Would you prefer it if he looked like Mega-Gimp, King of the Junkyard?

Dorothy Parker's short prose fiction The Waltz? (After all, Eddie, your cool air of bohemian sophistication does betray a preference for the elite WASPish intellectualism of the Algonquin Round Table.)

Given that he could probably score them some heroin, the answer is a definite yes.

I don't think anyone that looks like Martin Van Buren and Jon Quincy Adams mashed together deserves to be that smug and self-righteous.

It's got a nice ring to it, but will it play in the sticks?

Conducting "wet work" on the behalf of some rather unscrupulous individuals occupied most of my time these week, so I chose to put part of my newly earned income towards some quality purchases at the video section of the local big-box mart. After about an hour of perusing, I came away with the Paramount Centennial…

Are you entirely sure it wasn't Punky Brewster?

MAD Magazine's Frank Jacobs, everybody! Let's give him a hand.

At first glance, he doesn't really seem like the kind of individual you'd find yourself cowering under, but he's downright menacing in person. The machine gun, the crooked frown, the custom herringbone suit - it's an absolutely ridiculous look, and the instant he stares at you with those contemptuous little black eyes…

We cut him open and count the rings?

Seriously, though, this show is capable of teaching us all valuable life lessons. Like how being several pounds overweight was the only thing keeping a smug, opinionated prick's egotism from reaching critical meltdown levels.

Based on that one description, I'm already picturing José played by Hank Azaria using his accent from The Birdcage.

Pinhead: What happened to that box of infant souls I was transporting to Limbo?
Butterball: *belches* You mean those weren't donuts?
Deep Throat: Butterball!
(Laugh track starts up, credits roll to Motörhead's "Hell On Earth")

Promise me you'll hurt Hotel Transylvania as much as it deserves.

Oh, what I wouldn't give to be a speedster. Slit the Bat's throat before he gets to display any of those finely honed kung-fu reflexes, jab a golden Kryptonite shank in the back of Superman's head… I'd be the meanest sucker on the block.

What, you've never met him while shopping at that upscale bowler and cane store downtown?

30 episodes to Klarion the Witch Boy, Pete. Best start massaging your vitriol glands in preparation.

"…They insisted that Robin be given more screen time."

My natural curiosity getting the better of me, I finally managed to find a screening of 1987's Masters of the Universe on cable over the weekend, and solemnly vowed to get through the whole thing without having any kind of histrionic nervous breakdown.

Well, based on what I've heard in the last five minutes, Bitte Orca sounds pretty good. (The album itself, mind you, not its pretentious bullshit title.)