Where would we be without the eloquent Eileen? That kind-hearted Canadian art teacher who is always there whenever anyone needs a kind word or a painfully hot daughter. Who would be there to use machete-powers to make sure kids paid attention during story time?

Who else could combine the sitting on your desk sense of fun and adventure with the sheer terror of machete related fascism (MRF). Only Eileen! Only she of the wet and wild greenlands of the north!

See her stand triumphantly on her lawn and challenge the very gods! See her like the barbarians of old drunk on fire and glory!

This summer, you won’t be taught Art.

Art will teach you.

P.S. I would like to thank Eileen for buying her own machete. Between buying books for poor kids and promoting the global cause of female machete ownership (FMO) it’s nice to have someone else pitch in. Others are of course welcomed to do the same.

It was with a heavy heart, that I must inform you I am not much longer for this world. Reasonable expiration dates are anywhere from the next few months to the next few years. Sorry I can’t get more specific than that, but it’s all I really know.

We’ve been together for a while, and if you need to sit down and have a cry, I understand. Me, I’ve had a bit over a week to come to terms with my impending death and it sort of brings a smile to my lips.

No, it’s nothing terminal. And no, I’m not suicidal. The means of my end will be nothing short of… MURDER!

All I know as of this moment, is that my murder will take place at the fingertips of one Daniel Wells and will most likely be grisly, horrific, and be the result of believable motivations. It might even have sadistic torture before the telling moment.

Who knows? My great fear of being tied down while someone paper cuts the webbing between my fingers and toes could finally be realized.

I only hope that it will not involve Terry Goodkind sex torture.*

In case you haven’t figured it out yet, I am not actually dying.

You can find most of the details here, but the long and the short of it is that I donated some money to charity, because donating money to charity makes me feel better about being a weirdo, and I won the privilege of being murdered by Dan Wells.

Usually I try to stay away from things like this, because I feel it’s wrong for nice people to have to be associated with me however tenuously just because I can scrape up some money. However, in this specific case the charity in question was giving books to poor kids. Well, I suppose that’s not the most PC way to put it, but that’s why I donated.

I had a flashback to being eight years old, cringing behind the freezer in the laundry room, crying my eyes out with a crumpled Dragonlance novel while my parents shouted terrible things at one another.

Then I thought: “That would have been a lot worse if I hadn’t even had the Dragonlance novel.”

If you want, you can send in donations here. They don’t accept electronic donations, which I imagine most of you would feel comfortable with, but they do accept checks and money orders. If you have a few to spare, I’d think highly of you if you sent in a donation.

Also, the guy that runs it is a very nice man.

Books helped me a lot when I was a kid. When I finally got enough of them all together in one place, I realized it made my family afraid to come into my room. To take extreme politifying liberties with the words of Chris Rock “Books are like kryptonite to dumb people.”

Lastly, I should point out that Dan Wells wrote my favorite depiction of someone who was “psychologically other” since “Flowers for Algernon.” I’ve had him linked in my sidebar for a 13.7 billion years. You should check him out.

*Although that would be pretty funny, as it might include such sentences as “BC Woods let out a sensual moan, like the anthropomorphized buffalo he so resembled.”

Sometimes when I get pictures back from a woman to whom I have sent a machete, I have a brief moment of clarity where I stop giving myself double high fives,* and wonder if I have become a pornographer. This usually ends with me turning sideways, putting me my head in my hands as if I have become seasick and sighing.

I generally spend the rest of the day avoiding mirrors.

So it’s nice when my friend Rob finds a new girl for his phone sex centered website, Whore on Hold, and asks me to spread the word. It makes me feel better about myself. No offense, Rob.

As we have all learned previously, I have nothing but respect for those whose work can be classified as “whoredom” as opposed to dirty sluts like myself.

Give it a click and leave a comment if you like it.

*This requires that I violate the Pauli Exclusion Principle, but who really cares at this point?

Here is PikaPikaChick, the latest member of the machete army in her own words. I think you’ll agree that this career woman, mother, and house-wife is anything but frumpy.

Yeah, I promised pictures of the machete a long time ago.  And indeed, pictures were taken the day I received this fine blade.  But later when I was looking at said pictures I saw to my horror that the shorts that previously looked OK on my recently-post-pregnancy body now made me look like a ridiculous clown lady.  Also, we neglected to take the sexy-tough pose pictures that my Machete Army sisters have all taken so far.

And so life happened and continued to happen and then the cat puked on the machete (true story) and we decided it was probably a good idea to remove it from the living room lest the child take interest in it and it got stuck out in the garage and forgotten.

I couldn’t possibly let anyone besides my husband see the horrible giant shorts pictures — they were just too awful.

I had planned on doing a proper photoshoot with some kind of fashionable gothy getup and the appropriate “grr” faces.

But now I’m saying fuck it.  I’m a homeowner and a career woman and a wife and a mother for chrissakes.  I don’t have time for that shit.  Let the world see me in all my frumpy glory.

Love,

PikaPikaChick

Although I had to ship a machete all the way to Germany,* I think you’ll agree it was well worth the cost. Not only did Kiyudr supply excellent pictures (turns evil eye on all those who have not sent machete pictures who live on THE SAME CONTINENT AS MYSELF) she ALSO wrote her own text.

OH, and she also just graduated from Oxford and has a super fancy science degree. So feel inferior!

*It was illegal to ship a machete to London, but as you might imagine it was a-okay for Germany. Luckily, her boyfriend lived there.

One miserable afternoon, Kiyudr was studying for exams in the library. Suddenly she had a vision from Obi-Wan Kenobi, who revealed to her a terrible thing: George Lucas had bought the Umbrella Corporation in a secret deal (well, it was secret until now). If Lucas were allowed to proceed with his evil plans, Star Wars would no longer be Star Wars. He anticipates anger from the fans, and has built an army of stormtrooper zombies to hold them at bay.

Kiyudr said, “Obi-Wan Kenobi, I am truly honoured you have chosen to reveal this first to me, but I have no powers, so why the fuck tell me?”

Obi-Wan said, with an enigmatic smile, “Because you’ll look bad-ass decapitating zombies…. Wearing subfusc.”

“Er, what? Why would zombies be wearing subfusc?”

“No, no, YOU will wear subfusc.”, Obi-Wan clarified, his smile fading somewhat.

“Arse. You do know how uncomfortable it is, right? “, Kiyudr whined.

“Try fighting Sith Lords in Jedi robes. THEN you’ll have my sympathy. I mean, try doing acrobatics and dodging lightsabres while flapping like a bat…”

So Kiyudr went Online, and the Force guided her to BC Woods’ blog. There she saw that he was offering to buy women machetes in some warped application of Rule 34. Due to the transient nature of student accommodation, the machete was sent to a valiant warrior, Ashpile, who will train her in the ways of close combat, decapitation and sheer bad-assery. In other words, nothing like the Cold Steel adverts.

Then came the day when the machete arrived. From his network of super-spies, George Lucas had learnt of this ickle future-warrior of mere 5″2′, and sent word to Customs Office. The underpaid minions of Customs held the machete hostage and demanded payment of taxes. The brave Ashpile held aloft the included receipt, declaring that “Zese are not ze taxes you zeek.”, and freed the noble blade. He brandished the sword, and as its dark matted surface glittered in the dim office light, the chief minion was blinded by the sheer awesomeness of the knife, and exclaimed, “Jawohl mein Herr!”.

With the application of a sack and a lock, the sword was now legal to transport, and soon reached the hands of the Chosen One.