Not Enough Monarchs: An Explanation of a Meteorological Oddity

a Case Closed™ Exclusive
by Manny Fatback


If you're like me, only shorter, then you probably want to know as much as you can about the weather. It's important to know what one might expect for the coming days. Will I be washed off the side of a Peruvian tanker by a freak monsoon? Will a heat wave cause snow to melt and create an avalanche when I'm hiking up Mt. Kilimanjaro in search of the ancient Tibetan Book of the Dead? Will I get a chill if I go outside wearing my spandex shorts and mesh football tank top? All of these are valid questions and important, especially in the life of a hard-living journalist like yours truly.

When I go to the weathercasters for their predictions, I know that the odds are stacked against me that they will be on the money. When the call for rain, I grab my sun hat. When they call for snow, I grab sunscreen. As my father always said: "If you can get paid for being wrong eighty percent of the time, it beats working. Now pass the potatoes, dumbass." And if those aren't words to live by, I don't know what they are.

This year there has been one major discrepancy in the weather-related sector of the media.

Where are all the hurricanes?

Last year and the year before we were treated to a plethora of great hurricanes with equally great names. They brought us hours of entertainment on our television screens and down at the local 'behind the counter' betting pools. If you can't make some pocket money betting on when Hurricane Glenda will hit the Florida coast, then how can you make that pocket money? So this year, with all the meteorological prognosticators lining up with their doomsday scenarios, I was ready to make a lot of cash. They expected a record number of powerful hurricanes this year.

So the question is: where are they?


(Why Aren't We Seeing More of These Colourful Swirlygigs on the Local Weather?)

Faced with such a curious question, I decided to do my best to find out. I started by talking to Case Closed's™ resident Hurricaneologist, Dr. Fantastic. I put the question point blank: where are all the hurricanes? He pointed me to the fridge, where he had pre-mixed several. I explained that I meant the weather phenomena and not the drink. That's when he came up with a startling reply.

There aren't enough butterflies.

Everyone knows the drill. All because one butterfly, halfway around this big sphere we call home, flaps its wings, a hurricane decimates the islanders of some Pacific beach town. Monarchs flutter and people die! This theory has been proven again and again (most recently in the brilliant weather-pic, 'The Butterfly Effect', which TV Guide said 'is on at eight p.m.'). But recent increases in the use of pesticides and powders to protect valuable crops has led to a demise in the butterfly population. This, in turn, has led to a drop in the number of hurricanes worldwide!


(A REAL Theory and Not Just Fantastic Wishful Thinking!)

It occurred to me, then and there, that I had perhaps stumbled upon a way to help millions of potential hurricane victims. Putting aside my own need for extra spending cash, I rushed out of the Case Closed™ offices and sped to the local University. I tracked down one of those science geeks who study bugs and pitched him by idea.

"If we start killing butterflies by the truckload, we could save mankind," I said.

He looked at me like I was insane. "How can you make a connection between butterflies and hurricanes?" he asked. "That's ridiculous. You can't expect me to support wiping out butterflies."

Is it so ridiculous? The Case Closed™ Panel of Experts™ disagree. After heated debate they decided to go to lunch and let the matter rest. Clearly, this is a very difficult question and even more difficult answers.

So, dear reader, the course of action is clear. In order to save mankind from death and destruction, it's time to face the butterfly head on. It is the enemy and must be destroyed. Clearly the 'experts' who talk about global warming and climate malfunction are wrong. It isn't about any of that! It's about man's oldest and deadliest enemy... the butterfly.

Kill one and save a life!

Case Closed!™

Cannibal Diets and Subway Sandwiches: The Jon Lovitz Connection

A Case Closed™ Exclusive
By Manny Fatback

When a person is employed by such a high-calibre journalistic outlet as yours truly, he sees a great deal of the world. From vacations off the coast of Atlantis to hunting parties in the jungles of Bora Bora, a hard-drinking, fast-talking scribbler never knows where he might turn up next. And when I’m far from home I like to bring along some of the creature comforts. But while I can pack Moon Pies and Wild Turkey, it’s hard to bring along any of the fine purveyors of cuisine such as McDonald’s or KFC. So, I have to settle for the local fare.

That’s exactly what happened to me while I was touring some southern Pacific islands in search of the next big scoop. I ended up on the shores of an island with an unpronounceable name (unless you remove half your tongue, swallow some rocks and gargle, that is) and a hearty appetite. So I sought out the nearest kitchen/restaurant/diner in the vicinity. What I came upon was shockingly appalling and appallingly disappointing.

Nestled among the greenery of this lush Pacific island was a large mansion of stone and ironwood. It towered over the ocean and was surrounded on all sides by a high fence. I noticed immediately that a rather savage group of islanders were huddled around the front gate, like rock and roll fans awaiting an appearance of Elvis Presley. When they saw me they began to visibly salivate and move toward me. I recognized some of their tribal markings as belonging to headhunters and cannibals. My life was in jeopardy and I knew I might have to fight to survive.

A moment later, the gates opened and the islanders fell back. There, standing before me, was a face straight from the boob tube.


(Formerly Fat TV Reject, Jared Fogle)

You’ve all seen the formerly-fat reject on TV. At the best of times he looks like a gawky eyed child predator. At worst of times he looks like Jared Fogle, that creepy looking waddle holding up a pair of Michael Moore’s pants and hawking Subway sandwiches. And that’s who brought me into his Pacific island vacation home that fateful afternoon.

Jared, it turned out, had gotten fat on the royalties from his commercials. He took me inside and we shared a meaty barbecue together while Jared assured me that he only had the finest cuts of meat available to man—all of it low fat. “I’ve become somewhat of a dietary expert,” he claimed (though I’m sure our own experts™ would dispute such claims). “That’s kind of what brought me to this island. I can find all the enjoyable… foods that I want.”

Knowing geography like the back of my ankle, I asked Jared if he wasn’t afraid of the local population.

“Oh, they love me,” he said. “You can make friends with anyone—cannibal, headhunter, you name it—as long as you’re thin and pretty.”

Well, Jared might be thin—might be, depending on definition—but he sure ain’t pretty. However, I didn’t want to argue the point. I’d suddenly lost my appetite—and gained sudden inspiration for a breakout story. Jared tried to keep me in his abode by offering me all the best—“…ribs, thighs, breasts,” he said, drooling. “You name it, I’ve got it.”

I got out of there faster than a hen in the foxhouse, heading straight back to the safety and security of my home in Blune Gardens. Once there I called my editor, Cletus Hookworm, to share my theory. Cletus wasn’t around—he’d been diagnosed with lazy brain—so I made a quick call to our Case Closed™ panel of experts.

What are the odds, I asked them, that Subway’s Jared might be a cannibal?

Our panel of experts™ replied with a resounding, “Why aren’t you asking Cletus about this?”

Once again, yours truly was left to fend for himself in the wilderness. I poured a hearty slug of concentration juice and sat down at my computer. After several hours of compiling statistics and throwing ideas at the wall to see what might stick, I had come up with a sound theory regarding Subway’s Jared Fogle and his astounding weight loss.

Was it possible that Jared hadn’t dropped all that weight thanks to Subway sandwiches?

When Jared topped the scales, he weighed in at between 425-900 pounds, depending on what online source you believe. I knew it was at least 850 pounds, as that number came up on the first site I checked out (and here at Case Closed™ we know that “If it’s first, it might as well be right.”®). So, how could a man who weighed 850 pounds suddenly shrink down to a svelte and ripply 190? Is it possible that this man, who blamed Nintendo for his spectacular weight gain, dropped these pounds by stuffing his abnormal looking face with sandwiches made out of thick, carbohydrate rich bread? Doesn’t that alone go against the laws of physics and botany?

I immediately turned to Case Closed’s™ resident dietician, Dr. Fantastic. With his latest self-help book, “Eat Like a Pig and Gain Weight Now!” topping Oprah’s book club charts, I knew he would be the man with the answers. And he was. When asked if a man as odd looking as Jared could have lost so much weight by eating Subway sandwiches, the good Doctor stated his case.

“No man can lose that much weight on a bread and meat diet,” Dr. Fantastic explained. “With the carbs and the sugars alone, you would see a retrograde weight fluctuation on par with something tragically genetic. Besides, do you know how expensive those sandwiches are? Jared would have to be selling kids in slavery to afford to eat at Subway every day.”

So it was clear… this entire Subway sandwich campaign was a ruse. What, then, could be credited with this fantastic weight loss?

Dr. Fantastic went on to pitch his incredible idea. “I think he’s likely a cannibal,” he said. “Human flesh is incredibly high in protein and low in calories. But, depending on the cut, you sometimes get gristle. And if you don’t believe me, check out the new Subway ads. Jon Lovitz says it all.”

Jon Lovitz? An actor once so poor he had to hawk the ‘h’ in his name? The star of such classic films as ‘Pancho’s Pizza’ and ‘The Benchwarmers’? How could he be tied into this bizarre plot of cannibalism and phoney weight loss? I turned on the TV and waited for a Subway ad to run. And, a short time later, it did. There was Mr. Lovitz, doughy, slouched back in an easy chair. At the ad’s conclusion he delivered the devilishly disguised punchline… “Subway. Eat flesh!”


(Does YOUR subway sandwich contain human flesh? Oddsmakers say you can bet on anything!)

That’s right! Eat flesh! As clear as a raindrop falling on a moonless night! And who better to deliver this line than the slightly out of shape Lovitz—he certainly doesn’t appear to be snacking at Subway. Or on Subway customers. He would be the perfect patsy to pull the wool over the eyes of the public.

But not the eyes of your own Manny Fatback!

It all became crystal clear. Jared had lost his weight by eating people! Then, after almost being caught at his horrible activities (perhaps he was spotted robbing graves for his grisly meals--see artist rendering below!), he covered up by claiming Subway had been a godsend for him. If so, why had he retreated to a south Pacific Island inhabited by cannibals? Why does he always have such a toothy, leering smile on his semi-retarded face? There are far too many ‘whys’ and not enough ‘becauses’.


(Could Jared be the fat man with the pick-axe in this artist's rendering? Rendering artists render an opinion of yes!)

We here at Case Closed™ certainly don’t claim that Subway sandwiches are made out of human beings (that’s another story for another glass of concentration juice). But as is always the case here, we know that something is afoot. So the next time you decide to join some fad diet, be cautious about who… or what you might be eating. And recall those terrible, mumbled words of Jon Lovitz…

Subway. Eat flesh.


Case Closed!™

Life's Little Untruths™

Case Closed™ Musings
by Manny Fatback

When I sit down on my back porch and watch the sun rise, my feet on the railing and a tall glass of Wild Turkey near at hand, I often begin to muse. And when I do, certain Untruths™ whisper in my ear. I've decided to share a few of these with the faithful reader of Case Closed™.

1. Oil: not actually tea, from Texas or otherwise.
2. Gillette is not the best a man can get.
3. While Folger's might be a nice part of waking up, the best part is not waking up after suffering a stroke or an unexpected bowel movement.
4. Nobody REALLY liked Napoleon Dynamite.

Join me, fellow reader, in sipping fine bourbon and searching for other Untruths™. If you find some, share them with yours truly, Manny Fatback.

This Case is Never Closed™.

How I Spent My Summer Vacation (or Buffet on the California Coastline)

a Case Closed™ Exclusive
by Manny Fatback

While taking a working-vacation out to the Sunny State of California, yours truly, Manny Fatback, did his best to keep entertained. After touring the wine sampling circuit and making short work of a midget tossing ring, I finally hit the coast and decided to relax with some snorkelling, scuba diving and Wild Turkey (and after doing so, I recommend partaking of these activities in that very order). I’d been soaking up the rays for close to two days when I caught the scent of a story on the wind. At first it smelled like a drowned hobo, bloated and washed up on shore. With a bit more investigating, however, I found that even the most rotten smell might hide the aroma of a rose.

Everyone has seen ‘Jaws’. Maybe it was in the cinema, as a talkie. Perhaps you saw it on VHS tape (or BETA, if you were one of the unfortunates who drove down to Radio Shack in your Edsel and picked up a Betamax). God Forbid you saw it on Laserdisc. But if you didn’t see it, then you must have been living on the bottom of the ocean.

It was Steven Spielberg’s big fish tale that brought us all to the ocean and gave us something to believe in. And that something was random shark attacks. How could a movie filled with a man-eating Great White and that likeable kid from ‘American Graffiti’ (and less likeable teacher/potential molester from ‘Mr. Holland’s Opus’) not be both entertaining… and educational? It taught us about that Doberman of the sea… the shark.

Sharks. Incredible creatures adapted to live in the ocean depths... or bloodthirsty eating machines intent on killing man? While we at Case Closed™ aren’t prone to media hype, the answer to this question is clear. While scientists and environmental ‘activists’ continue with their pro-shark mumbo-jumbo, yours truly has discovered the true nature of these man-eaters. And it’s everything you ever were afraid of…

You’ve all read the statistics. Me, I can’t waste the time. I know that there are probably close to 123,000 shark attacks annually, just off one coast alone. And sure, you might be more likely to be killed by a Coke machine than a shark, but why would you even bother to go swimming with a Coke machine? Regardless… down in California, I followed my nose and discovered that in one ocean side community, almost a half-dozen surfers had been gobbled up by a very toothy adversary. Of course, the scientific community immediately pointed a finger at a regular, run of the mill Great White. But when I found out that one victim had died in the back seat of his Gremlin, I knew something was amiss.

I went to our Case Closed ™ panel of experts and showed them the crime scene photos (voted Too Grisly To Put On This Site) and they were shocked. Even our resident Sharkologist, Dr. Fantastic, felt that the odds of getting attacked in the backseat of a Gremlin at high tide were astronomical. So… knowing something was up, I continued my search. Little did I know what I would find.

Moving from the last crime scene, I followed a trail of plankton, dirt and shark droppings to a small bungalow on the edge of town. Stripping off my shoes and setting aside my half-finished bottle of Cutty Sark, I crept up to the back of the house and peered over the fence. There I saw a horrific melding of man and beast. A genetic freak even more horrifying than Michael Jackson or Barry Manilow. It was clear that ‘Jaws’ was a movie that had been romanticized by one woman in the worst way possible.

Hidden away behind this bungalow was the killer of six surfers… a half-boy, half-shark I came to know as… Shark Boy!


(Beware Shark Boys in your back yard!)

I found Shark Boy sitting poolside in the California sunshine, his parents’ bungalow throwing down a patch of shade. Nibbling on a license plate, an old tire and a bucket of chum, he looked like your average half-boy-half-shark. But beneath that calm exterior lay something darker... something I felt had led to the death of six mind-numbingly stupid California surfers… and perhaps Shark Boy’s own parents! But never afraid of a challenge, I marched straight into the yard and confronted this finned freak. Even though my life was at risk, I had to find out where this genetic abnormality had come from, and what he wanted from the normal world. Surprisingly, Shark Boy agreed to sit down for a face-to-snout meeting.

“...It seems like I’ve led the perfect life.” Shark Boy told me. “But it hasn’t been all calm water, lemme tell you.”


(Could this be Shark Boy's Grisly Handiwork? Pictureologists from Kodack say sure!)

Has Shark Boy suffered as an outcast in the normal world? Perhaps, but even he can’t explain how two human parents could give birth to a shark child. When asked about his parent’s honeymoon to Florida, where his mother was seen swimming among sharks, Shark Boy bared rows of razor sharp teeth and said, “I don’t talk about my parents... it leaves a bad taste in my mouth.” (Go to www.sharkboyvmanny.com for more of this amazing interview).

Following the example of every suspense thriller on the market, I headed straight to the local library. Using periodicals, back issues of newspapers and the Internet, I discovered that Shark Boy’s parents had vanished under mysterious circumstances years earlier. Though a police investigation into the disappearance uncovered nothing, we here at Case Closed™ (If It Ain’t True, Prove It®) turned up evidence suggesting that Shark Boy ate his own parents! In my exclusive interview, Shark Boy hinted at the very possibility.

“...I’m not saying I did it, but if I did...what evidence would there be? I can digest anything,” he said.

Did Shark Boy eat his own parents? Was he related to Bruce the Shark from ‘Jaws’? Had too much Cutty Sark and Wild Turkey caused me to hallucinate this entire ordeal? As our panel of experts is prone to say… Not Likely!

I came away from my California adventure just a bit wiser. Shark Boy went on to tell me that he often moved up and down the coastline, sampling swimmers from town to town. In his own braggadocio, Shark Boy claimed that he was responsible for more deaths than a dozen Coke machines combined. Whether there’s any truth to his claims or not, one thing is clear… not every Shark Attack is what it appears. And even spending your time on the beach, in your car, or even sitting in front of your television, might not keep you safe.

Thanks to my working-vacation and my fine bourbon, I learned that you can’t trust all statistics. There’s one thing even more dangerous than a Coke machine or a shark… or a shark with a Coke machine strapped to its back. That’s a half-human, half-shark with a very bad attitude.


Case Closed!™