September 01, 2009: PBS Town

LOLSCHACH's Journal: September 01, 2009.

Sent twelve prepubescents to the emergency room before lunch. Four were stripping cars. Six were mugging. Two were raping. Hurm. American youth. Gone down toilet. These punks are the future of this country? Not happy.

Need reassurance American youth can be salvaged. Decide to take a trip to PBS Town, the last place in America where children are brought up right, properly educated and grown into constructive members of society.


Decide to take trolly to Imagination Land first and visit Mr. Rogers. Good friend back in the old days. Taught LOLSCHACH how to use imagination to solve everyday problems, like where to hide the bodies. Unfortunately, visit is short.

Hurm. Depressing. Can't be helped. Rogers was possible homosexual, anyway.

Next stop: the Reading Rainbow in the sky. To get there, LOLSCHACH must fly twice as high.

No need. Reading Rainbow has been cancelled, apparently. Show cultivated love of reading in America's youth. Unfortunately, majority of America's youth do not know how to read, thus rendering Reading Rainbow obsolete.

Damn. Now nothing will keep Lavarr Burton off the streets. Will be keeping eye on him.

Saved most important stop for last: Seseme Street. Last remaining vestage of morality and education in American entertainment. Concerned. Last time LOLSCHACH visited Seseme Street was 1991. Upon leaving, noticed Grover observing animated primetime television program marketed toward adults.

Brushed it off at time. Certainly nothing could currupt the wholesome neighborhood of Seseme Stree--

Damn. It is small mercy that Jim Henson did not live to see Seseme Street become a ghetto.

PBS Town is beyond saving. Will have to cleanse it. Not with lessons learned from PBS Town: reading, writing, arithmatic. But with lessons learned on street: fire.

June 22, 2009: Missing Baby

LOLSCHACH's JOURNAL: June 22, 2009

Heard an account today of a missing baby. Will recount tale here.

June 7, 2009: Video Games

May 15, 2009: Childhood Nostalgia

LOLSCHACH's Journal: May 15, 2009

Lolschach is many things. "Nostalgic" is not one of them.

However, mind tends to wander from time to time, occasionally back to the days of my youth. Decent childhood. Efficient. No bells or whistles. Was fed, cleaned, clothed and given necessary provisions for survival. No child should ask for more. Those that do, the screaming spoiled wretches at the toy stores and the bawling sacks of excrement at Chuck E. Cheese's, they deserve a good paddling.

LOLSCHACH was not bad very often. Occasionally acted up. Hurm. Stupid brat. Failed. Failures I will never live down. Father put me in place. Taught me valuable lesson: unacceptable behavior requires extreme retaliation. Never made same mistakes twice. Shaped me into ideal, well-balanced adult male.

Father was patient as a saint. Never spanked LOLSCHACH. Did this, instead:


Father was a great man.

My mother, MILFSCHACH, cared for him deeply. She eventually stabbed him in the neck with a broken whiskey bottle, killing him. Still have not managed to rectify the first sentence with the second. Though I do recall photo father had framed on the mantle, taken during their honeymoon:


LOLSCHACH knows very little about love, though am pretty sure that mother and father embodied it completely.

May 08, 2009: Basketball

LOLSCHACH's Journal: May 08, 2009:

Woke up early to the shrill screams of a woman apparently disappointed that I slept in her car. Tried to explain that the other cars were locked and felt too tired to break the windows while she hit me with her purse. Broke off the radio knob and left. Showed her.

LOLSCHACH is the only hero this city has and this is how it repays me. Still tired, have to do something I'm sure I'll regret. Go to Dreiberg. The obese monstrosity answers the door, shove him aside, collapse on couch. Dreiberg starts talking, always talks, even when his mouth is full. Tells me Veidt has sent tickets to a charity event. Tell him to shut up, then curtains.

Wake up to the smell of beans. Nothing like it, save smell of Mother's cooking.Dreiberg hands me can, then starts talking again. Can hardly hear him over the CHLOP CHORP of beans, something about Veidt. Charity. Basketball. Harlem. Tell him good beans and go to leave only to see Dreiberg look more pathetic than usual. Make second mistake of the day, tell him I'll go to the basketball game.



Arrive at arena, a grotesque building Veidt has built for people to watch while men sweat. Similar to his other real-estate properties. Banners advertise The Harlem Globetrotters playing.. Dr. Harlem?!? Hurm. Dreiberg heads straight to the concession stand, leaves me to find our seats. Sit down next to hyperactive boy, his mother on a cell-phone, ignoring him. Boy bounces in his seat. Annoying. Pull out Babysitter, wrap it around boy, locking him in his seat. Mother still ignoring him.

Dreiberg sits next to me with giant bucket of popcorn drowning in liquid butter, then hands me nachos. CHOMP CLOMP. Cheesy. Minutes passed. Boy trying to break his restraint. Mother still on cellular phone.

Harlem Globetrotters run out on court, the people cheering like lowing cattle. Followed by five 6'4'' purple goateed men surprisingly clothed in basketball uniforms. Each perfecting a layup. Dreiberg goes to get more butter.

Then I'm caught by surprise. Kid breaks free of Babysitter and jumps on me, attempting to eat nachos. No. Not my nachos. Start punching boy in face fighting for the cheese, jalepenos, tortilla chips. His mother finally gets off the cellphone and shrieks. Scream sounds familiar, turn to look at her. Woman from the car. Punch boy harder, teach his mom to respect LOLSCHACH.

Then the arena booms with the voice of five purple men, "LOLSCHACH, stop." Pause momentarily. Stupid. Purple men point at me, I know what happens next. Grab Babysitter then find myself outside arena. Good. Don't need Veidt's charities, Dreiberg, Harlem's exhibition games. Just Babysitter.

May 03, 2009: Discipline

April 17, 2009: Rainy Day

LOLSCHACH's Journal: April 17, 2009:

The rain has been falling all day. Trying to wash the stain of blood and semen off of the streets. Pointless. Tried scrubbing the stairs outside my apartment once, spent hours. Was mocked and derided. Stairs remain dirty.



I get my exercise prowling the rooftops while thunder booms like a hammer hitting a gavel, judging the world: guilty. Now I must provide the punishment. Hear mugging going on in alleyway by the diner. Scramble down to it. Walk up behind the mugger, Asian male. Mid twenties. Take his head and slam it face first into the brick. Hand purse back to old lady. Slaps me and runs off. Surprised by her speed. Let her go. Next time she is mugged, LOLSCHACH will not stop it. Show her.

Walk opposite direction down the street away from ungrateful lady. The rain pouring down, soaking coat, feel chill. Not complaining though. LOLSCHACH is fine in any climate. Save tropical. Veidt tried to convince me to join him on Brazilian cruise once. Haven't considered journeying to the tropics since then. Probably full of homosexual Ricky Ricardos.



Walk past girl jumping rope. Taken aback at first. Why is a girl jumping rope in a downpour? The answer comes quickly. Hear her chanting, "April showers bring May flowers? What do May flowers bring?" Taunting me. Not unusual. Was taunted as a child, about appearance, body odor, mother's occupation. Never about lack of knowledge of May flowers. Hurm. Child repeats herself again. And again. And again.

Grab child by the collar of her dress, pull her up to my level. Looking her in the eyes while demanding an answer. The sound of her sobbing informs me she's crying. Tears mingle with rain while running down her cheeks. Repeatedly question her, she's too frightened to answer. Too frightened to mock LOLSCHACH now. Let her down, but keep firm grip on her. She finally answers. Then runs away. Makes no sense.



"Pilgrims."

March 22, 2009: Albert's Abattoir

LOLSCHACH's JOURNAL: March 22, 2009

The city screams at me like an abbatoir of retarded children.

I look across the street. "Albert's Abattoir". Could it be?

I creep around back. Smell of meat byproducts; blood, skin, entrails, bone marrow; nearly subdues me. This is not the first slaughterhouse I have infiltrated. It is by far the smelliest.

Test locks on rear entrance. Secured tight. Smash window with brick. Still got it.

Enter small, dark, empty chamber. Zone for loading and unloading of cattle. Odor becoming progressively more noxious. Face blocks some from entering nostrils. Not enough. Not nearly enough. Floor covered in thick, clear, viscous fluid. Drool. What could produce such large quantities of drool?

Hear noise coming from behind door at east end of room. Words muffled. Sound like "Raarrghh urrgghhh Coco Puffs!" Move toward end of room. Sounds become louder. Clearer. Kick in door and prepare for inevitable brawl. What I find startles even LOLSCHACH.





Retarded children. Packed like witless, babbling sardines as far as the eye can see. They scream about Nick Jr. and breakfast cereals. An endless sea of paste-eating mongoloids, writhing and lapping upon one-another. No concept of boundaries. Personal space. Haven't the brain power to comprehend such matters. Concerned only with Dora the Explorer and finger painting.

I scan area. Find far left corner of room empty and uncluttered. Standing in corner is middle-aged man. Possibly "Albert". Nametag on tattered, blood-stained jumpsuit confirms this.

A retarded child approaches him. Yanks on his sleeve and asks "Where da baffroom?" Albert silently points toward door clearly labeled "Meat Grinder". Blithering simpleton skips over to door. Pushes at it. Unable to read letters indicating he must "pull" in order to succeed. Minutes pass. Child becomes frustrated. Gives up. Soils self. Albert sighs and flicks cigarette into horde of gurgling idiots. Walks over to door, pulls it open and shoves child inside.

The "bathroom" screams at me like a meat grinder of retarded children.

Have seen enough.

Wade through room of squirming, slobbering, groping imbeciles. Reach Albert and deliver a fierce, unrelentling, merciless beating. All the while I shout the usual questions. "Why?" "How could you?" and "Do you want to die?"

Albert, now within an inch of his life, reaches into pocket and pulls out package of "Down's Synsational Jerky". Offers me bite. Raise fist and prepare to drive it directly through skull, but odor of jerky overpowers me. Find my mouth watering, despite my disgust. Almost against own will, I snatch the jerky from his quivering mit and bite into it. Tastebuds are treated to a symphony of flavor, the likes of which they have never experienced before.

Through choking breaths, Albert explains his misguided moral viewpoint to me.

Says that humans eat cattle, poultry, pork; all manner of living, breathing creatures. They think nothing of it, as livestock are stupid and inferior to us. Retarded children boast intellects on par with those of average bovine or chicken. If kept alive, they are drains on the State. If ground up and served between two slices of bread, they are delicious.

I finish my jerky and drag Albert kicking and screaming over to the "bathroom". Toss him in. Albert screams at me like a middle aged abbatoir employee with a belly full of retarded children. Difficult noise to describe, but unmistakable. You will know it when you hear it.

Open bay doors and gesture unwashed, chortling masses toward freedom. They remain stationary. Freedom cannot compete with television set playing Spongebob Squarepants DVD. Retarded child waddles toward me. Perhaps there is hope, yet.

Heavy-browed mouth-breather tugs on scarf. "Where da baffroom?"

Leave Albert's Abbatoir. Foolish of me to hope. Hope is for the retarded.

My stomach growls at me like a digestive tract of retarded children. Go over to McDonald's. Order double quarter pounder with cheese. Can taste the mongoloids. They taste phenominal.

March 20, 2009: Merchandising

LOLSCHACH's JOURNAL: March 20, 2009

Receive check for $7.75 from Veidt International. Hurm. Royalty check for likeness rights. A monthly reminder of poor decision made during inexperienced youth. Stupid. Will regret forever. Check not even enough to buy lunch at Quizno's.

1985. Approached by Adrian Veidt.

Smooth talker. Intellectual. Always hated his kind. Hated them slightly less, then.

Veidt exploits that weakness. Tells me Drieberg and other Watchmen are signing likeness rights to him. Merchandising is lucrative. All other masked heroes doing it. Won't make LOLSCHACH any less feared by criminal scum.

Three months later. Walk down girl's aisle at local Toys 'r' Us. Find this:

Sold likeness to Hasbro. Going to kill Veidt. Going to kill him and chop him up and grind him up and feed him to Bubastis.

Go home. Try to simmer down. Turn on TV. Saturday morning. Nothing but cartoons on. Cartoons in which military officers dressed in homoerotic uniforms do battle with so-called "terrorists". Terrorist schemes involve etching face of leader onto moon with giant laser and challenging heroes to game of football to determine ownership of America. Ridiculous tripe. Cannot abide it. Miss Space Ghost & Dino Boy.

NBC Saturday morning line-up disappoints. Change channel to ABC. See this:

Words fail me. Veidt also sold likeness to Filmation. Saturday morning Watchmen animated series is crime in and of itself. Drieberg does not like to "party down". Activities involved in "partying" too strenuous and similar to exercise. Will not comment on misinterpreted relationship between Comedian and Silk Spectre. Veidt presented as "crime solving superstar".

Molten, volcanic rage surges through entire body. Cannot fathom level of roaring, primal hatred anymore concentrated than that which I feel now.

Then I see this:

Should never have sold likeness to Veidt. Veidt sells likeness to comic book companies. Companies take idea of bearded hobo-writer-wizard, combine with LOLSCHACH's likeness. Written as middle aged neurotic in dystopian 1985 world. Was younger then. Stupid. Had grade school vision of the world, needed the money. Regrets.

Remainder of 1985 no more than chaotic blur in furthest reaches of brain.

It is 2009. Veidt still lives. No choice. Need $7.75 each month. Grappling hooks and beans and sugar cubes and Oreos and pork chop sandwiches cost money. Crime fighting is charity. Hurm.

Watchmen merchandise from 1980s continue to haunt me. Cartoon Network subsidiary, Boomerang, currently rerunning animated series. Just played episode in which "nutty" LOLSCHACH defeats sinister terrorist Moloch the Malevolent with pie to face. Episode ends with public service announcement. LOLSCHACH tells children never to fight; solve all differences through civilized dialogue or parental intervention. Ehhh.

Go outside and punch first child I see in stomach.