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.

April 10, 2009: Springfield

LOLSCHACH's Journal: April 10, 2009:

Awoken early this morning by heavy panting. Look around and see Dreiberg in my apartment. Instantly awaken, pull on face, sure that he has been masturbating while watching me in my sleep. Consorting with Veidt too much? Anything is possible after horrible April 07 incident.

Lunge at him, "Daniel, what are you doing?" Through heavy breathing he explains that he had just walked up the stairs to greet me. Disturbing how instantly I can turn on only friend.

But then I recall this, and realize that LOLSCHACH has no friends. Just acquaintances. Dreiberg further explains himself. Apparent donut eating festival today, he wishes to participate in eating contest. Not surprised. I agree to go, no plans for the day. Will get my exercise.

Fly in his ship, sleep more after letting guard down. Land at 11:00 AM. Get off ship and walk into fair. Pass man fatter than Dreiberg, looking me over as if I were a smoked turkey leg. "Worst. Costume. Ever." Hurm.

Dreiberg unable to stop me as my fist sinks in man's stomach like quicksand. After feeling apathetic, now looking forward to festival. Pass entrance gates, evaluate my surroundings. Can't help it. Dreiberg asks me if I could just have fun for once. Fun? Having barrels. Heh.


Walk past stoner listening to Satanic rock music, slurring that he's "blotto." Then two older homosexual men. The elder one smells like formaldehyde. Do not wish to investigate further. Pass young brute. Immediately tells me to eat his shorts. Leave him tied up with his shorts stuffed in his mouth to silence him.



This town is full of donuts and delinquents. A feast for Dreiberg and LOLSCHACH.

Dreiberg goes to attempt to fill his bottomless hole with jelly filled donuts, fritters, and chocolate sprinkles. Good. Cannot stop me now. Crack knuckles. Prepare to bring Armageddon to this open pit of hell.

Then approached by small boy with one of his four fingers shoved up his nose.

"My boogers are spicy!"

Hurm. Child clearly retarded. Yet no one makes jerky of him. Perhaps this town is not as immoral as previously thought. Sit down and listen to boy talk while he begins to eat box of crayons.

Hours later, Dreiberg returns to me. His stomach swollen with fried dough and sprinkles smeared over his face. Lost contest. Figures. Dreiberg, impotent even at eating contest. Attempt to make him feel better by punching the winner, instead get strangled. "Why you little .... zebra faced.... I'll teach you to punch....me..."

Ship comes. Breaks up ruckus. Dreiberg quiet on flight home, obviously disappointed in his showing. LOLSCHACH quiet as well. Bruised larynx.

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.