"I'm ruined..."

July 12th, 2007

The sun was shining again after the rain. It was the last day of my voyage on the Fooles -- about time, since my costume started chafing.

Ship of Fooles would reach its destination tomorrow and who knows if all was well. I hadn't seen the dear captain in three whole days and have heard little news on the production.

I had spotted Uwe Boll, however, and tried to prod some answers out of him, but he only prodded me back with his fist two or three hundred times.

In the distance, back on the land, I could make out a huge celebration of some sort on shore. I took out my telescope and peered through. On a giant parade float was none other than Marcus Trax and his fiance, Polgara, boasting arrival of their digital lovechild.

I scanned the shore some more, for any sign of Guybrush Threepwood, or monkeys, or giant cotton swabs -- no avail. Monkey Island was nowhere in sight.

Two lattes, six burgers, and three bathrooms later, I finally caught up to the dear captain, who was trying to avoid any contact whatsoever.

"I'm feeling much better now, as you can see," he sighed. "I disappointed at his lack of commitment, but I try not to take it personal, you know? I... I don't know if I'll ever be able to trust anyone again, but I'll try, I'll soldier on, like I always do. You understand, don't you?"

He looked into my eyes, searching for an answer I didn't want to tell him.

"You understand. Right?"

I looked down where his hands were clamped on mine and then blinked one or two times. I sighed. "I... I'm not sure, captain, I'm not sure if I understand. I'm just a fool, after all. We're all just Fooles."

"Fooles," he whispered. He closed his eyes and let go of my hand. "You're right, Chris. You're right."

We both looked off into the sunset, picturing it as it fell towards Marcus Trax's head. He put his hand on my shoulder, but I didn't mind, 'cause I couldn't feel it through the padding.

"What is us Fooles, Chris?"

I shrugged. I really didn't know. But if there was one thing I was sure of, it was this. "We'll always have Monkey Island."

He looked at me, then nodded. And we both laughed.

---

Sea Captain Manchuria's first command was a freight container that fell off a cargo ship on its way from China to the US.

Where Did That Investigative Reporting Go?: An Investigative Report

By Mark Chua, Bryan Bishop's Adventure Island Investigative Journalist



It's no stretch to say that Hollywood: The Game has been in its dark ages for some time now. No, not regarding the movies, nor the players -- HTG has been in the dark regarding EVERYTHING, and it is in the midst of the most crippling information and media blackout in its era. That's right, HTG journalism is dead.

Sure, the journalists and publications are still here. The untested, horn-tooting Alex Love is in the reigns of HTG's flagship paper, The Hollywood Times, the ever-present fluffster, Marlowe, operates the advertnalistic What's Happening, and the PJ "One-Word-Vocabulary" Flip heads up the M.I.A. Hollywood Pit. There's also the Carson Daily, which is not daily, and really only puts up awards, and fellow Bishop-Imperialistic mouthpiece, The Hollywood Star, but of all these "active" entities, none of them seem to be willing to get dirty. None of them dig up the real facts, nor interview the real people of the Hollywood underbelly.

It's a shame, especially when browsing through the ruins of the former glory of The Hollywood Pit . Remember when mc48 bravely busted Ben Affleck in his crazed abduction spree? Or when Marty uncovered Trans-Atlantic Film's suddenly-missing $300 million bank account and their trip to Africa ? Or when Experimenter #2 released documents containing the REAL reason Sureshot lost his studio? How about when fearless Publius infiltrated the depths of The Alexander Corporation, discovering the rampant dysfunction that led to their downfall? Where are the stories that rock the world? The ballsy journalism that leads to public enlightenment? These stories used to arouse interest! Intrigue! Emotion! Lord knows Hollywood has been the same seedy, crime-ridden cesspool it has always been, the difference is, nobody has the guts to infiltrate it.

It's clear the questions are still being asked. Just last week, The Hollywood Times posed an issue that has been plaguing Hollywood for centuries. The report was hailed for being the best article HTG has seen in a long time. Tough questions were posed and addressed.

"Where Did That Blockbuster Go?" "Did productions budgets get out of hand? Were there cast or production issues that stopped filming? Did the studio heads pull the projects? Were there union issues that needed to be dealt with? Did the cast and crew become ill after eating the Flip Brothers Pizzeria catering?"

The answer? The conclusion?

"Well, we may never know."

It is articles like these, as well as the lazy, soulless, advertinterviews strewn across the press-room floor that brings back the sweet nostalgia of the brave journalistic souls of the past, as well as the bitter stench of awareness that Hollywood journalism today continues to be dead, buried, but worst of all, forgotten.

So where did the investigative report go? Here are the facts:

The investigative report was last seen thriving in The Hollywood Pit headquarters, before its deed was handed over to one Ritchie Steven, and then subsequently to Justin Graham. Graham then was involved in a horrific car accident, crippling him for several months, forcing him to abandon his editorial duties. Upon healing, Graham, valiantly attempted to revive The Pit and exhibited three fleeting glimpses of journalistic balls, before succumbing to inertia. He could not go on.

The Hollywood Pit and their glorious journalistic history was then inexplicably whored off by the aforementioned (mentally?) handicapped and auctioned off in a two-man battle between PJ Flip and soon-to-be-Hollywood Star-editor, Trax. In a show of capitalist muscle (and alleged brotherly favoritism by HTG President and ex-Pit Editor Ritchie Steven, which nobody had the journalistic balls to investigate), PJ Flip won and publication was transferred over to him.

In a total corporate makeover, the next Hollywood Pit came out emasculated with a fancy Flash-y coat, useless animations, and conspicuously lacking a soul. The Hollywood Pit has been dead ever since, and remains buried under PJ's enormous vocabulary up to this day.

From these stunning facts, and this comprehensive analysis it's clear where the investigative report went.

The investigative report is right here.

Bimperialism forever. It's where the balls are. Or at least for today.

---

In his spare time Mark Chua sells American military secrets to the Red Chinese.

Ed Havens Tells Bible Stories

By Edward Havens, Imperial Minister of the Bryan Bishop Adventure Island Flock

You see, in the beginning, God created the heavens and the Earth. Now, the Earth was formless and fucking empty. Darkness was over the fucking surface of the deep, and the Spirit of God was hovering over the waters.

And God said, "Let there be light," and there was light. BOOM! Like a bullet out of a fucking .45. And God saw that the light was good, and He separated the light from the darkness. God called the light "day," and the darkness he called "night." Makes sense, doesn't it? And there was evening, and there was morning—the first day.

After a good night's sleep, God woke up the next day to look upon his creation. He examined the formless Earth he created and thought it to be too plain. God's special friend stumbled out of the bedroom and looked around as well. The friend said "You want to make a waterworld? That's pretty boring." God said, "You're right. A waterworld would be very boring. I shall create an expanse between the waters, to separate water from water. Water dissolving and water removing. There is water at the bottom of the ocean. Carry the water at the bottom of the ocean. Remove the water at the bottom of the ocean!" So God made the expanse and separated the water under the expanse from the water above it. And it was so. God called the expanse "sky." And there was evening, and there was morning—the second day.

After a somewhat restful night of sleep, God awoke and started examining his new creation some more. After a great deal of thought, he said, "Let the water under the sky be gathered to one place, and let dry ground appear." And it was so. God called the dry ground "land," and the gathered waters he called "seas." And God saw that it was pretty fucking good.

Then God said, "Let the land produce vegetation: seed-bearing plants and trees on the land that bear fruit with seed in it, according to their various kinds." And it was so. The land produced vegetation: plants bearing seed according to their kinds and trees bearing fruit with seed in it according to their kinds. And God saw that it was good. And there was evening, and there was morning—the third day.

The next day, God said, "Let there be lights in the expanse of the sky to separate the day from the night, and let them serve as signs to mark seasons and days and years, and let them be lights in the expanse of the sky to give light on the earth, and twice a year, we'll adjust time so that there can be a little more light towards the end of the day to enjoy life and liberty and the pursuit of happyness." And it was so. God made two great lights—the greater light to govern the day and the lesser light to govern the night. He also made the stars. God set them in the expanse of the sky to give light on the earth, to govern the day and the night, and to separate light from darkness. And God saw that it was good. And there was evening, and there was morning—the fourth day.

Now, on the fifth day, God's voice was getting kinda scratchy. He'd done all this creating of heavens and Earth and water and stars and shit. So he thought to himself, "Let the water teem with living creatures, and let birds fly above the earth across the expanse of the sky." So God created the great creatures of the sea and every living and moving thing with which the water teems, according to their kinds, and every winged bird according to its kind. And God saw that it was good. God blessed them and said, "Be fruitful and increase in number and fill the water in the seas, and let the birds increase on the earth." And there was evening, and there was morning—the fifth day.

Now, what very few people know is that, on the sixth day, God actually took a half day. After all, who the hell was going to yell at him? He's the boss, you know? He created a lawn chair, created a mini-fridge with some beer in it, kicked off his sandles and just soaked in his creations thus far. He examined the Sun and the Moon, the heavens and the Earth, and he was pretty pleased with himself. God thought to himself, "I did a pretty damn good job. But I've got all these creatures under the water, but nothing on the land. I need to get some living creatures going, according to their kinds. We need some livestock, some creatures that move along the ground, and some wild animals, each according to its kind." And it was so. God made the wild animals according to their kinds, the livestock according to their kinds, and all the creatures that move along the ground according to their kinds. And God saw that it was good. Then God wondered why the announcer, who he hadn't really created yet, kept intoning what he was thinking and repeating what he was saying. So God turned to the announcer and said, "Let me make man in my image, in my likeness, and let them rule over the fish of the sea and the birds of the air, over the livestock, over all the earth, and over all the creatures that move along the ground. But give them a better nose than the one I have. Mine has a deviated septum and it makes me snore at night. It keeps Mr. God's special friend awake at night, and he keeps kicking me when it wakes him up." So God created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him; male and female he created them. With a better nose. God blessed them and said to them, "Be fruitful and increase in number. Especially you really stupid ones. Overfill the earth and subjugate it. Rule over the fish of the sea and the birds of the air and over every living creature that moves on the ground. Shoot it or stab it or blow it out of the air or sea. Just make sure you have enough for dinner each night." Then God said, "If that's not good enough. I'll give you every seed-bearing plant on the face of the whole earth and every tree that has fruit with seed in it. They will be yours for food. And to all the beasts of the earth and all the birds of the air and all the creatures that move on the ground—everything that has the breath of life in it—I give every green plant for food. Except for the ivy. Don't eat the ivy, and for My sake, don't roll around in it naked." And it was so.

God saw all that he had made, and it was very good. And there was evening, and there was morning—the sixth day.

And on the seventh day, God looked all around the heavens and the Earth and the land and the sea and all the creatures he created, and God's special friend turned to God and said "That'll do, pig. That'll do. Now create me some place where I can make something to eat. We've been cooped up on this cloud for a week now with nothing to eat and I'm fucking hungry, you selfish piece of shit." So God grabbed a couple beers from his mini-fridge, created a kitchen for his friend and hit Play on the universe He created. "Let's see what happens, Landon."

---

Ed Havens was walking by and said "God bless you" when Bryan Bishop sneezed. He was hired right then and there.

The State of Bryan Bishop's Adventure Island (Is Quite An Undertaking)

By Bryan Bishop, Imperial Overlord of Bryan Bishop’s Adventure Island

Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to welcome you to the bi-monthly state of the union for Bryan Bishop’s Adventure Island.

A lot has happened since the inception of this Newsblog. We’ve made many new friends, and found many new followers. We have also lost Robert E. Marlowe due to the shrill whininess of… er… the perfectly reasonable demands of the Garofalo Commission. We wish his family, who we are required to repeat that we made no attempts to find, our deepest shrugs of indifference. I mean, we just started. He’s like that guy on Lost, the one who got the shrapnel in his belly. Hell, Marlowe wasn’t even Boone-worthy yet.

Anyhow, we have a great new number of initiatives in the works, designed to make Bryan Bishop’s Adventure Island And even more fun place to --

---

What the --

Oh My God Dude, Oh My God

By Eddie Bishop, Brother to the Imperial Overlord of Bryan Bishop’s Adventure Island

Dude, what are you doing in here, we’re supposed to go bowling with Rhonda and Steve, what… what are you doing, dude? Why are you covering up the monitor? Is it porn? Dude, you totally let me have to see if it’s porn. Dude.

Dude. "Bryan Bishop’s Adventure Island?" What the hell is that? Is this what you’ve been doing in here these last few weeks? Let me read. Stop it, dude, or I’m totally going to whale on you. Huh, who’s the black guy with all the medals, isn’t he like… dude, that’s Ghost Dog! That movie owns.

Dude, you totally gotta get out more if this is what you do in your spare time. Shandra was like three months ago, get over her already and come out into the real world. Oh, you guys never heard of Shandra? Bryan caught her in a Tahoe givin’ some guy a BJ, and he starts crying like a little bitch. Oh my God, it was funny as shit.

And then he’s like crying and shit and drinking Boone’s Farm and I’m like laughing because he’s such a pussy. And then he tries to hit me and kick me at the same time. Swear to fuckin’ God. He punch-kicked me. PUNCH-KICKED ME! I fell over laughing like a motherfucker, oh my God.

Oh yeah, man, if you think he’s bad now, you should have seen him in high school. He was so clueless. Until he turned seventeen, I had him convinced that girls had penises. Swear to God. Ha ha!

Hey Bryan, you want a headlock? Can I put you in a headlock? Ha ha! I’m totally putting him in a headlock right now. I bet he starts crying. Cry, Bryan! Cry, you little bitch! Ha ha! I don’t care if you tell Mom.

What do you mean you’re going to let some dude stay on your couch? Dude, I’ve been on this couch for months? You gonna act like a little bitch just because I made fun of you in front of your internet friends? Dude, fuck you, that’s bullshit. Who is he? I’ll kick his ass. Matt Atwood? I’ll be damned if some fuckin’ tree hugger is taking my couch away. You can blow me, I’m not going anywhere.

Oh my God, the first time he got a tug-job, it was so funny, he comes home and he asks me in this quiet voice, "Is it natural for stuff to come out?" I’M SERIOUS! I could have busted a nut myself laughing.

Oh yeah, him and Shandra dated for like years. He was so starry-eyed. He came home and said, "I made love!" Like it’s an episode of Passions or some shit. I asked him what he played… get this… Purple Rain. Bryan Bishop lost his virginity to Purple Rain.

All right Bryan, all right, I’ll get off of here. But my God, dude, you are so wasting your life. Ha! Later, motherfuckers!

---

Eddie Bishop is a big jerk face.

Alas, A Maiden Fair, Chapter One

By PJ Flip, Poet Laureate of the Isle

Twas in the season of great and noble tidings, when man and beast are in harmony with the will of the warmest stirrings of the heart of man, when I set out upon my carriage, perchance to spy a lady. I had long been pining whilst working through my studies in the rectory, and I thought it would be quite a thing to break my long stretch of erstwhile solitude by setting out henceforth in search of a young beauty to whisper sweet promises to as the water chortled by across the whispering stones of a secluded brook.

Ah, and as I struck out across the moors, reigning in my team as the wheels on my carriage went snicker-snack, I thought back to olden times, before the mosses undertook the bottom of the village bridge, before so many festive Christmastimes had gone by, before I had laid bear my heart to the frigid Widow Terwillinger, and tasted the mournful kiss of her disdain. How I wished to go back to my younger days, racing through the fens and braes in my short pants, my freckled cheeks rosy with good health and good cheer, skipping merrily along the cobblestones of old Solihul.

Ah, but the gray skies assailed me as I rode on, the angels in heaven had taken it upon themselves to chill me with a most unpleasant wind, As if the great clock of the seasons had turned back its hands and placed me in the most threadbare confines of a great December empire. I could cry for the warm embrace of Gaea and her merciful tidings, but t’would be in vain.

Then, did seem the heavens themselves opened up, casting down a ray from the very cheek of the Almighty to a distant hillside, where I saw a white figure elapsing the afternoon with incantations and revelry, unawares, perhaps, that I had seen her from afar. I called my stallions to a halt, wanting to thrill her with surprisement, and embarked briskly for the underside of the distant mount, which rose from the mists of the great plain like the shoulder of a half-buried giant, stirring himself to his waking.

I came to her in the bones of the great church, large moss-clad stone arches, the rusted remnants of an old friar’s crucifix. And there she turned to me, lips pursed, hair a deep chestnut brown, eyes brown and filled with a sense of longing that shook me to the very core of my being. I gazed upon her, her finery, her chaste maiden’s way of sitting, pail hands clasped in her lap, eyes glistening with timidness and the excitement of such indecent, reckless abandon to be alone in the wild with an wanton vagabond, to find herself looking back to me, bosom heaving, as I held out my hands to her, poetry springing to my lips. I had but one thing I could say to the maid, one phrase grafted by the anvils in Heaven, cast down by angels themselves to let me win her heart, her body, her very soul. I opened my lips, falling to one knee, and let my inner being spring forth, to conquer her, and make one angel my very own. She gazed at me breathlessly. I spoke in the tender stillness of the coming night…

"Hi."

---

Hello PJ is a top selling product line in Japan.

Al Gore Is A Rapist and A Pyromaniac!

By Matt Drudge, Bryan Bishop's Adventure Island News Correspondent




Developing...

---

Matt Drudge saw the last ten minutes of "All The President's Men" and thought it looked cool.

There's Raisins In My Toast

By Marlowe, Official Old Coot of and Envoy to Bryan Bishop’s Adventure Island

There’s raisins in my toast.

What the hell you want? My story? My story’s ain’t none of your goddamn business. Here’s my name:

Me and Pete Rose were borne in a nest and raised by a pair of Bald Eagles, named Sassy and Dexter. Of course, those were the days before Sassy and Dexter morphed into Edward and Cassy Havens. They can change back whenever they want. They’re witches, you see. Witches! Witches of Eastwick!

Wicks.

You don’t see a lot of candles anymore. Now it’s all about the goldarn light bulbs. Light bulbs! Anybody else notice how much light bulbs look like swastikas? That’s because the Japs and the Krauts want us to rest easy. I knew me a Jap back in the war, and I know he’d never bow over with two atomic bombs. Have you seen Japanese pornography? Them peoples are fearless!

What about the war? Yeah, I fought. I was a Confederate. No, I ain’t racist! I love all races and creeds, ‘cept the Catholics. They always talk about the slavery and the state’s rights. They forget the third issue. Age of consent! Why do you think the Confederates got so many people backing them? 470,000 at Gettysburg! It was because they didn’t look down on you if you buggered a fourteen year old. And brother, you haven’t lived until you’ve buggered a thirteen year old.

Anyway, back to mah story.

Me, the Lindberg Baby, and Heddy Lamar all joined in the 20th Ontario and marched on Berlin in 1932. Of course, back in those days, it was called Constantinople. We laid siege to the city, and ended up putting the Kaiser in his place. Afterward, we went home, where we all got rimmed out by Betty Davis. Of course, in those days, rimmed out meant… well, that ain’t really changed.

You know, mud ain’t nothin’ but wet dirt.

Anywho, after I came home from the war I became a world-famous singer. I was the guy who wrote "Papa Don’t Preach" by Madonna. You’re welcome.

But I ain’t this mainland Marlowe! Never could be! Because I decided writin’ makes you a wussy. A big, fat wussy. Big and fat like the picture on the first picture you see at his newsblog!

I think that’s wrong. Misrepresenting somebody with a dig like that. It ain’t like an elaborate satire, it’s a cruel joke that is just going to hurt somebody’s feelings, rather than make other folks laugh. I mean, how can you do that to poor Ralphie May? Bryan Bishop is much fatter than that. He’s a big, fat guy. A big, fat, sweaty guy who’s pants bunch up and cut off the circulation to his legs! The kind of guy who can’t get an erection unless he eats him a big bag of pasta!

For shame, other Marlowe. You should have the class to find somebody as fat as Bryan Bishop as his stand in. Like Taft or Yokozuna or…

---

Robert E. Marlowe was executed on the morning of March 6, 2007.

Being Playful Is Quite An Undertaking

By Bryan Bishop, Imperial Overlord of Bryan Bishop’s Adventure Island

So I’m busy raping and mur… er, playing in the surf with my dog one day and my Imperial Messenger runs up, and gives me this note:

Dear who it may concern.

I noticed in your latest edition, you featured a senior citizen by the name of "Marlowe." It has come to our attention that this may, in fact, not be the Marlowe we are familiar with on the mainland. Nonetheless, we assume you simply named this poor, senile man after a rival producer for your own sick pleasure.

May I say, Mr. Bishop, that you and your ilk disgust me. Your wanton actions are the kinds that curdle the breast milk of new mothers and cause little girls to go blind in the flower of life. How dare you steal the identity of a poor old man for your own sick desires!

We ask that you find the true name of this poor old man, and let him go by that from now on at the very least… though anybody with a soul would send him home to be with his family. Also, revise your old records to reflect the changes, or face more glaring disapproval.

Signed,

The Garofalo Commission.


Needless to say, the rest of my day was spent sputtering in frustration. Then I wandered out and found our old friend hiding behind a tree to keep the grass from eating his feet.

"Hey, old timer!" I said.

"Bicycles cause the gay!"

"That’s great. Listen… um… I’ve gotten a pretty angry letter, and they want me to find out your real name. So… got it?"

"Name’s Marlowe."

Shit.

"Martin Lowe? Like, are you just saying it fast?"

"My name is Robert E. Marlowe, you goddamn Quaker! Go weave me a basket!"

"Look, they want us to rename you."

"They can kiss my sister’s black cat’s ass! This is my name! It was my name in aught 14 and it’ll be my name when I die and Jesus drinks me out a hat!"

He then screamed as his legs became entangled in a spool of yarn he was gumming. I would have to think fast. Quickly, I called for my imperial scribe, Shawn "Chocolate Thunder" Wenger.

"Take a letter," I said.

"Sure," Shawn said, readying his Bic.

"I regret the error that has befallen us. It seems my third-in-command, Shawn "Chocolate Thunder" Wenger, is fully at fault in this controversy. I am very displeased with his foolish and petty action, and…"

"Hey!"

"…will see to it that the little worm is justly…"

"You godforsaken coward!"

"Shut up and write, monkey!"

We then proceeded to slap each other with our eyes closed and heads turned to the side. After roughly twenty-five minutes, we paused to rest, and decided that selling out a subordinate would not end this controversy… we would have to ask "Marlowe" who he really was, not because we wanted to, or felt it was at all necessary, but to get the Garofalo Commission off our back.

"Marlowe," tell us your story!

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Seriously, this was all Wenger’s idea.

Prepare The Death Ray

By Idi Amin, Vice Imperial Overlord of Bryan Bishop’s Adventure Island

Man the catapults! Prepare the battering ram! This is it, my children!

Soon, we shall invade the mainland, pillaging and plundering at will, butchering the foolish people of HTG town by the thousands. We shall skin them and smoke their bones in the hot fires of our camps. We will wave our flag from the top of the theater, as we bask in the heat of the inferno that is all that remains of UFI and the Flip’s Studio. We will drink the sweet nectar of life from the skulls of their children.

Hear me now! Our blades will drink the life’s blood of Krisgreet and Emerald, we shall coat our bullets in the tender kiss of the flesh of Newman and Mattricks. And in the end, when the earth has drunken its fill of the blood if the innocent, we shall unleash our death ray upon the cowering survivors, smoking their flesh and cracking their skin, killing them in horrible agony where they stand…

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Idi Amin is also Head Chairman of the Death Ray Sub-Committee in the BBAI Senate.

That Is So Not A Death Ray

By Tony Snow, Minister of Truth

That is so not a death ray. That is complete hooey. Look at it. Does it look like a death ray to you?

No it doesn’t, stop saying that. And stop pointing at it and screaming. It’s a sculpture. Who sculpted it? Um… some French guy. It’s a gift from France. What’s that you say?

Why does a sculpture need a plug? Uh… oh damn. Um, okay, it’s actually like our antennae for our television. It’s how we watch TV here. What? We’re not landlocked. We’re just floating out here. We’ve got to have a big satellite.

What? Why doesn’t it look like a dish, but instead, like a gigantic death ray? Well… it’s new. We got it from the Sharper Image. You get a catalogue, right? Everybody gets one. Just look in there.

What page? Um… you know, we ordered it a few months ago. So it’s probably not in this one. It was probably a limited deal.

Seriously, that is not a death ray.

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Tony Snow kind of looks like the kid from "A Christmas Story."

Al Gore Is A Rapist!

By Matt Drudge, Bryan Bishop's Adventure Island News Correspondent




Developing...

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Matt Drudge is in charge of washing Bryan's fleet of enviornmentally-unfriendly automobiles. He pretends to be a reporter in his spare time.

The Old Gray Mare, She Ain't What She Used To Be

By Marlowe, Official Old Coot of and Envoy to Bryan Bishop’s Adventure Island

In my day, they didn’t have these fancy little countries. We had three countries! Russia, Prussia, and Mexico. That was it. And we didn’t have a problem with it. And we went to war all the time without the belly-achin’. It wasn’t ‘cause Taft could persuade us or nothin’. We just liked fightin! Unlike these kids today. Bunch of goddamn pussies!

Chuck Norris is on the TV again. She’s a handsome woman. If I was thirty years younger, I tell you what.

In my day, penny candy only cost a nickel. Cletus Walker and the Hang the Blacks Band was the hottest jazz ensemble in America. And every night, we would gather around the phonograph to hear the delightful sounds of Ma Rainey, who might have been a niggress. I ain’t certain. It was a simpler time, you see.

Little Billy Shatner. I remember him.

They named their currency after me. Know why? ‘Cause I invented the Monkees, that’s why. That was me. Don’t you pick up no newfangled history books and try to prove it wrong, ‘cause it ain’t. I saved Davey Jones from a wolf-man. We had wolf-men in those days. Mainly from Prussia. That’s how we had our monsters! Wolf-men in Prussia, and Frankensteins in Mexico. Russia was full of the Blob. I remember my first sight of it; it was just before Rudyard Kipling molested me.

Where’s my applesauce?

Johnny Appleseed was a commie. You could tell because he wanted to give every apples, even the blacks and the stupid, unwashed Slovakians. I killed me a Slovakian back in aught ‘25. I ain’t ashamed of it. He cried like a woman and begged for his life.

Confounded bushes won’t stay away from my driveway. Now they’re outside my house. The birds that come to my birdfeeder are too small to kill with a shotgun. All of my socks are too itchy. I blame Woodrow Wilson. He was a bull-dyke and a pinko.

Mussolini was innocent. It was a frame-job from Johnny Kennedy’s pappy.

My favorite song was “She’ll be Coming ‘Round the Mountain.” Few people know it was a campaign song used to make fun of Eleanor Roosevelt. There’s lots of mountains in Prussia, and we knew it was a matter of time until Eleanor just let all of those pointy-helmeted bastards in our front door, where they would sodomize our livestock and feed our children unpleasant meals.

I think Gladys shat in my wheelchair again. No, wait, that was me. Maybe someday, though. Well, least it’s warm for a little bit.

In my day, monkeys didn’t throw feces. They behaved. It was that goddamn Elvis Presley, riling all of them up, makin’ ‘em horny and whatnot. Him gyratin’, takin’ his tallywacker out on stage and wavin’ it around, it ain’t no good for nobody!

My family’s comin’ to pick me up any day now, and we’re all gonna eat pancakes and go hang some Indians. Goddamn Indians, stealin’ my cookware!

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Marlowe is a victim of the very rare “stage eight” of Alzheimer’s.

Did You Know? Startling Facts About Bryan Bishop's Adventure Island

By Shawn "Chocolate Thunder" Wenger, Minister of Bicycles

Bishop’s Adventure Island is already THE choice location for anyone seeking to have fun in a moral vacuum. But did you know? There are many other exciting things that few people know about Bryan Bishop’s Adventure Island. Here are some fun facts!

• Bryan Bishop’s Adventure Island’s chief export is danger. It’s second leading export is textiles, followed by intrigue.

• Bryan Bishop’s Adventure Island has a twenty-five mile coastline that encompasses 9,524 square miles.

• Everybody on Bryan Bishop’s Adventure Island blows at math.

• Bryan Bishop’s Adventure Island often draws some of the finest scientific minds. One magic weekend, they managed to clone both a Passenger Pigeon and a Dodo. Reports indicate that while the Passenger Pigeon was gamy, stringy, and tasted rather unpleasant, the Dodo was quite succulent. Particularly with a tall glass of kitten juice.

• Sodomy is outlawed on Bryan Bishop’s Adventure Island, unless you are good at it.

• Bryan Bishop’s Adventure Island was once home to a tribe of peaceful natives who wished no one harm. On a completely unrelated note, yes, you can make a lampshade out of human skin.

• The Slacker Mafia does not operate on Bryan Bishop’s Adventure Island. Rather, the chief criminal element is the Guys With Jobs Mafia. Several crackdowns have failed, due to all the members being at work at the time. Police did note, however, that there homes were well-furnished and devoid of Dane Cook CDs.

• For most of 2005 and part of 2006, Bryan Bishop’s Adventure Island was known as Fuck Jgraham Island.

• Bryan Bishop’s Adventure Island was discovered by the French, then abandoned by them after seven minutes. However, recent evidence suggests that it was actually discovered by the Vikings in the year 1100. They, subsequently, abandoned it after eighteen minutes. Typical, eh France?

• The national anthem of Bryan Bishop’s Adventure Island is "Pac Man Fever" by Buckner and Garcia. Anyone unable to recite the song word-for-word is quickly executed. It was chosen as the replacement anthem after the bloody tenure of Bob Dylan’s "Subterranean Homesick Blues."

• Ashley Morrison? I would totally hit that.

• The name of the official currency of Bryan Bishop’s Adventure Island is the Marlowe. It features an elderly, senile man in a bathrobe shrieking at squirrels on one side, and a picture of a cartoon dog on the other. An Underdog Marlowe is worth roughly five cents, A Huckleberry Hound Marlowe is worth about fifteen cents, and a Marmaduke Marlowe is worth just under a dollar. Despite being heavily valued in the late eighties and early nineties, the Rude Dog Marlowe is now completely worthless.

• The Pledge of Allegiance on Bryan Bishop’s Adventure Island merely consists of whatever member of the population who is closest to him falling on his or her knees before Bryan Bishop and lovingly extolling his praises. The pledge only ends when Bryan Bishop is satisfied or falls asleep.

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Wenger’s nickname is not due to his race, but rather, a grade-school nickname involving his embarrassing reaction to thunderstorms.

This Place Reminds Me Of Home

By Idi Amin, Vice Imperial Overlord of Bryan Bishop’s Adventure Island

This place is great!

When Bryan Bishop offered me a position as his Vice Imperial Overlord, I was overjoyed. It has been a long time since I was in a position of authority. I know, I’m surprised too. But Bryan luckily ended my cold streak with his generous offering, which I am overjoyed to accept.

It’s been so long since I’ve been at work. Are firing squads still in fashion? How about poison gas? Is suffering still frowned upon? Will there really be SAM sites? I’ve never gotten over being punk’d by those Israelis.

So, I’m looking forward to my leadership role. But there are a few bones I have to pick with people… mainly, Hollywood. You had Forest Whitaker play me? Why not Denzel, assholes! For your shortcomings… I promise death… scathing plagues of disease and war… hell on earth for you and your godless world…

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Idi Amin was not dead, only frozen, and is now Vice Imperial Overlord on Bryan Bishop’s Adventure Island.

Bryan Bishop Does Not Promote Genocide

By Tony Snow, Minister of Truth

Bryan Bishop does not promote genocide. I mean it. Bryan Bishop is a great man, a fine author and a great humanitarian, whose work by and for the downtrodden is unsurpassed. His thoughts are on and have always been on what he can do to make our world a better place. If you do not see that, you are blinded by partisan nonsense.

Since joining the screenwriting world, Bryan has foregone sex and violence, writing wholesome movies for the whole family. There is no evidence to the contrary. And, also, Bryan Bishop has made it clear that he will, always, put the needs of the many above his own. America has no better ally than Bryan Bishop’s Adventure Island. America has no better friend than Bryan Bishop

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Tony Snow is a White House Spokesman and Fox News correspondent. Which is kind of redundant.

Reviews Of The Movies I Have Not Seen

By Ashley Morrison, Ministeress of Cinema on Bryan Bishop’s Adventure Island




The Gifted Grafted Owls
70/100

"The Gifted Grafted Owls" is typical Hollywood CGI fair, directed at children, with a sense of humor to match. Four mechanical owls, each with an peculiar ability, such as shooting beams of cold out of its eyes (Blorto) or the ability to change shape (Der-Tan), are charged with saving the world from environmentalists in Mattrick’s hard-line, right-wing response to the movie “Happy Feet,” adapted from the novel by Michael Crichton. Derivative but heartwarming, especially the part where Mur-Foo (The pink owl that can shoot fireballs out of its beak) dies in the hands (wings?) of Kithkin (The leader owl, who can travel through time.) Hugh Jackman and Kate Beckinsale provide the voices of this pleasant little romp.


Naked Fury
0/100

Ew, the poster makes this look gay!!!! No way am I reading it!!!!


A Frozen Heart
85/100

Cate Blanchette (or something) stars as Madonna during the writing of her hit late 90’s song in this docudrama. Words do not do this film justice, so I will leave you with the lyrics of the hit song that made this film possible.

You only see what your eyes want to see
How can life be what you want it to be
You're frozen when your heart's not open
You're so consumed with how much you get
You waste your time with hate and regret
You're frozen when your heart's not open
Mmmmmmm... If I could melt your heart
Mmmmmmm... We'd never be apart
Mmmmmmm... Give yourself to me
Mmmmmmm... You are the key

Thanks, Cassy. After this movie, I must say that if I was a lesbian, I would totally do you.


The Four Wall
80/100

This is a score that this film truly earns. Call it pretentious, heavy-handed, or pointlessly weird, but I think the tale of a family, told from the perspective of the fourth wall of a house, calls for celebration. The late Anna Nicole Smith stars alongside Daniel Day-Lewis as a minister and his wife, reflecting on their past history as they prepare to renovate away a wall to make way for a new pool room. Shelly Long voices the wall to great effect; one could swear her screams of agony were genuine. You will not be under-whelmed!


Watchmen
60/100

A rather boring documentary about what Lucian likes to do, half the time.


Eleven
10/100

Why Pedro’s F-M bust, “Twelve,” would garner a prequel is beyond me. Whereas the original, which included an underage Lindsay Lohan showing her breasts, pushed the boundaries of what you could and could not show in terms of child pornography, "Eleven" throws it out the door. Dakota Fanning goes down on Bob Hoskins in what can only be described as the most horrible fucking thing I have ever seen.


Cruisified
20/100

In keeping with sequels to undeserving movies getting sequels, Cuba Gooding Jr. and Horatio Sanz are back in this sequel to “Boat Trip.” Again, they are caught on a cruise ship full of gays. Listen, the Ultimate Warrior knows best: queering doesn’t make the world go round. Enough of the gay agenda, Hollywood!


Three Time Best Producer Bryan Bishop Saves Democracy, Liberty, and America Itself with Humility and Grace (You Can Thank Him Later!)
100/100

Our glorious leader continues his steps into cinematic god-hood with this tale of, well, Bryan Bishop saving Democracy, Liberty, and America itself, no matter how ungrateful those imperialist dogs are (we are not imperialist dogs, we are imperialist fascists, there’s a difference). Bryan, you may only be a three-time best producer… but in my heart, you’re a four-time best dictator ever!

…can I see my family now? Please?

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On the mainland, Ashley Morrison is a fact checker for the Hollywood Times.

My Villa's Construction Is Quite An Undertaking

By Bryan Bishop, Imperial Overlord of Bryan Bishop’s Adventure Island

If you haven’t heard, I’m rich. Very rich. And it is my richness that allows me to procure my own Island from the government, so my lavish lifestyle can be met without the constant interruptions of HTG’s resident Oriental, mc48, banging his ceremonial gong, or Lucian writing on his LiveJournal while blaring songs by Panic! At The Disco. No, my needs would be better supported in a home away from home, and thus, I have undergone the opening steps in claiming a piece of free-standing earth as my own.

The island is located just off the coast. A quick look at the map may lead you to say, Bryan, your eyes and mind have taken leave of you! Well, may I say, blow me. The island is not on the map for a reason: I’m on the no-map list. And before you say, “Bryan, that’s idiotic, the no-map list isn’t real,” let me just say: you’re idiotic! And you’re not real.

My island is a fine place, of a light tropical temperament. There are locals, however, I have found that they are quite good for back-breaking labor. Unfortunately, like the ants they so resemble, they also breed. Impoverished children have overrun my island. Luckily, my four wheeler can overrun them right back.

There are many indigenous species on the island, but I have worked to exterminate them to the best of my ability. I must say, the meat of a kangaroo is only tough if you let them “spoil” by waiting for them to enter adulthood. Nothing is better than a slice of lemon over a freshly grilled joey, save for dolphin burgers.

My recent cinematic successes have assured me that, when the time is right, I will have the necessary finances to fund the completion of my villa. We have already dug eighty feet out of the island for my series of underground bunkers, and purchased several hundred miles of barbed wire. Our SAM sites are expected to be up and running any day now.

Also, I would like to mention that when my island is purchased, I will be hiring members for guard duties on the island. These will not, contrary to reports, be positions simply for roving death squads. When applying for Bryan Bishop’s Adventure Island Roving Death Squad positions, be sure to list references, highest level of education, hit ratio, and any experience relevant to the job, such as marksman, police sniper, soldier of fortune, or vice president.

We will have more progress on the island as we approach its grand opening. For now, fare thee well!

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Bryan Bishop is the beloved Imperial Overlord of Bryan Bishop’s Adventure Island.