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July 2001
Download the word version, perfect for printing and handing out on street corners!
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Why hello, everybody, and welcome to the belated eighth issue of PULP, the world's greatest entertainment newsletter. I'd like to apologize for the delay, and at the same time insist that it wasn't my fault. If God had wanted me to get this issue out on time, he wouldn't have put a Planet of the Apes marathon on Space. Another thing that has contributed to the lateness of this issue is an experiment that I conducted. A few weeks ago, in an effort to curb the growing depression and insanity driving me to new depths of day-time TV addiction, I decided to endeavor having what is known in some circles as a "social life". While I had no idea how to go about this, an acquaintance informed me that perhaps I would have some luck if I dressed less like an undertaker, returned more phone calls, and stopped using the word 'meat-bag' as term of endearment. And, shockingly enough, that course of action worked, at least until I figured out that having a social life is not all that it's cracked up to be. See, you actually have to do stuff when you have friends, like leave the house for purposes other than buying pornography or renting Vincent Price movies. In fact, in my attempt to get and maintain friends, I had to leave the house no less than three times in just one week. And on all three occasions it was to attend one of the most dreaded, soul-sucking, skull-splitting wastes of time ever conceived of by man…live theatre. You see, years ago, before the invention of colour television and the drive-in, people had nothing to do in their spare time. So, they promptly went insane and decided it might be a good idea if they dressed up in costume and pranced around like pansies, loudly performing one-act plays about coffee shops and suburban isolation. For some reason, this trend has continued until today, despite the proliferation of stuff that is actually worth watching, like prime-time Cops and the Dungeons and Dragons cartoon. And, of course, since God hates me, everyone I bumped into or met during that fateful week wanted me to go to their play, and seeing as I was trying to be social and friendly, I foolishly agreed. Big mistake. Three full plays and not one contained a zombie sex scene. Plus, they each cost almost as much as a movie, which has a much higher probability of containing zombie sex. Granted, one of the plays did have belly-dancing and a severed head, but the other two were completely devoid of even the faintest suggestion of graphic violence or sex. And they call that entertainment. Anyway, I learned my lesson, and have since retreated back into the comforting blue glow of my big-screen RCA TV, and now once again refuse to both answer the phone and talk to anyone who hasn't brought food. Which is bad news for my mental state, but good news for you, the reader. And now, onto some fresh PULPy goodness.
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