The Lorax VS. The Vegan

Oh, the Lorax.  Despite all the self-righteous blather, you’re pretty darned cute.  But I know another environmental crusader who can out-annoy other people any day with his non-stop preaching:  the Vegan. 

Let’s see what would happen if I dropped the two of you into the middle of a Tea Party convention with only a couple of homemade cardboard signs between you and a crowd of two hundred enthusiastic conservatives who are pretty sure Obama’s Muslim uncle invented “global warming”. 

The Lorax:  Your sign says:  “I Speak on Behalf of the Trees”. The Tea Party people laugh in your face because, let’s face it, your sign is made from a tree. They don’t need Fox News to explain that one to them. You frown.

The Vegan:  Your sign says:  “I Don’t Eat Anything That Screams for Help When It Is Murdered in Cold Blood” and features a drawing of George W. Bush biting the head off a chicken.  One of the Tea Partiers who bears a striking resemblance to Rush Limbaugh lunges for your throat. But he’s slow. Sluggish. And, I hate to say it, fat. You sidestep him and he falls on the ground in a diabetic coma. 

The  Lorax:  You climb up on a stump and start telling people in rhyme how sorry they will be when all the polar bears are dead because they refuse to curb their carbon emissions. A lady from Missouri snorts and tells you if the polar bears did something to get on God’s wrong side, like act all gay, it’s their fault. Just ask Pat Robertson. You sigh.

The Vegan:  You whip out a slide projector and flash horrific, life-size scenes onto the wall of baby cows being skinned alive as they hang upside down by one leg from a meat hook.  Several women in the crowd turn green and start gagging. One of them pukes up a still recognizable McRib sandwich.  This causes a stampede toward the parking lot. Three people are trampled to death. Cops show up in riot gear and start pepper spraying anything that moves. In the middle of the fray, the Lorax gets tazed. 

The Vegan:  3 take away 1 (because no one can really tolerate a vegan) = 2    

The Lorax:  0 plus 2 (because you’re so earnestly adorable, and no one wants to see a furry little monster get tazed) = 2

Poor, the Lorax. I want you to know I captured the whole thing on video and will be posting it on YouTube in protest. Tie Game. 

Ayla VS. Zoomba

Oh, Ayla.  Should I pronounce that with a guttural, cavemannish ring to it?  No?  Okay.   After you lost your entire people to an earthquake and finished up surviving a hellish Cave Lion attack, you were raised by a Clan of half-men, half-monkeys who found you ugly as all get out.  I’m truly sorry about that.  But you had some good times, too.  Like when you memorized the names and uses of about two thousand different plants, herbs, weeds, tree barks, and lizard skins.  Thanks for sharing every single one of them with us, by the way.  Good stuff to know.  But how about stepping outside to have a word with Zoomba of the now extinct genetic line, the NeanderPygmies?

You kick ass with a slingshot.  Nice.  I mean, the sling you swing around in the air that shoots out a rock.  Whatever.  Zoomba rigged up a sweet deal out of moleskin, yucca fibers, tree limbs, and tar that would make your eyes water.  Out of jealousy.  Because it’s a primitive crossbow, and she’s deadly accurate with it.  You’re able to hypnotize huge, scary beasts like horses, lions, and wolves.  Zoomba has a black mamba for a pet.  That’s only the most terrifying snake in all of Africa.  She trained it to obey her version of “sic ‘em, boy!”  You became the Clan’s medicine woman, capable of communing with your monkey-people friends’ ancestors when you eat magic roots. Super. Zoomba snacks on peyote like it’s going out of style. When she does, she can fly. 

Zoomba:  3   

Ayla:  - 1, because that last book? Pretty sure that one was written so your author could write off her "cave tour" in France as a business expense.  

Game Over

Jack Reacher VS. Thomas Cruiser

Oh, Jack Reacher.  No, you're fine.  Don't come any closer.  STAY WHERE YOU ARE STAY WHERE YOU ARE STAY WHERE YOU ARE.   CRASH, Boom.  Sorry,  I tried to warn you.  I put a trap door between us because, frankly, you scare the crap out of me.  18 novels worth of you kicking ass and not even bothering to take names - I'd rather you just stay in that hole while we chat.  There's someone here who'd like to meet you.  Thomas Cruiser, ex-Canadian Mountie.

Perhaps more important than your background as a military police officer, you've got an almost supernatural ability to tell time without a watch.  That must come in handy.  You give Thomas Cruiser a date, any date since the beginning of time, and he can tell you what day it fell on.  April 1, 3AD?  A Wednesday.  That particular talent has saved Thomas' life in no less than 29 of his novels.  February has 29 days during a leap year.  Coincidence?  I think not.

It boggles my mind how many crazy violent situations you get yourself into.  At this point you're just wandering around, taking in the sights, right?  Thomas Cruiser's taken it upon himself to patrol the US/Canadian border.  No one asked him to.  You can sympathize with that.  But Thomas has an agenda - make sure no one crosses that border unless they're at a checkpoint.  I don't think even Lee Child knows what you're doing.

You've killed or permanently disfigured, what, 500 people?   Thomas once took out an entire town of 1,250.  Because their town straddled the border, they thought they could just prance across it any time they wanted.  Not acceptable.  I know, I know - you killed that one guy with a single punch to the chest.  But in "Blood Lust Vengeance:  Niagara Falls", Thomas killed a guy just by looking at him. 

Thomas Cruiser:  3 + 5 (because in the movie, he was played by Bruce Willis)

Jack Reacher:  0 (we all know who played you, and he's short, hyperactive, and belongs to a cult)

Game Over

Romeo Montague VS. Lovesick Larry

Oh, Romeo, Romeo, where you at, Romeo?  Your highs are so high, and your lows are so low.  You might consider a mood stabilizer of some sort.  Lovesick Larry's got it bad, too.  Let's see which one of you can last the longest in:  the Game of Love.

One glimpse of Juliet and you forgot all about what's her face.   Lovesick Larry fell hard for this one chick who ended up filing a restraining order against him.  Then he saw a girl's phone number scrawled on a urinal and he knew, without a doubt, their love-to-be was written in the stars.  He called her.  She said sure, she'd meet up.  Big Bertha turned out to be thirteen, and missing an eye.  But what's in a name?  Nothing.  She smelled good, like a cardboard pine tree dangling from a rearview mirror, and her name couldn't change that.

Pretty much right off the bat, you convinced Juliet to sneak off and marry you.  Lovesick Larry has a bit of attention deficit disorder himself.  He and Bertha got drunk on wine coolers and drove to Vegas to get hitched the first night they met. 

It's touching, really, the way you ran a sword through your rival and then chugged a vial of poison when you thought Juliet was dead.  When Larry couldn't wake Bertha after a night of heavy drinking at the casino, just like you, he failed to recall how easy it was to get over that first chick the moment he locked eyes with the second one.  Two cops showed up at his door to arrest him for kidnapping.   He took them out with a machete before hurling himself off the balcony of his second story honeymoon suite at the Motel 12.  When Bertha finally woke up and found his mangled form in the parking lot next to his vintage El Camino, she offed herself with one of the cops' guns. 

I'll leave you with a Larry quote, Act 5, Scene 3.  His last, poetic words:

"O crap.  O crapful, crapful, crappy day!

Worst day ever.

Okay, O day, Okay.  I hate you stupid day!

There hasn't been a day this bad since I got fired from Wal-Mart."

Lovesick Larry:  Love Hurts            

Romeo:  Don't feel bad.  Everyone loses when they play this game.

Dr. Frankenstein VS. Nurse Practitioner Volgelslum

Oh, Dr. Frankenstein.  Your gigantic ego is almost too big for this blog; your scientific powers too kooky for words.  But let's have a go, shall we?  You're up against Nurse Practitioner Volgelslum and her homemade humanoid, Gretelschnitzel.  Ready?  Set?  Build a monster!

Urgh:  You performed the ultimate act of creation by constructing a devil of a man, eight feet tall with veins and muscles practically protruding from its skin.  When he opened his fearsome yellow eyes for the first time, you called him ugly.  And you ran.  Nurse Practitioner Volgelslum built a monster, too.  But Volgelslum's not in the business of using whatever old, nasty, rotting limbs and digits she could find laying around in the morgue.  She killed for them.  When Gretelschnitzel got hit by that bolt of strategically timed and placed lightening, she opened her eyes and people swooned.  Because Gretelschnitzel was fresh, and hot, like a bun right out of the oven.  And she was blond and leggy.

Gurgle:  Your monster turned on you faster than you could say:  "A very regrettable decision to construct that evil looking fiend."  He ended up killing every person you really cared about.  Who could blame him?  Nurse Practitioner Volgelslum didn't leave her creation to root around in the dumpster for food.  Oh, no.  She enrolled Gretelschnitzel in community college.  Got her hair done.  Trained her to be a ninja.  And by the third act, Gretelschnitzel had torn limb from limb every single patient who'd stiffed Volgelsum on the bill for the last twenty years.

Flurg:  In the end, your monster pretty much outclassed you in every way.  Well, a couple of extra points for obsessively chasing it until you died.   After a long and fruitful career, Volgelslum and Gretelschnitzel retired together to the British Virgin Islands where they lived out their days as two halves of a whole, just like it should be.  Man and God.  Creator and Monster.  Mother and Child.

Volgelslum:  Monstrous Genius     Frankenstein:  Monster Fail

Game Over

Holden Caulfield VS. D-Mac

Oh, Holden Caulfield, would-be catcher in the rye field.  You were once the most charmingly disaffected teen hero of all time.  Sadly, Gen-Z just doesn't get what your problem is.  I'll give you a chance to redeem yourself if you'd like.  Let's pit you against post-postmodern malcontent D-Mac.  That's short for something, but D-Mac had his name legally changed, so don't worry about it.

Bam:  You pretty much whine your way from start to finish.  Sorry, but you do.  When D-Mac wants to emote, he makes a video of his grandma lip-syncing some of the fresh rhymes he dubbed over a Lil Wayne song so he can post it on YouTube.  Because old people doing shit is funny.  Check it. 

Bam:  Your prose is littered with words like damn and lousy and hell.  D-Mac's personal correspondence is all LMFAO and POS and JEOMK.  Look it up.  LIC. 

Bam:  You got expelled from your fancy prep school... why, again?  Ennui?  I can't remember.  How about:  failing at life for no real reason.  Which, by the way, no one puts up with these days.  If you pulled that crap in 2012, they'd have you so hopped up on Ritalin, you'd be doing calculus in your sleep.  D-Mac got expelled from public school for cheating on a standardized test, even though he was "strongly encouraged" to by certain school board members in order to raise the district rankings.  But he ended up at the alternative school where he gained invaluable-for-his-music-career experience hanging out with real live gang members.  And he got his first tat.

D-Mac: FTW       Holden Caulfield:  WTF?

Game Over

Paul Atreides VS. Gordon Uranus



Oh, Paul Atreides.  You got marooned on that desert Dune-planet with all those freakishly large worms and spice miners.   You made the best of it, by becoming a god.  But what would happen if you were pitted against Gordon Uranus, messiah to the inhabitants of the extra universe that hasn’t been discovered yet, Dysuniverse? 

Your mom’s a bona fide witch.  That don’t-even-think-about-messing-around-with-me voice most mothers pull out on occasion?  Your mom’s got the market cornered in that regard.  No, Mom, not “The Voice”!  Gordon’s mom is a witch, too.  But she has a superpower the inhabitants of Dysuniverse refer to as “The Foot”.  One kick of The Foot to an unsuspecting person’s ass could land you in prehistoric times on the planet Forgettaboutit, or just about anywhere else.  It’s an unpredictable talent, but one that kept Gordon in line, believe you me. 

Your all-blue with no whites or blacks eyes are frightening.   I understand you have an addiction and all, but for the love of god, get some contacts.   Gordon’s eyes are bloodshot red.  He’s addicted, too.  To gin and tonics.  But which color do you think is scarier?  Red.

You drank the “Water of Life” and underwent the “spice agony” to become the Kwisatz Haderach.  You know, like Superman, only better.  Gordon ate the “Biscuit of Death” and underwent the “condiment torture” to become what everyone refers to as:  The  Most Highly Regarded Superbeing of All Time In Either of the Two Universes. 

Gordon Uranus:  3     Paul Atreides:  -1, for turning into a worm in that last book

Game Over

Anna Karenina VS. Deca-Mom

Spoiler Alert.

Oh, Anna Karenina.  You’re beautiful, beguiling, and pretty fierce.  You dropped your son faster than last year’s buzzword for a man.  When things didn’t work out with Mr. Right, you threw yourself in front of a train.  Seriously, you’re not playing around.  But do you stand a chance when stacked up against Deca-Mom?  Deca-Mom popped out ten puppies in one sitting (due to a drunken prank on the part of her fertility specialist), and she wouldn’t let even one of them out of her sight for more than twenty to thirty minutes.   Let’s see who lasts the longest in a game of:  Play Date at Chucky the Cheese’s.

Your turn.  You arrive at the sticky, hallowed doors to Chucky the Cheese’s clutching your Prada handbag like it’s some kind of shield.  I hope you don’t mind if it gets a touch of vomit splatter on it after little Seryozha downs 3 Cokes and then rides the bucking-bronco of a coin operated fire truck.  Oops, too late.

Deca-Mom pulls up in her twelve seater van dressed in nasty old sweatpants and a stained undershirt she found yesterday in her back yard.  If anyone puked on her, you wouldn’t know it. 

Your turn.  You beg the only good looking single man you can find (must be the rich uncle of one the screaming, snot-nosed heathens crawling amok through the plastic maze tubes) to wipe down a booth with anti-bacterial hand sanitizer so you can perch daintily on the very, very edge of it and bemoan your fate.  What?  You say you write children’s books in your spare time?  Whatever.

Deca-Mom orders six large pizzas and falls into an exhausted heap in a less trafficked corner of the play area so she can gaze lovingly at her ten little hoodlums as they whoop it up playing Whack-A-Mole.

Your turn.  Seryozha begs for cash to buy some more tokens while you make moony eyes at single guy.  Wait a minute.  Where’d you go?  Where’s single guy?  Hey, you forgot your kid!  He’ll never get out of here with that matching number mom/kid black light hand stamp thing/law without you!

Deca-Mom:  10     Anna Karenina:  that train can’t get here fast enough

Game Over

Robert Langdon VS. Thomas Webster

Oh, Indiana Jones.  I mean, Robert Langdon.  Sorry.  You’re a Harvard professor, master code-cracker, and the man who announced to the world that Jesus got hitched and had a baby just like the rest of us poor schleps.  Calm down.  I don’t want your autograph.  Especially if you plan to scrawl it in hieroglyphics all over a copy of The Da Vinci Code .  I was just making sure I wasn’t talking to Tom Hanks. 

Robert Langdon, meet Thomas Webster, Scrabble Champion of North America, and triple PHD.  Thomas wants to see if you’d like to solve a mystery with him.  Here it is:  if the two of you were locked in a bank vault with only a watermelon and a roll of duct tape, which of you would be the one to make it out alive?  Game on.

Round One:  Robert Langdon, after the door to the vault closed, you recovered pretty well from that bout of hyperventilation.   We know.  You’re claustrophobic.  Did I mention there’s a finite amount of oxygen in that vault?  But now you’re wasting time blathering on about the symbolism of watermelons as depicted in Mexican art.  Blah, blah, Day of the Dead, blah.  Thomas Webster is vertically challenged.  Okay, he’s a little person.  A dwarf.  Whatever.  He immediately cracks the watermelon open and gives you half of it, knowing out of the two of you, he’ll be the one to survive the longest on an equal parts melon diet, because you’re all tall and buff and stuff.

Round Two:  Robert Langdon, it’s been twenty hours and all you’re doing is staring at the big hand on that Mickey Mouse watch your parents gave you, waiting for some hot chick to come rescue you.  Thomas Webster’s sneaking up behind you with the tape in his hand.  He ties you up with it and eats the rest of your watermelon.

Round Three:  Robert Langdon, it turns out the shadowy, secretive Order of the Girl Scouts are the evil doers who locked you in the vault.  While you’re busy trying to piece it all together, connect the dots between the Girl Scouts, Mount Rushmore, and the exchange rate with China, Thomas Webster’s been mouth breathing and doing jumping jacks.  Because, he has an oxygen tank hidden in his hollowed-out unabridged dictionary.  You pass out and subsequently die from a lack of air moments before a couple of rogue Brownies take pity on you and Thomas and open the door.  Sorry about that.  Thomas wins.

Game Over

Harry Potter VS. Baldy McPlumber

Oh, Harry Potter.  Yes, you.  The one with the magic wand.  You might have taken down a giant evil snake, but would you survive two minutes pitted in a wand-off with Baldy McPlumber?  Baldy doesn’t actually have a magic wand, but he’s got something pretty special up his sleeve.  It’s called elbow grease.  And he used it to defeat a three-headed camel hopped up on energy drinks and laughing gas.  That’s right.   You traipsed all over the wizarding world looking for weird pieces of whatchamacallits – horrorcrucifixes?   It took you, what, a bazillion pages to find them all?  Baldy could fish a hairball out of a 40-year old S-bend pipe crusted over with dried up slime using only a toothpick, a coat hanger, and a flashlight.  In about two paragraphs.  You might have vanquished that guy with the name no one wants to say, even if they could pronounce it, through lights and magic and being nice to your friends, but here’s what Baldy McPlumber did in the very first chapter of his twenty book series:  he went forward in time to thank himself for saving the world before he even did it.   That’s right.  He can time travel.  Game Over. 

Baldy McPlumber:  10,000,000  Harry Potter: 0

Humbert Humbert VS. Spunky Brewster

Oh, Humbert Humbert, you charming wordsmith and admirer of all things nymphet.  I was so mesmerized by your creepy tale of lust and loss that I almost hate to do this to you.  But I’m going to anyway.  You’ve been challenged to a duel, to the death, by twelve-year old ingénue Spunky Brewster. 

I don’t exactly get what you see in average-in-every-way Delores, although your little nicknames for her are pretty cute.  Especially “Lola”.  But when the middle-aged hairy guy living over Spunky Brewster’s garage started calling her “Spo-Spo”, she kicked him in the balls.  You married Lola’s mother just to get closer to her.   That’s commitment right there, self-sacrifice at its finest.  When Spunky’s new middle-aged hairy step-dad asked her to squirm around on his lap, she bitch slapped him so hard that in order to explain the condition of his face, he told everyone he got in a bar fight.  And they believed him.  You fed your beloved pre-tween sleeping pills to spare her the mental anguish that might be accompanied by you, you know, having to ask if would be okay if you, you know, expressed your love in a way she might find too, you know, “grown-up”, or “gross”, or “psychologically damaging”.   Spunky’s new dad slipped a roofie in her Dr. Pepper, and when she woke up, she straight up cut off his manhood with his own rusty chain saw.    

Spunky Brewster:  3     Humbert Humbert:  have fun in hell

Game Over

Highly Effective Person VS. Mostly High Bob

Oh, fabled Highly Effective Person.  You’ve got seven habits and every last one of them makes me want to puke.  That’s why I’d like to see what happens when I put you in the ring with Mostly High Bob. 

Ding:  You’re all, if you don’t understand the principles you’re living your life according to, how can you possibly prioritize what makes it into your hourly-breakdown-timer?    Mostly High Bob knows principles are for pussies, but he still has a few.   Like, when he sells his neighbor a dime bag, he gives it to him at cost.  He doesn’t really need the cash, anyway, what with his mom working overtime every weekend to support him. 

Ding:  You try to force everyone onto your win-win bandwagon with your peppy double-talk, but we all know how well that worked out for Charlie Sheen.  Mostly High Bob accepts that he’s a loser.  He thinks it’s pretty funny when his sometimes girlfriend says stuff like: “Grown men drive cars, not BMX bikes” or “Why don’t you get your GED already so I don’t have to listen to you talk about it anymore?”

Ding:  You spout words like “synergy” and “inspiration” with a straight face.  Mostly High Bob says things like “Dude, I’ve got the munchies,” and that’s keeping it real.  

Ding:  You’re all, come on everybody, let’s work together to make the world a better place!   Mostly High Bob accepts the world as it is.  Pot will never be legalized in his lifetime.  And he’s okay with that.  That’s what California’s for.

Mostly High Bob:  doesn’t care   


Highly Effective Person:  not winning

Game Over

Carrie White VS. Tina Black

Oh, Carrie White.  I don’t even want to mess with you.  But I know someone who might.  Tina Black.  Let’s face it.  Tina’s everything you’re not.  She’s a popular cheerleader, her dad’s a knee surgeon so she’s loaded, and her superpower is… wait for it… an outrageously upbeat personality that allows her to mind control others, bending them to her will like spineless, sniveling blobs of JELL-O.  Plus, she already knows everything about puberty, because she got her period in the 3^rd grade.

You might be able to rain down rocks and hail from the sky when you’re peeved, but Tina Black can talk her uptight dork-wad of a chemistry teacher into paying her cell phone bill and then mooning 4^th period study hall while yelling “you know you like it”, just for kicks.   You took out a few innocent schlubs with power lines.  Tina killed a spider by convincing her little sister to shoot it with their dad’s shotgun, because it might have rabies.   You toss cars around like rice at a wedding, but guess what Tina can do?  She can sweet talk a walrus into diving for pearls.   You’re willing to stand around dripping pig’s blood all over the floor just so you can watch while the entire senior class is roasted alive in an electrical fire, their flesh melting right off their faces.  Damn, girl.  Seriously.  You’re scary as shit. 

Carrie White:  4   Tina Black:  just peed her pants

Game Over

Winnie the Pooh VS. Bad Baby

Oh, Winnie the Pooh.  Stop right there.  Are you seriously named after “poo”?  You know what that is, right?  Nevermind.  You’ve got a bunch of friends who follow you around, like that small pig and some sad donkey, but what would happen if you were to cage fight Bad Baby, a plastic doll with a real, transplanted, beating heart, who doesn’t take crap from anyone, not even her diaper?   

Let’s find out.  You like to bumble around, wandering through the forest chasing butterflies and moths, humming and making up songs.  Bad Baby wrote a song – a rap song.  She sold it to Eminem for 2 grand, and she gets royalties.   You think “honey” is funny in your rumbly, tummy-tum-tummy, even though you can’t spell it.  Bad Baby likes beef jerky and cheap beer, and she can spell “onomatopoeia” without conferring with an owl about it first.  Owls aren’t that smart.  You wouldn’t know that, though, would you, stuffing for brains?   You think your human friend, Chris Robin, is so great.  But what Bad Baby knows is, humans will use you, abuse you, throw you on the ground and kick you in the face without thinking twice or even saying “pardon me”.  Get real. 

Bad Baby:  3 + 1 bonus point for knowing Eminem = 4   


Winnie the Pooh:  0 


Game Over

Special Agent Aloysius X. L. Pendergast VS. Deputy Dan

Oh, Special Agent Pendergast.   Your name is so long and your history so complicated, it would likely take eleven tomes to explain it all.  Let’s see how your spreadsheet-worthy list of attributes fair when pitted against Deputy Dan of Hicksville, Alabama, a man whose only novella is so short, he doesn’t even need a last name. 

Round One:  Deputy Dan doesn’t have any supernatural made-up monsters to deal with in his neck of the woods, so it’s not really fair to bring up your crime-fighting history.  But there’s a meth problem you wouldn’t believe blowing up in Hicksville, and Deputy Dan’s not afraid to kick some toothless, scary-mo-fo-looking ass.

 Round Two:  You pride yourself on being a connoisseur with the palette of a gourmet chef and we all know about your steak tartare fetish, but could you choke down a bowl of Roadkill Stew with a side of Skillet Skunk marinated in a savory sauce of ketchup and mustard?  I didn’t think so.  Deputy Dan could, because deep down inside, he’s a real man.   

Round Three:  True, you’re a snappy dresser, if funeral home director is what you’re going for.  But Deputy Dan owns a pair of overalls.  He wears them without a shirt when he’s using his weed whacker.   You don’t know from yard work. 

Round Four:  You spent a year studying the meditative art of Chongg Ran.  Deputy Dan has a deep distrust of anything that sounds like a Chinese food menu item.  Instead of hiding out in a cave in Tibet with a bunch of monks, he spent two years studying reruns of CHiPs and growing a mustache.

Knockout. 

Deputy Dan:  4      Special Agent Pendergast:  0

Lisbeth Salander VS. Uzette Platypus

Oh, Lisbeth.  Or should I call you “Wasp”?  Or maybe, “Girl with a Bunch of Weird Tattoos”?  Whatever.    We’re agreed on one thing, you’re pretty much a badass.  But would you survive even one round in the Thunderdome with Uzette Platypus, girl with a hundred skin lesions?  Sure, you have a photographic memory and some computer skillz.   But Uzette helped Al Gore invent the internet, and when she’s been drinking, she can recite War and Peace from memory in any of six different languages while juggling pie plates and standing on one foot.   You've ridden on a motorcycle, right?  That’s cool.  Uzette climbs a ladder to get behind the wheel of her 12,000 pound monster truck, which she affectionately calls:  The Squisher.  You’re saddled with a lesbian lover and the undivided attention of every male character in your 3 book series.  Uzette doesn’t attract anyone.  You know, because of the skin lesions.  Sorry, game over.

Uzette Platypus:  3  Lisbeth Salander:  0

Anastasia Steele VS. Candy Liscious

Oh, Anastasia Steele.  Reading your story on a crowded city bus might turn a school girl’s cheeks Fifty Shades of Red, but can you hold a candle dripping hot, nasty wax to Candy Liscious, Vegas showgirl with a past?  You writhe in desperate agony when your hunk of manly exuberance spanks you like the poorly written character sketch you are, but afterwards you scream out “Holy Cow Patty” like a ten-year old boy who just stepped in a fresh pile of dog excrement.  Candy Liscious tied up a Hell’s Angel with a chip on his shoulder, whipped him like a can of Reddi-wip, batted her press-on eyelashes and said:  “Stop crying.”  Your inner goddess kept up a distracting running monologue for about forty pages of overwritten prose.  Candy Liscious wouldn’t know a goddess from a Hindu mandala, because she didn’t finish the fourth grade.  School is for suckers.  Especially “college”.  You signed a contract with a millionaire so you could get some.  Candy Liscious would only use a contract if it was on fire, to light her crack pipe.   Oh, that's right.  Your boyfriend's mom was a crack whore.  Sorry, my bad.  I meant to say: to light your book on fire.

Candy Liscious: 3  Anastasia Steele: 0

Game Over

Abraham Lincoln VS. Bill Clinton

                                                 

Spoiler Alert.  Oh, Abraham Lincoln, Vampire Hunter, in your stovepipe hat with your clove of garlic.  Stop it, you’re so scary.  But could you last even one round with Bill Clinton, Demon Slayer?   You killed that one vampire with a homemade stake, but then you went home and wrote about it in your diary.  Bill Clinton cut his first demon down using rays that shot out of his eyes.  Then he held a press conference and swore he never touched it.  He didn’t.  Well, his rays did.  But that doesn’t count.  You started a vampire war and let the unwitting citizens of your nation fight it for you, and then... you went home and wrote about it in your diary.  Bill played a demon-slaying-through-the-power-of-sound sax solo on national television that caused thirty-two demons to spontaneously combust, and he went home and acted all, no big deal, I learned that in high school.  You joined the ranks of the undead so you could traipse around for eternity impersonating yourself for money at elementary school functions.  Bill Clinton told the demons he had to ask Hilary first.  She said no.  So he killed them.  Using only some fancy talk and his full head of hair.

Score:  Bill Clinton – 3 Abraham Lincoln – 0

Game Over