Donde esta el Wampeer?

Nobody's ever asked the question "What if a vampire and a zombie were trapped together in a sealed room?" Until now. You see, here at stately Underpants Manor we're gigglingly wealthy, curious, and a little weird.

That's why I've commissioned this foot-thick Plexiglas cage, that duck-sniffing station, and that taco stand to be built here in the basement. Never mind the aroma of waterfowl or the production of Mexican lunch items for right now. Turn your attention to the plastic cube in the center of the room. Notice in that far corner there's a man in bedraggled business casual, licking and palming the walls, spreading black ooze from his nose and under his fingernails. He's our first contender: the zombie.

And resting comfortably upside down from the chandelier in this corner, see that man in Eastern European gay nightclub formal wear? (I mean, really, those blousy shirts were terrible when they "came back" three years ago, and who on Earth — outside of a few transients paid to hand out flyers dressed as Liberace in front of a Laughlin pawn shop — would wear a purple felt tuxedo? Never mind.) He's our other worthy opponent: the vampire.

Now, as everyone knows, vampires are given to theatrics and melodrama — "Oh, yes. Poor you. Cursed to wander the night, loveless, undying, etcetera, etcetera. We've heard it before, Vlad." Also keep in mind that his histrionic nature translates into occasional violence and that he must feed on blood. BUT! Our specimen the zombie has no blood. His hydraulic fluid was replaced a decade ago with black zombie sludge that doesn't circulate through his heart. It's not blood, it's guck. And remember, he's also a dangerous fellow, wont to bulldozerishly destroy and eat the brains of everything in his path. Both fighters, you'll recall, are quite infectious too! Isn't it a squeal?

Okay. Let's turn our attention back to the...

Goddamn it.

"Manuel? Manuel, where'd the vampire go? Manuel?" Sigh. "¿Donde esta el wampeer?" It's so hard to hire good help these days. All right, folks, watch your necks and keep an eye toward the ceiling. This happened last week and one of the pay-per-view television cameramen got carried up into the rafters and turned into a desiccated husk, like a dead fly in a spiderweb. This is the last time I hire a butler from a porn-shop parking lot.

"Manuel? Manuel, where did you run off... Uh-oh."


Thursday August 14

California's Green

PBS 8:30 p.m.

The collective chuckling you hear is every knit-cap-wearing, community-college-lawn hacky sack champion with a three-foot bong in his lap who giggles his blond dreadlocks off every time he hears the word "green" or "bud" or "cloud" or any number of other misappropriated words. Now I'm seething. You stupid hippie stoners have made me seeth. I'm sorry...what was the question?

Friday August 15

America's Loch Ness Monster

Discovery 8:00 p.m.

I'm not going to slap whoever didn't inform me of this. (I'm looking in your direction, Manuel the butler.) Now is not the time for restructuring my Mythical Beast Communications protocol. Now is the time to strap on the My First Snoopy Swim Fins, extra-large water wings, and the little pluggy thing for my nostrils. Hand me the jar of bait crickets and the Scotch tape. If I'm not back by morning, give my jackalope to a good home. GERONIMO!

XXIX Summer Olympics

NBC 7:00 p.m.

The next Olympics will be the "XXX Olympics." Novelty T-shirt printers everywhere just squealed and peed a little.

I Me Wed

Lifetime 9:00 p.m.

From the looks of the title, this is about either a woman who marries herself or an illegal immigrant who surprises passersby in front of 7-Elevens with marriage proposals. Either way, nobody wants to hear Lifetime's take on it. We all wish Lifetime would finally accept that she's the old lady who crochets on her porch and we all pretend that the glass of whiskey by her rocking chair is really iced tea. "Back in the '80s we wore shoulder pads in our..." Nobody cares, Miss Lifetime. Please go deafer.

Saturday August 16

Drama in the Hills: The Top 10 Most Memorable Moments

MTV 8:00 p.m.

Used in this context, define "memorable." If you mean "happened last week, now we're going to talk about it," then I guess that's correct. If you mean "Ich bin ein Berliner," or "Say, Tom, let me whitewash a little," then, MTV, the inflated sense of your own self-worth can be seen from space.

2008 World Series of Poker

ESPN 8:00 p.m.

14 hours. Naugahyde. Hot lights. 16 contestants: all will require a hemorrhoid donut, a bucket of talc, baggy sweatpants, and a nurse with no sense of smell, but only one will take home the trophy. Welcome to the 2008 World Series of Swamp Crotch.

Sunday August 17

At the Movies with Ebert and Roeper

NBC 6:30 p.m.

If I'm the only one who's going to say it, then, fine, I'll say it even though you're all thinking it but won't admit it: Owen Wilson's nose looks like a wiener and it's damned distracting. Throughout an entire movie, all I can think is, His nose looks like a wang. His nose looks like a wang. Wang nose. Wiener snoot. Beak wiener. BEAK WIENER!

Monday August 18

U.S. National Jumprope


Fox Sports 3:00 p.m.

Sure. Why the hell not? So far, Olympics coverage has consisted of teenage girls with overdeveloped shoulders hopping around on a blue mat, and that's the pinnacle of international sport competition. So, the valve is wide open, the cat is so far out of the bag it's a Canadian citizen, and, okay, we'll say jumping rope is a sport. God shave the queen. Good night, everyone.

Tuesday August 19

Big Brother 10

CBS 9:00 p.m.

The other night this came on. The batteries in my remote control died. The power button on my TV is broken. Five minutes later I was driving to the store for a pack of AAAs as I cried on the phone to my neighbor, "Please don't make me go back in there. Please. Please. When I get the batteries you have to go in and do it. PLEASE!"

Wednesday August 20

Greatest American Dog

CBS 8:00 p.m.

Next season I'm going to dress up as a dog to get on this show and win the prize money. Now all I have to do is tame my overwhelming urge to kick my legs out in front of me and pull my butt over the carpet. The rest of the competitions are a cinch. Oh, but the feel of that rough nap against my... Excuse me. I got carried away. Won't happen again.

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