Curses, Foiled Again!



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Interpol “Evil”



I’d make a useless evil mastermind. Never did see the appeal, if I’m honest. Let’s not taser the tyrant here, I grew up on a staple diet of Crypt Keepers, Bond Villains and Margaret Thatcher. Indeed, there is much joy to be gleaned from the maniacal laugh, and I’ve always been a pigeon for cats. But amassing a caustic empire with the intention of taking over the entire planet; that’s a tad excessive don’t you think? Perhaps if Gargamel spent less time hatching nefarious plans for global domination and more hanging out in Smurf Village, then we’d get to see Smurfette’s snatch at long fucking last and the bar will be raised even higher for Avatar 2.

It just seems so counter-productive to me; a waste of perfectly good energy and doomed to fail eventually anyroad. I mean, when do the bad guys actually win? Actually let’s just move swiftly on; I just had one of my Arlington Road flashbacks. Okay so, once in a moon that is blue, they might upset the form book and notch a win for Team Terror but, generally speaking, it all goes tits north the very moment they fall for the oldest trick since the old water into wine con. I tried that once with my own urine by the way but, by the third acrid swill in swift succession, decided to take a rain check on the gargle. I’m digressing aren’t I? Damn tangents.

The oldest trick I speak of is the one that entails revealing their chicanery in all its questionable glory; while their do-gooding adversary dangles precariously over a bubbling vat of radioactive gunk. Let’s just presume that the vapors alone wouldn’t be sufficient to incite a mild stroke in the captured party and focus more on the evil mastermind’s stubborn insistence that a cunning plot halved is a canny one shared. While rattling off their trade secrets for a full five minutes, their opposite numbers are busy embarking on a little something I like to call “O.J. time” which roughly translates to damage limitation. Laser pens are activated, restraints burned through, and said hero is then melted down into toxic slag as opposed to listening to any more infernal blathering. And to think, it all could have been avoided.

I never could fathom the obsession with detailing your every abominable intention but reckon it has something to do with a burgeoning need to be appreciated for something. Contrary to reports and The Omen, I’m fairly assured that we’re not born evil. Granted, some may be more naturally inclined to act out than others, but from what I hear, it takes at least twelve years to become a bona fide cunt. Curiously, Kim Jong-Un just turned twelve; which is the same amount of years it took his nuke ’em buddy (who won’t be named as he might tweet me something hurtful) upgraded from mere twat. As for Justin Bieber, well he’s been on the cusp of puberty since he was shat out, right?

Sorry Justin, clearly you shouldn’t be considered a master of anything other than falling down a trap door in front of a packed homecoming audience. A cunning evil mastermind never says sorry. Peel back the husk on one of these spoiled fruit and the kernel is only ever going to rasp at you. Actually that’s falsified information as one of the favored pastimes of any wrong ‘un worth their capital punishment is perfecting the ancient art of hoodwinking. Faintly off-topic, I once met a young lady who referred to her vulva as her wizard’s sleeve and, oddly enough, this somewhat tattered hood appeared to be attempting to wink at me. But mostly, it just stared. Put the fear of god into me is what it did.

Multiplying chills aside, you don’t get to the top of your respective tree without learning this particular tool of the trade. I’ve heard it called the double-cross, the swindle, the bamboozle and more; but my own personal darling would have to be the hornswoggle. Should one wish to hornswoggle their opponent, then the most basic requirement would have to be the game face. You ever see Rocky Dennis playing Texas Hold ‘Em? Precisely, that’s why he sticks to what he’s good at – collecting baseball trading cards and sticking tacks in a wall map when there’s a 66.6% chance he’ll be stone cold dead the very moment his head pits the pillow. Oh lordy, I’m going to hell, aren’t I?

Better save some face (pun irresistible) and move swiftly on before I dig another hole for Bieber to drop into. What I’m attempting to say in my deeply inappropriate and borderline immoral way is that mastering in the art of deception is top of every cunning evil mastermind’s to-do-list as infiltration is key when looking to catch your hard targets unawares. You ever wondered why Skeletor has never realized his potential to be crowned master of the universe? Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that his Land Shark runs on diesel and He-Man can hear him coming from a country mile off. That still leaves three minutes or so to change into an even more camp outfit and also for Cringer to grow a pair.

Another perfectly good example would be Guy Fawkes. You reckon his Gunpowder Plot would have got as far as it did, had he ran full-pelt towards the House of Parliament with a stick of TNT above his head and his tights round his ankles, screaming “tally ho bitches”? Actually, using our current government as a yard-stick, I’m not altogether sure he was all that evil after all. That said, I’d settle for taking a nut-ridden dump in the front lobby and then setting off the sprinkler system. Told you I’d make a lousy anarchist.

The day war is declared on mild mischief, I’ll start looking over my shoulder rather anxiously. But full-blown terror? It just seems like an awful lot of exertion for precious little to me. There are far more productive ways to spend your free time than scheming; like learning a second language or watching old Jane Russell movies in your jim-jams with a box of Belgian pralines. Anything has to be better than plotting the end of the world. I mean, what’s there left to do once you’ve achieved your one goal? Sit around stroking a white-haired Persian? Cats happen to be fiercely independent creatures and it’s just not fair to keep them cooped up in your lap all day. How do you think Blofeld got his facial scar? Of course he’s going to tell you he got it in state penitentiary, when the truth is, he acquired this injury whilst putting Mr. Tinkles’ flea collar on too tight. Hardly edgy is it?

Nobody wishes to wind up a laughing-stock; least of all a cunning evil mastermind. Yet that is precisely what will happen, should you fail in your bid to be a bastard. Word travels decidedly fast through the criminal underworld and lips will flap, regardless of your chosen occupation. Come up short and your reputation could be tarnished indefinitely, making it increasingly difficult to procure decent underlings. As any successful business mogul will attest, you’re only as good as the team you place around you and the very same applies to dictators.

Finding good help can prove a logistical nightmare as it’s a cut-throat business and there’ll always be someone after your job. Why do you think Muttley’s always snickering mischievously? It’s because ultimately he doesn’t give a box of spunks whether Dick Dastardly bucks his losing streak or not. Should the Mean Machine manage to secure its first podium finish, then he’s in line for a head pat and a handful of premium dog biscuits. Clock another loss and his master and commander will likely scurry off back to HQ to top himself with prescription painkillers. With Dirty Dickie now out of the picture, Muttley stands to inherit his entire empire. If only he knew what really goes down at the dog pound. That’s what you get for turning off Marley & Me two-thirds through because you found Owen Wilson grating.

One thing you’ll need to be prepared for as you enter into a life of crime and misdemeanor is big-boned disappointment. I’m not speaking of the burden of repeated failure here, but the letter from your Great Aunt Flo letting you know in no uncertain terms that she’s “very disappointed in you”. Granted, she’s probably 95 and you can console yourself with the fact that she’ll be in a pine receptacle by the time winter draws in. But we tend to forget that even cunning evil masterminds have to remember a string of family birthdays.

I often ponder how Norman Bates feels every time his 11 o’clock monkey spank gets interrupted by mother’s insistence that “I know what you’re doing, you grubby little urchin”. No wonder he opened up a sodding motel. It was either that or get stuck in night after night rubbing lotion into the old girl’s hemorrhoids. And for what?

Norman… these cookies are stale. Norman… where’s the TV remote? Norman… did you remember to clean behind your ears? Norman… I’m late for my flannel wash. Norman… there’s a slow-worm in my eye socket. Norman… you’ll never amount to anything. Norman… you’re grounded. Norman… just keeping you on your toes. Norman… GET THAT FILTHY WHORE OUT OF MY HOUSE OR SO HELP ME GOD! Poor bastard.

If I were ever to become a cunning evil mastermind, my mother would be the very last roadie I’d recruit. At the end of a hard day’s malevolence, the last thing you want is to be left on colostomy bag detail, when you could be working up a sweet sweat beneath the twinkle of New Mexico stars with the one person on earth who truly gets you. Natural born killers Mickey and Mallory Knox had the right idea if you ask me.

Okay, so perhaps not everything these tearaway trailblazers got up to was 100% on the kosher end of the spectrum, but the love they shared certainly couldn’t be called into question. Neither ever really stood a chance, such was the trauma both had endured at childhood. The world around may have failed them, but they’d never forsake one another and, for once, two wrongs did make a right. I always did love me a good love story.

Alas, most cunning evil masterminds will never know the feeling of loving or being loved. It’s just not in their hard wiring. Now being feared, on the other hand, well that’s just bread and butter. But that’s where those sociopathic tendencies serve them so well. You see, the only love affair going on with them is self-serving and serviced. Megalomania loves company, but only when the spotlight is on me, me, me. Devoting their entire lives to treachery instills these infidels with a sense of self-importance that cannot be replicated by being the nice guy. Nice guys finish last, after all.

You wanna know why that is? I’d imagine it has something to do with the hunk of 2×4 with rusty nails protruding from its business end that acts as the great persuader. What the cunning evil mastermind fails to recognize is that his cudgelled opponent has refused to play dead and dragged his shattered kneecaps to the finish line, while Mr. Cunt has been busy finishing off his meaningless monologue. It’s a huge “fuck you in the eye hole” to hate and two lubricated fingers for love.

So you see, there was never any question to me as to where my allegiance lies. Hand me a pair of goody two-shoes and I’ll be straight off to get my shine box with cheek dimples. Make them The Boots of Great Evil and I’ll politely decline the token. There really are some terrible people in the world; some of whom sit on nose-bleed inducing pedestals of power billowing hate. But there are also rather a lot of delightful ones.

Evil’s great in the movies and who doesn’t like cuddling up with a mug of hot cocoa, reading about the holocaust? Real life however, think I may have to pass. It’s not that I haven’t always dreamed of having my very own pool of piranha or an underground silo with glorious acoustics. And I positively adore cats. It’s just that the maniacal laugh is so hard to master. Muhahaha! See, deeply pathetic. Now how about some Wilderness Girl cookies?

That’s right, it was me – Timothy James Curry – all along. You foolish wretches, thought I’d let you get away without at least giving you one glare did you? I also do a pretty good prince of darkness but get fidgety in the make-up chair. Hold on, where are you going? Did I offend thee? Can’t we dial it back to “Hi, my name’s Inga”? I promise I’ll try harder. Don’t make me press the shiny red button. Okay so I lied, there is no shiny red button. Or… is there? I’m sorry, it’s like a tick. Guys?.. Guys?… Muhahaha… I mean… Guys?






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