Case Closed! — Conspiracies and Mysteries Solved

An Apologetic Update to Our Cased Closed™ Reader

2007-05-31T18:06:00.000-06:00

By Jessica Ithaca
Secretary to Manny Fatback

We here at Case Closed™ want to extend a sincere apology to our reader. Those people in search of the Truth™ as well as the Facts™ have been disappointed these past months, as the skilled writers at Case Closed™ have been less than vigilant with their posts. We understand how difficult it has been for people to get through their days without a closed case or a solved mystery. For that, we apologize.

Cletus Hookworm, editor extrodinare and collector of used urinal cakes, is once again suffering from Lazy Brain. Despite intial reports--and a burst of creative energy-- he has not recovered from this ailment.

(On the left, a Normal Brain. On the Right, Cletus's Lazy Brain)

Manny Fatback, skilled wordsmith and snack tester to the stars, has been recently diagnosed with Wild Turkey Poisoning. He will return soon--with a vengeance--and reminds his readers to keep watching the blog.

(Manny Fatback, before entering a clinic for Wild Turkey Poisoning)

Keep an eye on Case Closed™ for more doses of the Truth™!

AND NOW... A Case Closed™ Little Known Fact!

2007-05-31T17:57:00.000-06:00

Did you know that recently, the world's biggest marshmallow strike was made in Canada? That's right, faithful Case Closed™ readers. During exploratory mining new New Puft, Saskatchewan, miners came across the biggest marshmallow vein ever discovered. Marshmallowologists believe this vein might very well yield enough 'mallow to last two centuries!

Canadian Security forces have beefed up their presence around the mine, fearing that Nestle terrorists might attempt to launch a hot chocolate attack. If this happened, the world's supply of the white, sugary treats could be devastated!

It's TRUE™!

(This has been a CCLKF)

!Moon Landing Faked!

2007-04-17T17:08:00.000-06:00

This scoop came via that most valuable of sources—the disaffected college drop-out who quit school because he knows that colleges cover up the truth. I was searching for hot scoops at Liquor Dick's, the bar frequented by the muckiest of rakers, the most two-fisted of journalists, the most rapier-like of wits. I was chatting with Dr. Fantastic, Case Closed™'s resident bamboozologist, about the possibility that Uncle Ned was responsible for Anne Rice abandoning her proposed nineteen-volume exploration of New Orleans told from the zombie's point of view. Fantastic was about to confirm my hypothesis, when a rat-faced young man with mousy-brown hair and cheeks full of sunflower seeds looked at us with the violent intent of a gerbil in a sock.

"Uncle Ned is part of the conspiracy," he squeaked.

My reporter's instincts twitched, hummed, and gargled to life. "What's that about Uncle Ned and a conspiracy?"

"That movie he made, Apollo 13. It's tommyrot."

Tommyrot, I thought. A fellow doesn't throw words like that around without being correct. "Go on," I said.

"Uncle Ned would have us all believe that we landed on the moon. Or at least tried in his case. But it never happened."

"Yes, yes," I said, distractedly holding a piece of cheese in the air. "We all know about radiation and shadows and the like. There was no moon landing. Case Closed™ broke that scoop back in '63."

"No, you fool," he yelped, his nose twitching at the cheese. "It's not that there was no moon landing. There's no moon!"

Dr. Fantastic excused himself to work the Love Tester in the corner of the bar. I began scribbling what I knew would be yet another Plutzer Prize. "Do you have any proof of this?" I asked.

"Proof?! I quit college over this cover-up.!"

"Interesting," I said, and began to compose my Plutzer Prize acceptance speech in my head.

"Yes. Very. The moon is just a projection put out by the mighty Lizardorians, who live within the earth. They have huge candles that they use to project a big round rock into the sky, so that we spend our time trying to land on it instead of preventing their takeover of the surface world."

"Fiendish!" I exclaimed, debating whether a gold or bronze frame would be best.

"Yes. Very. Uncle Ned is a Lizardorian agent, sent to the surface to co-ordinate with other Lizardorians, who run Hollywood and the American government, to keep people distracted and confused. A careful study of Uncle Ned's movies contain clues of the Lizardorian plan. I'd know more, but I can't afford to rent movies."

"I understand," I said.

"Well," my beady-eyed informant said, "I've got to get going. There are Lizardorians everywhere and they'd love to eat me."

"I understand," I said. With that, he scurried away. Dr. Fantastic returned a few minutes later and reviewed my notes.

"It would explain his home repair problems in The Money Pit," he said.

"Great Caesar's Salad's Ghost," I yelled. "You're right! To the press room!"

Dr. Fantastic placed some complimentary Case Closed™ Weekend Planning Guide sample copies on the bar to pay for the drinks while I hurried out to stare at the night sky and learn to disbelieve.

Bad Names Come In Threes: The Serial Killer Triple Threat

2007-03-30T20:53:00.000-06:00

a Case Closed™ Exclusive
by
Manny Fatback

Experts the world over--including our very own panel here at Case Closed™--know that there are almost 245,000 active serial killers at large and practicing their craft in the United States today. Every year tireless and unimaginative authors pile bookshelves with tales of horror and murder, imagining serial murderers even more horrific than the crimes they actually commit. Sometimes these books are as unforgivable as the crimes that we read about in the daily papers (see Thomas Harris' latest unpickupable 'thriller', "Hannibal Does Something Spooky"*). Even the normally moral and thoughtful men and women in Hollywood buck the trend and put out movies that tastefully examine the life and times of the most notorious killers.

But despite the attempts of authors and directors to give a clear and truthful picture of serial murder, they often fail to answer one simply question.

Why?

When it comes to the desire to repeated bludgeon a female hitch-hiker with a tire iron and then have sex with her corpse while repeatedly biting it, no one can very really explain what drives these killers to their crimes. 'Experts' like to flaunt their degrees and theories, claiming that it might have something to do with childhood trauma or upbringing. Is it enough to spend those formative years watching one's mother having sex with an endless parade of hoboes? Could it really be blamed on the years of sadistic abuse at the hands of an alcoholic step-father? Is that what creates these murder-machines? Or is that just another case of the 'experts' trying to do their best to make themselves look so much smarter and so much more important that us regular folk?

(What would make an average motorist want to do something like this? Just childhood trauma? I think not...)

After reading and researching dozens of stories about serial killers, yours truly, Manny Fatback, decided to set out to discover the true reason for the demented behaviour. On behalf of Case Closed™, I had to find out what turns an ordinary cat smotherer into a serial killer!

And yours truly found out!

If you look back at the history of crime, there are a number of well-known murderers. Theodore Robert Bundy, John Wayne Gacy, Henry Lee Lucas and Albert Henry DeSalvo have all earned their place on the infamous list of the disturbed. Each one of them can lay claim to a rough childhood and a few bumps and bruises. But can't we all? They can also lay claim, however, to have one thing in common.

Or rather... three things.

Three names.

(Theodore Robert Bundy... not just a ladies' man)

After spending hours in a library and a lab with our resident murderologist, Dr. Fantastic, yours truly discovered that there is a triple link that leads to serial murder. That link? It's the use of three names, one after the other, all of them given the same verbal importance and stress. When spoken aloud the names themselves are a clear trigger for murder. Every single serial killer of note has had this common one-two-three punch! Lee Harvey Oswald! John Wilkes Booth! Even Pee Wee Herman, who murdered his own career and the imagination of several children with his terrible TV show. This use of three names is a clear signal of impending murder?

I'm sure there are doubters out there, naysayers if you will, saying nay. Well can you say 'nay' to Randy Steven Kraft? Or what about The Zodiac Killer? Is it just coincidence that these men all have three names, and they are all guilty of murder? Would it be a leap of logic and intelligence to say that three names is indeed a causal link? We ate Case Closed™ don't believe you can ever leap far enough when it comes to logic. That's not about to change now.

(Was 'Teen Wolf' an examination of the killer inside of Michael J. Fox? And note the tagline... like all serial killers, he always wanted to be 'special'!)

If yours truly could discover this so readily, why do the 'experts' continue to shy away from the truth? And what have they hidden from us in the past? Is it possible that John Fitzgerald Kennedy was assassinated because he was an out of control serial murderer bent on slaughtering hundreds? When asked, our experts said, "What was that?" And what about other 'triple threats' who have disappeared from public view. Michael J. Fox? JM J. Bullock? Is it a coincidence that these people have 'slipped out of public view'? What about David Lee Roth and Eddie Van Halen!? Are they rock and rollers... or rock and killers?

(This picture says it all!)

I don't think I need to paint a clearer picture (as we say at Case Closed™: "If we have to paint you a picture, you probably don't know how to read!"®). There are dangerous people at large, ones we might never suspect. Look at your neighbours. Your co-workers. Your boss. Do they have three names? Do you think they might have drifters buried under their house?

Obviously there is a clear and definitive causal link between serial murder and having three well promoted names. Ted Bundy had three names. So did O.J. Simpson. So do 245,000 other active serial killers.

Do you?

Case Closed!™

*Title of this book has been fabricated due to the general feeling that Harris's book is crappy

AND NOW... A Case Closed™ Little Known Fact!

2007-03-30T20:46:00.000-06:00

Did you know that when making prank phone calls, the Tusken Raiders, or "Sand People" often use call block to hide their numbers?

It's TRUE™!

(This has been a CCLKF)

The Burgerland Killings

2007-02-13T16:16:00.000-07:00

There’s nothing like confronting one’s own mortality to speed along some self-evaluation. My recent escape from Chinese Martian terrorists, who were holding me against my will in Dimensure Nine, has led me to publish a story that I’ve been sitting on for some time. Indeed, the photos for this explosive piece have been hidden in the cushion of my desk chair. Yes, corporate spies, it hasn’t all been Oreos and pretzels!

This scoop has its origins in the early eighties, when I was a cub reporter for the Daily Truth-teller, an old-fashioned truth-telling daily. I received a mysterious package containing mysterious photos, taken quite mysteriously for mysterious reasons. “A mystery,” I thought. The photos were grainy (mysteriously so) and featured what appeared to be spokespersons for Burger King. The Duke of Doubt, Sir Shake-a-Lot and the Burger King himself. The accompanying note read, “Where are they and why?”

Indeed, I thought, where, and why. I realized that they hadn’t been seen in years, and yet I could not recall hearing of any investigation. A quick call to my undercover contact at the National Police Association, Cpl. Terry Stoddard, revealed that all three were reported missing, presumed dead. The case, while not closed, was not being pursued. Stoddard’s explanation was less than convincing due to an ominous string section playing in the background. I grabbed my fedora, placed a fresh “Press” card in the hat band, and stormed out of the office. I was on the case … until it was closed.

Lots of phonecalls and interviews later, I gave up. The trail was cold. Besides, an outbreak of lobsteritis had made for an easier story to cover. I placed the photos in a file folder marked, “Case Never To Be Marked Closed” and went on with my career.

Fast forward a number of years. I’m now editor at The Gumshoe Investigator. And another package of photos arrive. These contained disturbing crime scene photos of several murders. Three McDonald’s representatives, Grimace, Hamburgler, and Mayor McCheese—all dead. It appeared that all had been victims of mob executions made to seem like accidents. At least the police said they were accidents, but that many bullet holes in the head made me suspicious.

Who were we left with? The Burger King, Sir Shake-a-Lot, and Duke of Doubt were missing and presumed dead, but Ronald McDonald was still alive and highly visible. A theory began to take shape. Ronald McDonald, head of the McDonald’s empire, had taken out contracts on the Burger King gang for either strategic or vendetta reasons. But why had several McDonald’s figures also met grisly fates? Retribution? Maybe, but from whom? More likely, I deduced (thanks to years of crime investigatin’) that they were the assassins who took out the King gang, then found themselves victim themselves of the oldest rule of conspiracy: kill the assassins. Ronald McDonald himself was killing off the McDonald’s gang. Of course, it all made sense. By the nineties, Ronald was the only one left to promote the business. I didn’t have the why but I didn’t care—leave that for the philosophers.

I was about to go to press with my exposé when I was visited by the Fry Guys, who delivered a terrible beating, growling about the photos, the photos, the photos. I didn’t surrender the photos, but I didn’t dare go to press. It was too dangerous. At that point, I was still the best, toughest, and bravest crime reporter on the northern coast, and I couldn’t take the chance of dying. So I refiled the story in the “Case Never To Be Marked Closed” folder.

Which takes us up to today. What’s changed on the McDonald’s-Burger King gangland slayings? A lot, actually. Ronald McDonald has disappeared and I think it’s probable that he’s dead or … gone underground. Why underground? Because of the re-emergence of the Burger King! Of course! He wasn’t dead, but had gone underground when his comrades had been gunned down. But now he was back, perhaps after dispatching his arch-foe, Ronald. But there was something not quite right about this Burger King. This one’s face was plasticky, the result of bad cosmetic surgery. In fact, I came to believe, this was not the original Burger King—he was dead, killed by the McDonald’s gang. This new King, I was sure, was Sir Shake-a-Lot or maybe the Duke of Doubt, cosmetically altered to look like the King!

It’s all so confusing. Who killed who? Who’s really dead? Did Shake/Duke kill Ronald? Was he in on the original Burger King Massacre of the seventies, a double agent? Did Shake/Duke kill King? Or are Shake and Duke dead, along with everyone else? Then who is the new Burger King? Who sent me the photos in the first place? Any story with this many unanswered questions must be legitimate! The machinations involved in this scheme are so profound that I fear for my safety and expect to go underground once more.

This case, however, is closed™ (pending new evidence. Send all leads to Manny Fatback, c/o this site.)

The Return of Cletus Hookworm

2007-02-11T12:45:00.000-07:00

It’s hard to remember what exactly has happened to me these past months when I’ve been missing—that is, missing from where I and others expect me to be, but not missing from where I was. Where I was was right where I was, and certainly not missing. If that reads as confusing, maybe you need to patch the gaps on your aluminum foil hats.

Yes! That’s what had happened! After my near fatal encounter with a rabid, murderous, vindictive, and malodourous Uncle Ned, I realized that my aluminum foil hat had ripped. Maybe it through normal wear and tear, maybe Uncle Ned had torn it when I wasn’t paying attention. The latter possibility made a lot of sense because it’s just the kind of thing Uncle Ned would do. Hadn’t he tricked Doctor Tongue into joining the Peace Corps? Hadn’t he once tried to karate kick The Fonz? Of course he had—he was capable of anything. Yes, yes, yes. Where was I?

Ah, in my bunker, fixing my aluminum foil hat. That must have been when the mind control ray got me. My subordinate, Manny Fatback, is prone to blaming Stephen King’s rogue clones and, more often than not, they are to blame for the ills of this world. (And other worlds—scienticianologists have long wondered why Jupiter is unsafe for humans. Think about it: Jupiter was the king of the Roman gods. King. Obviously Stephen King’s clones rule that planet at the exclusion of human beings. Jupiter is also the fifth planet from the sun. His fifth book? The Dead Zone. Jupiter is a dead zone for human beings. There’s more, much more, including his failed attempt to kill Jack Lemmon, Meadowlark Lemon, and the Lennon Sisters, but I don’t want to pee on Manny’s hydrant.)

The mind ray. Whoever was controlling it, the next thing I knew I was in a gypsy camp in Gypsania, somewhere in Europe. What did they want? At first I thought it was a nefarious plot—fixing a tribal volleyball match or securing cheap trenchcoats from my Inuit connections (if so, my reputation would indeed have been the cause of my present fate). However, it was my editorial skill, in turning literary urine into wine and papering over the holes in Manny’s investigative stories. (I mean, really, Manny originally thought that Big Bird was involved in Reagan’s assassination. Absurd when you really think about it.) So I fixed up the gypsy manuscript, Gypsgoria—a puerile rip-off of Fangoria Magazine; the absence of Wes Craven or Robert Englund interviews made it little more than a Vincent “The Gypsy Prince” Price fanzine. I think that they smelled my contempt. After all, without my trusted Irish Spring, there was little to whistle about.

So, one night, while my captors slept off a Mr. Pibb-fueled donnybrook, I stole away, eventually coming across a dimensional transporter run by a kindly gnome named Lonnie. This led to a whole series of adventures, the gist of which Manny got right in his updates as to my whereabouts. Eventually, a chain-smoking, hard-drinking private eye named Johnny Carcinoma—a man who any smart publisher would pay big money for the rights to his own exploits—rescued me while working on a case involving a man dressed like a cat eating macaroni and cheese in rubber boots. Fantastic, sure, but I don’t make this stuff up. Indeed, our own Dr. Fantastic, inventor of the Tell Whether A Person Is Lying 4050, said that my story was 51% likely to be true. In other words, I passed.

Still, nagging questions remain. What are gypsies doing with mind control devices? Why do they live in tents? Is it a coincidence that Jack Lemmon and the Lennon Sisters are dead, yet Meadowlark Lemon lives? Is that Uncle Ned sitting in a Ford Taurus down the block from me? Does Uncle Ned have clones? Does anyone really believe that a painter with an obsession with the ghoulish was really Jack the Ripper, especially in light of what happened to Suzanne Sommers house? It all makes sense if you have the grapes to make wine, folks. This case might never be closed, but for now, Case Closed!™

The Roles of a Lifetime (Where Your Favourite Celebrities REALLY Act)

2007-01-31T21:21:00.001-07:00

a Case Closed™ Exclusive
by Manny Fatback

They’re the heroes of the silver screen. They wield weapons and swing through the jungles with the grace and ease of a baboon on steroids. No matter how poorly written, how clichéd or how ridiculous, they can overcome any fictitious series of events. No, I’m not talking about your favourite animated Saturday morning super friend… I’m talking about celebrities. The folks of glitz and glamour who all rub elbows while waiting outside the hippest rehab. You know them.

Or do you?

For the past month or so, yours truly, Manny Fatback, has been recovering from bunion surgery. While spending time in my palatial home on the coast of Uruguay, I became as bored as a nun at a penguin exhibit. So, I decided to join up with one of those online DVD movie rental organizations. Before I knew it, I was feeding movie after movie into the DVD player, and snack after snack into my own gullet. While relaxing and watching ‘The Terminator’, my faithful Uruguayan servant, Satchel, said something that surprised me. While looking at Arnie, the Terminator himself, he said, “That preacher, he touch me one time. Not love me long time.”

I was confused. Not only by Satchel’s curious Japanese accent, but by what he was claiming.

“Preacher?” I said, a bottle of Wild Turkey sliding off my six pack. “What are you talking about?”

He pointed at Arnie and said, “That preacher at church. He touch me, special place.”

Cracking open one of the cans from my six pack, I scratched my head. Further conversation with Satchel revealed that his preacher at the local church bore a striking resemblance to Arnold Schwarzenneger. Of course, I knew that it couldn’t the Arnie. Still, I had to see for myself. So, I grabbed my crutches and hobbled down to the local God shop. Opening the door, I was surprised with what I saw.

Arnie himself, the man of iron, spreading the word of God.

This discovery got me to wondering… what did I really know about my favourite stars? What was Robert Redford doing on his day’s off? Did Kevin Costner really work at a McDonald’s? And what ever happened to that girl who played the chick in ‘Debbie Does Dallas’? With my curiosity piqued, I decided to hop a plane and head to Hollywood. Along the way I called up my intrepid photographer, Lance Trout. He was glad to get out of his mother’s basement and come along.

(Is there where anti-Semitic rants will take our great actor/directors?)

What we discovered amazed me. It didn’t take long, but I uncovered the secret lives of a half a dozen celebrities. Anthony ‘Hannibal’ Hopkins. Johnny Depp. Demi Moore. Even Dudley Moore had another job (a door stop at a bakery in Chinatown). From spot to spot Lance and I went, amazed at what we discovered.

(Anthony 'Hannibal the Cannibal' Hopkins working as a butcher... irony, or just plain funny?)

Faithful reader of Case Closed™, I realize this isn’t a vast conspiracy… but it does have potentially dark undertones. What do we truly know about our favourite stars? How do we know that the man removing our appendix is really a doctor? What if it’s TVs Doogie Howser instead? And what if the man mowing our neighbour’s lawn really is Charlton Heston? Is he packing heat?

All I ask is this: keep your eyes open. When you sit down in the theatre, ready to watch another Jerry Bruckheimer extravaganza, check to see who sold you your ticket. Perhaps it was Keanue Reeves.

(Johnny Depp... Picker of the Caribbean)

Keep reading Case Closed™. And keep watching the…stars.

Case Closed™!

The Kings and I! A Cloneopolis Update!

2006-12-21T14:59:00.000-07:00

A Case Closed™ Exclusive
by
Manny Fatback

They sat you can never have too much of a good thing. Friends. Happiness. Bourbon. Whatever your magical vice, the idea remains the same. No matter how much of it you have, no matter how high you stack it, it never loses that special something. Of course, we all know that’s a load of steaming outhouse treats. No matter how terrific something is, no matter how specialtastic®, eventually not enough becomes too much. There always comes a breaking point.

When it comes to Stephen Kings… how many is too many?

As the dedicated reader of Case Closed™ well remembers, it was yours truly, Manny Fatback, who first broke the astounding story about the numerous Stephen King clones! Never before had a story with such power and magnitude been so graciously ignored by the publishing industry. It was clearly a story that hit too close to home. No matter where I went, no matter who I spoke to, no one seemed willing to acknowledge this amazing discovery. But that didn’t stop the Stephen King Cloneopoly Bullet Train to slow down. It continued on the fast track, moving like a well-buttered lap dancer.

Now, however, it seems that this many might be too many.

As readers know, the latest Kingly offering was a great disappointment. This novel, billed as some kind of love story and terrific stretch for one of the Kings, falls flat. And well it should! There are too many Stephen Kings out there… and too many Stephen Kings spoil the broth! And in this case, the broth is the book! After fighting my way through ‘Lisey’s Story’, I decided to press myself back into service and investigate the Stephen King conspiracy even further. What I found should be enough to convince any executive at Scribner of the truth™!

Even the most casual visitor to the Stephen King website can see the clues. When I made a visit, I noticed that the site listed Mr. King as ‘Stephen Stephen’. Two Stephens? Is that a none-too-subtle way of giving yours truly a reminding jab, letting me know that though I tried to get the secret out there, it’s still going on? It would seem so!

(Stephen Stephen... a typo, or proof of something far more sinister?)

A second visit to the Internet brought me to a foreign language site, which clearly demonstrated incontrovertible proof of the Stephen King clone conspiracy! Even though I can’t read Mexican, what’s written below is as clear as day. There is more than one Stephen King… and even people who don’t speak English know about it!

(Even in this savage tongue, the truth is easy to read!)

Armed with these new pieces of evidence, I decided to return to Maine and pay the Kings a visit. I showed up in my LeBaron, a stack of King hardcovers bunched under one arm. The King mansion, a shameless display of wealth and ego, stood before me like a giant monolith built on words and pages and bricks. I stood in awe for a few moments before carefully wriggling over the front gate and heading for the back of the house. I knew that if Mr. King (or perhaps the other Mr. King, or even the third) spotted me, the gig would be up. I’d brought the books along as a distraction, knowing that when asked, a clone can’t help but try to sign it’s original’s name.

At the back of the house, beyond the recently installed Fountain of Youth (an upcoming story here at Case Closed™), I found a rear window through which I could peer into King’s life. And what I saw amazed me! Seated inside a plush and comfortable looking den was Stephen King.

And Stephen King!
And yet more Stephen Kings!
I quickly grabbed my camera and snapped a picture. Undeniable proof of this conspiracy finally brought to light.

(How many stories would a Stephen King write, if a Stephen King could write stories?)

As I turned to go, however, I realized that I was no longer alone. One of the Stephen Kings, pushing a Toro lawnmower, came around the edge of the house. Knowing that this Steve could be in two places at once, I immediately fell to my plan of attack. Producing my stack of books, I asked for an autograph. This carbon copy King obliged, signing the book with great concentration, tongue jutting from the corner of his mouth. Soon after I escaped, returning to the Case Closed™ offices. Once safe at my own desk, I looked at the signature of the phoney King. Of course, it seemed much different from that of the real Stephen King. I quickly tracked down a sample of the genuine King’s signature and laid it next to the clone’s signature.

Not even close!

So, friends and readers, it should be clear to you now that Stephen King is not who he says he is. He’s more! And he’s continuing to produce books at a fantastic rate despite being retired! So, the next time you pick up one of his novels and feel vastly disappointed in the decline in quality, just remember… this ain’t your grandma’s Stephen King!

And there is too much of a good thing.

Case Closed™!

“Freedom’s Just Another Word For Something My Grandfather Did…”

2006-12-20T13:49:00.000-07:00

The Abduction of Cletus Hookworm by the Worst Superhero Ever

A Case Closed™ Exclusive
By
Manny Fatback

The offices of Case Closed™ have felt a lot different since Cletus disappeared. The light isn’t as bright. The plants aren’t as healthy. And the air smells different. Perhaps the reasons are simple. Perhaps there was more light because the sun bounced off Cletus’s balding head. Perhaps the plants were healthier because he watered them. And perhaps the air used to smell minty because Cletus like to carry urinal pucks around in his pockets. Perhaps…

But I like to think things here feel differently because Cletus is still missing!

As the faithful reader of Case Closed™ already knows, our wise if somewhat easily distracted editor disappeared some months ago. After investigating haunted Yugos in Havana, Cletus bounced to Romania and then Hungary. His journey brought him and in and out of the hands, closets and trundle beds of numerous nefarious villains (including Dr. Nefarious himself!). Now, however, Cletus is in the most gravest of perilous dangers… a time traveller billed only as Joe ‘Captain’ Canada has taken him captive. And being involved in a time travel conspiracy will irk Cletus to no end, as time travel is among his greatest pet peeves (along with paying attention, devaluing stamps and making regular and consistent blog posts).

And just how did Cletus end up in this time travel fiasco?

After escaping his captors in a daring midday breakout, Cletus got mixed up with a pot-smoking herbivore known only as Dodos. Dodos claimed he had discovered the secret to time travel and while Cletus imagined it had something to do with Dodo’s constant supply of hand-rolled cigarettes, he decided to investigate (as any daring Case Closed™ reporter is bound to do). What he discovered shocked him straight to the core. Dodos had indeed made a time machine!

(Dodos Amazing Time Machine and Smokeopolis!)

Cletus, brave soul, still suffering from Lazy Brain, decided to test Dodo’s cumbersome looking apparatus. In doing so, the danger-seeking editor of Case Closed™ jaunted all the way back to Europe during the heart of the Second World War! Surrounded on all sides by explosions, tanks, flying bullets and various people’s grandfathers, Cletus believed he was lost forever. Not so! Thanks to the selfless actions of a Canadian soldier (whose name we shall invoke later), Cletus was rescued and brought to safety.

(Did one of these brave soldiers save Cletus? Time Travel Phrenologists Have No Comment!)

Or so he thought.

Against all odds, this soldier turned out to be Joe Canada’s grandfather. And when Cletus failed to honour Joe’s grandfather and sign a paper contractually obligating him to invoke his name regularly, he effectively sealed his own fate. Joe ‘Captain’ Canada, who has the ability to distort time as it suits his purposes, came back to Europe circa 1944, gave a nod to his grandfather, and whisked Cletus back to the present. In doing so, Joe Canada may very well have triggered a bump in time that could lead to chaos and destruction! Perhaps slaves will burn down the plantations! Perhaps the citizens of Germany will overthrow Hitler! Perhaps weapons of mass destruction will be found in Iraq! With Joe Canada screwing around with history, anything is possible!

(Thanks to Joe Canada's Willing Disregard for the Importance of History, The South Descends Rather Than Rises, Dooming the Slaves Forever!)

It was only forty-eight hours ago that Joe Canada contacted Case Closed™ to demand a ransom for Cletus Hookworm. Though Cletus offers little in the way of professional work, he does still owe yours truly ten bucks… so I agreed to set up a meeting with Joe. First, however, I had to figure out who Joe Canada really is. For that, I went to our resident Canadianaologist, Dr. Fantastic.

“Joe Canada?” Dr. Fantastic said. “Sure, I’ve heard of him. He’s the worst superhero ever.”

“Worse than Superfriends' Marv?” I asked.

(Marv, Just a Certain Curly Hair Above Joe Canada in Superhero Status)

“I’m afraid so,” admitted the fantastic doctor. “You see, Joe Canada is only a superhero in the vaguest sense of the word. He thinks that he has great things to offer the free world, but he always falls short. And his superpowers… laughable. His powers include arguing from a faulty standpoint, taking things out of context, misquoting rivals, overusing Wikpedia, subjectively defining what is or is not objective, and affixing odd important to grandfatherly figures. In general, he’s just annoying. But you do have to take him seriously. He’s like a bad case of herpes… he might quiet down, but he never goes away.”

Could it be true? Was Cletus in the clutches of a bad case of herpes?

Aware of just what I was up against, I met face-to-face with Joe Canada. He wasn’t exactly what I had been expecting. Still, I had to give this man the benefit of the doubt. I immediately asked him to disclose the whereabouts of Cletus and let me know that my faithful and easily bored editor was alive and well.

(Joe Canada, Worst Superhero Ever)

“You’re a freaking madman if you believe I’ll tell you that!” Joe Canada expostulated. “I value freedom over all else, especially my own! Hookworm is my bargaining chip, Fatback. And why do they call you Fatback? Is your back fat?”

“Why do you have an ‘A’ on your shirt? Perhaps it demonstrates the country in which your mindset truly belongs?”

“Don’t lie, you freaking madman!” Joe shouted at me. “My grandfather didn’t fight and die in World War II so you could go around mocking my freedom of expression! Would you rather we live in a totalitarian state like Iraq, hoarding weapons of mass destruction while disenfranchising women voters? My grandfather sure wouldn’t!” (Bowing his head, he whispered: Oh grandfather, I invoke your name to help me understand the true ignorance of everyone else, Rub-a-Dub-Dub, Raisins on Toast. Spectacles, Testicles, Wallet and Watch).

Clearly, Joe Canada had a screw loose. And I wasn’t about to lend him a screwdriver.

“So,” I went on. “You have Cletus and want a ransom?”

“Don’t lie!” Captain Joe bellowed, pointing a finger. “Liars never prosper, though I’m not calling you a liar. That’s a completely different kettle of semanticals. And you sure wouldn’t prosper in 1930s Russia. Would you rather live in 1930s Russia or in 1930s Canada?”

I could tell that this discussion was going nowhere. Rather than civil discourse, things had degenerated into rambling nonsense, with Joe Canada invoking the name of his grandfather, my grandfather and three other elderly men who often hang out at the bus station. Very slowly I retreated from Joe’s sight, hurrying to my Chrysler LeBaron and speeding away to safety.

Safety for me, but certainly not for Cletus! As much as it pained me to abandon him to whatever fate Joe Canada had in store, my options were limited. I returned to Case Closed™ none the wiser, but a bit less hungry (having stopped at the Arby’s drive-through on the drive back). As I sat down at my desk to hammer out this story, my mind kept turning back to Joe Canada’s words. “Would you rather live in 1930s Russia or in 1930s Canada?”

Does Joe plan to continue warping history? Is his intention to deposit Cletus in 1930s Russia… or even 1930s Canada? Perhaps he’s willing to go as far as placing Cletus in present-day Cleveland! Regardless of what Joe Canada intends on doing, yours truly, Manny Fatback, refuses to give up. I ask that you, faithful reader, remain vigilant and loyal to Case Closed™! Keep coming back for further updates… and if you happen to see Joe Canada, make sure to invoke his grandfather’s name… then give Case Closed™ a call!

This case is never closed!

Case Closed™!

(Except for this case, which is never closed!)

Case Closed™!

AND NOW... A Case Closed™ Little Known Fact!

2006-11-30T23:28:00.000-07:00

Did you know that it isn't that uncommon to discover common household animals inside of different grocery items? That's right! From pythons in vacuum cleaners to budgies in cans of Budweiser, it happens more often than not! In fact, just the other day a kitten was discovered in a box of Pop Tarts!

Later, President George W. Bush ate that kitten!

It's TRUE™!

(This has been a CCLKF)

Obesity Goes Wild: Fat Animals Tip The Scales

2006-11-30T21:30:00.000-07:00

a Case Closed™ Exclusive
by
Manny Fatback

It should come as no surprised to Case Closed™ readers that nine out of ten children across North America are obese. Six out of ten are ungrateful and five out of ten are unable to count the original nine! These are shocking statistics. Fat children are everywhere. You see them at school, on the bus and standing outside doughnut shop like lard-filled inflatable dolls, jowls hanging in the wind. But this increase in childhood obesity--blamed mostly on video games and comfortable chairs--is only the tip of a increasingly overweight iceberg.

(Two average fat kids enjoying a glutton's meal at McDonald's)

Yes... our children are fat. But it gets worse.

(In many countries, obese children attack and devour their parents... as shown in this shocking photo!)

While investigating a trible of pygmy headhunters in Africa, yours truly, Manny Fatback, stumbled across the discovery of a lifetime! I was hiking across the sultry savannah with my intrepid photographer by my side when the ground began to rumble. Things began to quiver. I had no idea what it was. For one moment I was taken back in time to a trip I took to Mississippi with Cletus 'Missing in Action and Not Likely To Return' Hookworm. He made the ground tremble in a similar fashion when he lined up to throw a log into the Mississippi River. But this was no overweight companion. It wasn't a rogue dinosaur, escaped from some Steven Spielberg-like compound.

It was merely an animal. An animal native to Africa. A giraffe.

I'd seen giraffes in the zoo before. As a boy I'd even pelted a few with rocks when the day-trip got boring. But the giraffe that I saw coming across the plains was like no giraffe I had ever seen before. The normally elegant and docile herbivore had obviously been indulging in foods that were high in fat, cholesterol and calories. I watched in terror as a two tonne giraffe lumbered across the African plains, casting a shadow as big as a boat. My photographer turned to flee but I remained and snapped a picture of the outlandish animal!

After the giraffe had gone, I stood in stunned contemplation. What could have happened to create this freak of nature? Was it genetics? Radiation? Science gone mad? Or God, drunk on power? To determine the cause of the creature's tremendous size and weight, I contacted local Safari guide and avid hunter, Senor Magificent. I showed him the picture and he immediately began to nod.

"Oh, sure," he said. "That's a fat giraffe."

It couldn't be so simple, but it was. Apparently, Senor Magnificent went on to explain, animals all over the world have begun to gain weight. The increasing obesity among men, women and children has slowly spilled over into the natural world. "We don't challenge animals anymore. We're too slow and lazy. So, they end up the same way. I see it in trees and plants as well. Obese cacti. Fat geraniums. It's really quite common."

Could it be so common? Knowing I had a big story on my hands, I began to investigate. Sure enough, it turns out there are fat animals all over the place. Many of the famous celebrity animals that you know are regularly in and out of 'fat camps', where they lose dramatic amounts of weight, only to put it back on months later. "It's a struggle among thoroughbreds," an unnamed jockey said. "I wrap my horse in plastic and run him for hours, but he just keeps putting on the pounds."

(Is this the future of animal sport? Experts in Guessology say 'Yes!')

Returning to Case Closed™ headquarters, I enlisted the help of our resident Fatologist, Dr. Fantastic. He examined the pictures and expressed shock at the growing trend. "If this keeps up," he predicted (and if He Predicts It, You Know It's Probably True®), "the earth is going to go out of balance. A real gravitational shift."

It's appalling but possible: obesity among the natural world could tip our planet to the brink of disaster. The only rational response to this is simple: obese animals must be hunted to the verge of extinction. Once the pool of potential mates dwindles, the animals will take it upon themselves to lose weight and become more attractive. I say it, Dr. Fantastic says it, and you must say it too!

So... remember to do your part. Pick up a gun and shoot a fat dog or cat. Trap an overweight squirrel. Run down that obese porcupine. The planet's survival depends on it!

Case Closed™!

The Scoop on Hitler's Litter Box: The Reincarnation of Famous People

2006-10-01T14:29:00.000-06:00

a Case Closed™ Exclusive
by
Manny Fatback

For thousands of years men and women have been troubled by the idea of death. What happens after we take that final breath, fall down that final flight of stairs or choke on the final piece of hamburger? Do we wink out like a bad bulb? Do we continue to shine in another room, where the furniture is better and people aren't quite so annoying? Or do we present a checklist to some celestial accountant and find out we haven't learned all out life's lessons and we have to come back for another kick at the can? Religion, science and crackpottery (such as Scientology or Home Schooling) have sought the answer to this question for years. Well, yours truly, Manny Fatback, can finally tell everyone to stop searching. We here at Case Closed™ have discovered the truth.

Reincarnation.

That's right. The whole idea of some never-ending wheel of karma is as real as the fake moon landing! There's no palatial mansion in the sky. There's only more of what we've already seen, except in a different pair of pants.

Or for some, a different pair of legs all together!

While clearing out my grandfather's things from his bedside table at the Sunny Pines Rest Home (Now Asbestos Free!) I began to contemplate death. Where would I go when I died? And would I leave behind the same drawerful of crap as my cheap grandfather? Most likely. But if I could take it all with me, where would I take it? I began to do a little research on life after death, moving from bar to bar and asking questions. At one dark establishment, I ran into a fellow who ran a combination acupuncture/transmission repair shop and he turned me in the direction of reincarnation.

"We're here to learn the true mean of our lives," he told me over a pitcher of Wild Turkey shots. "Not the meaning of ALL life, but our own. What have we done? What are we capable of doing? The more potential we have, the more times we have to return to the earth. And very often we come back in an unfamiliar form."

Sipping my drink, I said, "Like a toilet plunger or something?"

Apparently not. My drinking companion asserted that very often we return as animals that incorporate the qualities we had in life. Disbelieving, I left the bar and returned to the offices of Case Closed™, where I went straight to our resident Reincarnationologist (he received his doctorate at the Quimby Hills Second-Coming Community College), Dr. Fantastic.

"Of course people come back as animals," he told me. "It happens all the time. Hitler was reincarnated as a cat. It's common knowledge on the Internet."

I checked. Indeed, this 'Internet' was quite the depository of irrefutable facts. And I discovered that Hitler had indeed come back as a cat, and there was photographic evidence to prove it!

(Startling photographic proof of reincarnation... available online to anyone? Coincidence, or hard evidence?)

But how much further could this go? I decided to contact Mistress Rhondra, famed psychic to the dead stars. She began to point me in the right direction.

"You have to look for celebrities who give clues about their possible future selves," she said. "Check out their careers, their choices, their mates." And I did just that. How as I to know that some of my favourite celebrities had been animals in the past... and showed startling evidence that they would be animals in the future? I was stunned to realize that Canadian songstress Alanis Morisette might very well live her next life as a horse. And while passing by a pig farm in Ohio, I'm certain I fed a cob of corn to Chris Farley!

(Alanis Morisette and her future self... both able to eat apples through a chain link fence!)

(Chris Farley... comic, pig, lover of old corn)

It's hard to believe, but it's true™! Tom Cruise, Ray Charles, Lisa Bonet, even Justine Bateman have all been--and will be--living life as animals.

(Marilyn Monroe is living her life as a cat in Des Moines!)

"Rob Schneider is the only exception," claimed my barroom source. "He has never really had much to offer, and he certainly doesn't have much to learn. He starred in 'The Animal', but he's never been one. If he's ever reincarnated, it'll probably be as a bowel obstruction."

There you have it, faithful reader! Pay attention and be careful the next time you see a deer running across the road at night. Keep your foot near the brake or you might very well run down Harrison Ford in your Ford!

Case Closed™!

AND NOW... a Case Closed™ Little Known Fact!

2006-09-07T14:42:00.000-06:00

Did you know that back in 1985, the model for Kenner's original 'Stretch Armstrong', found himself in financial ruin? After numerous divorces and a battle with alcohol, the unfortunate inspiration for this bendy, stretchy toy died in a tragic fall.

It's TRUE™

(This has been a CCLKF)

Mystery of the Missing Editor: A Search for Cletus Hookworm

2006-09-07T13:55:00.000-06:00

a Case Closed™ Exclusive
by
Manny Fatback

It's been several days and a few bottles of Wild Turkey since yours truly took the time to sit down and put pen to paper. Most of the time the life of this hard-living scribbler is composed of thrills, stress and minor bowel irritation. Recently, however, we here at Case Closed™ have been suffering from something even worse. It's heartbreak, dear reader, and heartbreak of the very worst kind.

When this intrepid reporter started writing for Case Closed™ so very long ago, there was promise and hope in the halls. Everyone who read the stories knew that with such a dedicated, willing and hard-working staff, the Truth™ would soon be unearthed. No conspiracies, no mysteries, no bits of idle gossip would go unreported. It didn't matter the risk or the danger or the cost (cost is usually defrayed by the publishers of Case Closed™)... we would be there for you. Yours truly, Manny Fatback, and his daring sidekick, Cletus Hookworm.

But the question that's on the lips of faithful readers everywhere now is a simple one: Where is Cletus Hookworm?

(Could Cletus Hookworm's location be found somewhere on this map? Mapologists shrug indifferently.)

For a time we all knew where Cletus was. If he wasn't in the bathroom or sprawled out on his couch in his shorts, watching 'Saved by the Bell', he was busy at his desk. An editor at heart, he wasn't content just editing the far superior pieces of his co-hort, Manny Fatback. No, he wanted to wade into the muck of journalism, to break through the barriers and find out the Truth™ that so many others turn away from. That quest for the next story took him away from the comfort of his office and out into the rough and tumble world.

For a soft pudge like Cletus... that wasn't a good idea.

Recently he made a lengthy tour of Romania. He had gone on a whim, trying to seek out the mysterious origins of Roman Numerals. While in Romania seeking this secret (which seems to be buried somehwere along with Jimmy Hoffa and the electric car), Cletus began to run into some troubles. At first he found himself hounded by Roman Polanski, who believed Cletus might be a threat. A search for Roman numerals in Romania or not, Cletus had to get on the hoof and out of Dodge. And that's just what he did.

From Romania he went to Hungary. Having possibly imbibed something in the water, he began to feel lethargic and lazy. Disinterest was his sole occupation. What notes he didn't throw away, he sent to our offices here at Case Closed™. The following excerpt shows his addled and uncaring state of mind: "Sometimes they say stuff, but everyone says stuff. I think I might write a story about that. Wait. I should edit this first. Can I send you the revised copy of my grocery list?"

Clearly... something was wrong.

And now something is even more wrong. After gentle urging, Cletus decided to see a doctor while in Hungary. However, during the routine physical examination, Cletus became highly agitated (perhaps upset that his colon was larger upon leaving the office than it was when he went in!). His anger led to spurious comments about the Hungarian government. This, in turn, led to an uprising by a mysterious society known only as HHH. Their origins are cloaked in mystery, but they are clearly a force to be reckoned with!

(HHH... Hungry Hungry Hippos, Or Hungry Hungry Hungarians?)

A short time ago, dear reader, Cletus Hookworm was abducted by HHH. They held him for ransom while attempting to brainwash him into joining their cause. However, Cletus could not be brainwashed. It wasn't superior intellect or reasoning that kept him safe. It was a rare and annoying condition from which Cletus suffers that kept him from turning to the dark side. Cletus suffers from Lazy Brain, which brings with it a lack of creativity, general lethargy and mental dysfunction. His kidnappers had been foiled again!

Cletus foiled those bastards again, didn't he?

But now his whereabouts are unknown. Cletus has been dumped by his disinterested kidnappers and left to fend for himself. How long can a man with a lazy brain survive in the wilds of Hungary?

Only time will tell.

This story is a plea to our readers... please be on the lookout for Cletus. Below is the last known photo of Cletus, while in the company of his captors. If you recognize him... please contact Case Closed™.

For now, this Case remains Open!

Not Enough Monarchs: An Explanation of a Meteorological Oddity

2006-08-26T15:57:00.000-06:00

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

2006-08-21T19:50:00.001-06:00

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™

2006-08-08T22:22:00.000-06:00

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)

2006-08-08T21:24:00.000-06:00

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!™

AND NOW... a Case Closed™ Little Known Fact!

2006-07-27T17:31:00.000-06:00

Did you know that, despite protestations from experts and numerous first-hand eyewitness accounts, there is no proof that Buddy Holly's band, 'The Crickets' are actually crickets. Case Closed™ "Experts" agree they are most likely dung beetles!

IT'S TRUE™

(This has been a CCLKF)

Sesame Street Assassins and the Letter 'Kill'

2006-07-27T17:05:00.000-06:00

a Case Closed™ Exclusive
by Manny Fatback

While travelling through Nevada with Mr. Beam and Mr. Daniels, I found my mind turning toward the fantastical. Yours truly, Manny Fatback, had been driving almost non-stop through the desert scrub of Nevada in search of The Truth™, be it about aliens, bigfeet, or the proliferation of plastic flowers. With so many possible avenues of the amazing to explore, where would I turn? Down an alley leading to serial murder? Through a tunnel taking me to the Cult of Cruise? Or perhaps onto a ferry channelling me toward the whimsical Truth™ about Hitler?

As it turned out, the road took me to a run-down motel-cum-sideshow made of slapped-together tin and wood. 'Lefty’s Sleep-a-rama and Mystery Emporium' had been spray-pained across a slat of plywood and hung above the front windows like one sagging eyelid. Beneath it the words 'Cigarettes, Liquor and Pastries Made Daily' caught my eye and convinced me. I pulled in, eager to see what I might discover in this out-of-the-way place tucked into the corner of the desert.

I was checked into room 3 by a tall man with a needle-sharp head who might disappear if he turned sideways. After throwing my things onto the bed and currying favour with a wide-hipped señorita who was either cleaning rooms or collecting cockroaches, I considered moseying over to the Mystery Emporium. After realizing that I couldn’t mosey, saunter or toddle, I reconsidered and simply walked to the front door. Once inside, surrounded by the dust-laden warmth of the cooped up building, I was vastly disappointed.

The Mystery Emporium was filled with the usual glut of roadside junk. Aliens under glass, Elvis in a casket and a genuine piece of the cross (which felt like it had been fashioned from Styrofoam) are all the rag-tag cornucopia of flea-bitten, second-rate novelty shows. Just as I was about to return to my room, upset that there was no Story® to be found, a small voice behind me said, “Five bucks for the real show.”

The speaker was a kid, perhaps five years old, but he had the eyes and the nose of a heavyweight fighter. He smiled at me from behind a pound of dirt and mucus before saying, “Five bucks for the real show,” again.

I’d heard that pitch before, from New Orleans to Vegas. First it’s a small stage and ‘exotic dancers’ who are about as exotic as Russian flu, with varicose veins and saggy… but still, I had to take the chance. Besides, the kid had charm. I slipped him a five and followed him into a small, cramped back room filled with boxes and cabinets. Not certain what to expect, I opened the closest box and looked inside. There was a folder marked Assassination (brought to you by the letter ‘a’). I opened it up and looked inside.

****************************************

I was stupefied. Stunned. Liquefied. And a true-grit reporter like Manny Fatback doesn’t often end up that way.

I carried the folder back to my room, the kid trailing me like the aroma of old baked beans. I had been reading the folder for almost a half-hour, aware of the kid’s smile the whole time. There was something almost predatory about that grin. He wanted another five bucks to let me take the folder, and I agreed.

“Is this all on the money?” I asked him, standing inside the door to room 3. A quick glance showed me that the señorita had been diligently checking my bags for cockroaches.

The kid nodded. “It’s true, mister,” he said. “Honest.”

Honest. I’d heard that word before. It was a lot like truth. Almost seven letters long and easy to read.

But if it was true… whatta scoop!

Grabbing a bottle of Dr. Beam’s old-fashioned thinkin’ juice, I locked myself up in room 3 for the rest of the night.

****************************************

If the kid—and his file—were right, then everything I knew about presidential assassinations had been knocked on its head. And I know a lot.

Everyone remembers where he was on the day Kennedy was popped. We can all recall with faint nostalgia what we were doing on the day Reagan forgot to duck. But how much of what we remember is the Truth™? And how much is just the truth that ‘they’ want us to believe?

An assassin has to have certain skills in order to succeed. Perhaps it’s stealth. Cunning. Veracity. Verbosity. Marksmanship. Shipsmanship. Sportsmanship. But above all, a true and honest assassin longs to be like the mythical Ninja (akin to elves, sprites and goblins): invisible, and often hard to see.

Imagine an assassin who could come and go as he pleased. Who could slip in and out of crowds undetected. An assassin who was, for almost all intents and purposes, invisible. Imagine that, and what do you have?

The world’s greatest assassin.

Snuffleupagus.

****************************************

The facts, held in that dusty old folder, were clear.

Beginning in the late forties, a covert branch of the US government known as the CTW, began training assassins. It was while on a deep-jungle mining and research development gig that they found Snuffleupagus, the hairy pachyderm who messes up every corner of Sesame Street with his droppings. They brought him back to America and trained him as a spy. Why not? He was invisible to the naked eye—for the most part—and had few scruples. It was a short step from espionage to murder.

Because Snuffy (a derivative of the word ‘snuff’, and a precursor to snuff movies, perhaps?) only appears to children—and one large, demented yellow bird—he could move about political circles with ease. The CTW, in conjunction with the number 12 and the letter D, began eliminating potential enemies. John F. Kennedy. Robert Kennedy. Reagan. The list seemed endless and the gig seemed perfect.

Until one small boy pointed out the obvious. He pointed out something that had been overlooked by experts the world over. There was a big, hairy elephant present at every assassination.

Was this possible? I dug deeper, finding transcripts of police interrogations with a man known as B. Byrd. Apparently they tried their best to grill him for information after Reagan was shot, but to no avail—he wouldn’t sing. He was whisked away by ‘men in suits’, men tied to a lone figure known as Hooper. Even long-time friends of Byrd (David, Oscar and a manic-depressive man with ADD named Grover) didn’t crack. But why had police been asking questions about an assassination that the government had carried out? Why would they create a false investigation pointing in the right direction? It was a muddled mess of a ham sandwich wrapped loosely in foil and left behind a radiator. And it stank.

I sent a few of the photographs (see below) off to Case Closed™ headquarters for investigation. Kipling Glenavon and Lance Trout claimed to see nothing amiss. Even our resident Forensic Assassinationologist Dr. Fantastic could pinpoint nothing suspect in the photos. His three-year-old live-in shoeshine boy, however, pointed at one photograph and said, “Upulgus.”

Upulgus indeed.

(Look closely at the above photos... can YOU see the elephant?)

Is it so crazy to believe that a hairy, two tonne creature with a trunk could have been on the grassy knoll that day in Dallas? Why not? Only kids can see him, and kids make terrible witnesses. It seems perfectly clear to me what really went on that fateful November day—and on many other occasions—when the bullets flew.

Snuffleupagus… or Coverupagus?

Just remember… the next time you are watching the evening news and your child starts pointing out ‘imaginary’ characters on the TV screen, look a little closer.

You might see the Truth™.

Case Closed™

(The preceding was brought to you by the letter ‘g’)

Uncle Ned: Case Re-Opener!

2006-07-13T15:18:00.000-06:00

The knock at the door woke me from a deep sleep. “Great Caesar’s Salad,” I thought, “who comes around during nap time?!” I stood up, a bag of pretzels and four remote controls tumbling from my lap to the floor. “Dammit,” I muttered, “if it’s anyone but Uncle Ned himself, I’m going to be using my brass knuckles.” I reached into my pocket and slipped my punchin’ aid onto my right hand and thumped to the door. The knocking continued with greater urgency. I clenched and unclenched my fist several times in preparation. I looked out the eye hole to get an unblemished glimpse of this future ER visitor.

“Well stroke my beard and comb my rooster,” I gasped. “Uncle Ned.”

Yes, Uncle Ned was at my door, using his own knuckles to announce his presence. I quickly removed the brass knuckles and opened the door. “Ned!” I grinned, spreading my arms wide.

“Are you Cletus Hookworm?” he said. No nonsense, direct and to the point. I liked that.

“You got ‘im, Ned,” I replied.

“My name isn’t Ned. I’m Tom Hanks.”

“Ah, you’re preparing for a role. Good name, Tom Hanks. Sounds like an everyman kind of guy.”

“No, no, you don’t understand …”

“Listen, I don’t run a celebrity rag, I’m not interested in whatever movie you’re promoting.”

“I know, but …”

“I just want to know, how come you aren’t close to your sister anymore?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Look, she helped you beat your alcoholism and guide you to make the right choice about that hostile takeover, but since then you haven’t even stopped in to say hi.”

“What the f …”

“No no no, you wait. You need to hear this. You might not know it, but she had a baby, but you never showed up to welcome the little bastard into the family. Alex has developed Parker Stevenson’s disease, bobbing and weaving like a breakdancer all the time, Jennifer’s in a really awful rock n roll combo, and Mallory, god, who knows where she is. With Skippy? I hope not. And I have no idea where Steven and Elise are these days. It’s all so sad. There are rumours that a rabid dog named Ubu killed them. Did you know that?!”

“Listen, you’re confused …”

“Damn right I am! You used to be an up front kind of guy. When Alex’s friend Gregor died—his best friend! (sure, we’d never seen him before, but I’m sure there’s a good reason for that)—you didn’t even show up to comfort him. Your own nephew! Wait a minute—you didn’t have a mustache in those days, did you?”

“That’s what I’m here to talk about.”

“That you killed Gregor?”

“No. Look, Uncle Ned was just a character I played.”

“Damn right. You’re a helluva character! That’s why I think you hold the key to so many of life’s mysteries, and we here at Case Closed™ solve mysteries. For example, did you know that John Ritter killed prostitutes?”

Uncle Ned’s mouth was hanging slack at this point. Was this a revelation or was he surprised that the secret was out? Good lord, was Uncle Ned connected to the Whitechapel killings?!?!

He began to back off, his hands held up defensively. “Look, guy,” Ned said, “I think we got off on the wrong foot here.”

“Yeah, I think so, ‘Ned,’” I sneered, “if that’s your real name.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to say!”

“Christ, it’s true then!” I ran to the kitchen to fetch a weapon. All I had was a medieval mace, so that would have to do. I ran back to the front of the house, screaming and swinging the mace over my head. Ned, however, had fled into the afternoon. Where he is now is a mystery for another day.

However, the John Ritter-Uncle Ned connection must be explored if we are to understand the nature of evil. And mustaches.

Case ~~Closed™~~ Re-Opened!

Jack T. Ripper: Time Travel, John Ritter and the Three’s Company Connection to The Whitechapel Murders

2006-07-07T22:09:00.000-06:00

A Case Closed™ Exclusive
by Manny Fatback

Anyone who’s ever wasted time in front of the boob box has to be familiar with the bumbling antics of everyone’s favourite straight-homosexual-chef from ‘Three’s Company’. Who can forget the time Jack Tripper (played by everyone’s favourite nobody, John Ritter) accidentally mistook something for something else and havoc ensued? Yours truly certainly can, and remembering it makes the seventies even more painful. Not only did ‘Three’s Company’ herald the arrival of three marginally talented actors, but it was also the world’s only honestly boring threesome.

Or was it so boring after all?

After receiving season two of ‘Three’s Company’ for a belated first-year AA birthday, I found myself parked on my sofa, a bag of pretzels next to me and a fine bottle of Wild Turkey nestled in the fork of my crotch. After watching back-to-back-to-front episodes of this torturous sitcom, I began to realize just how drunk I was. But as is often the case with gifted and troubled artistes like myself, alcohol began to loosen the constraints of my razor-sharp mind. Questions began to rise faster than the temperature in a fat man’s Speedo.

Questions such as:
1. Why had ‘Three’s Company’ gone off the air when it was still successful?
2. What was important about the lead character’s curious moniker?
3. Were John Ritter’s off-camera antics really caused by drugs and alcohol?
4. Why couldn’t I access the ‘Special Features’ on this DVD?

Sitting bolt upright on my couch, I realized that I was on to something bigger than Kirstie Alley’s diaphragm.

Certainly everyone remembers the running gag in ‘Three’s Company’. Throughout the seasons, Jack Tripper’s dense landlord would confront Jack about the women he lived with and Jack would throw up the shield of homosexuality (a shield used by many men during desperate situations—especially when paternity suits are involved!) Of course, viewers at home knew very well that Jack Tripper wasn’t gay.

So why did he go to such Byzantine lengths to convince people that he was? What was he hiding? Was it his own latent homosexuality? Or was he truly a ‘ladies man’ who wanted to keep his identity secret?

As someone in ‘Alice in Wonderland’ might have said… curioser and curioser.

This was certainly suspicious behaviour, even for a sitcom character. Thanks to my Wild Turkey, I realized that if Jack Tripper had something to hide, might not the same be said for John Ritter? Might that ‘something to hide’ be one of the deepest, darkest secrets that crime has ever known?

As our own panel of Case Closed™ experts might have said… suuuuure, okay.

Setting aside my fine bourbon, I put pen to paper and figured out what I had. I knew that Jack Tripper was a ‘ladies man’ with a penchant for pulling the wool over the eyes of authority. He had latent homosexual tendencies and seemed to want to mask his identity. And most startling of all, the name ‘Jack Tripper’ is very close in both spelling and pronunciation as ‘John Ritter’.

But ‘Jack Tripper’ is also mind-numbingly close to the name of one of the worst serial murderers in British history… JACK THE RIPPER.

Jack Tripper = Jack T. Ripper!

The clues couldn’t have been more clear… or compelling.

Knowing that it would never do for someone as professional as I, Manny Fatback, to go off half-cocked, I began to dig a bit deeper. After flipping on my computer and scrolling through various unsolicited messages and images, I began to research this man who called him John Ritter… and Jack Tripper. A few keystrokes was all it took before the facts began piling up like a reef of dead otters.

Indisputable Fact Number One: Jack Tripper + John Ritter = Jack T. Ripper

Indisputable Fact Number Two: In 1973 John Ritter starred in a movie entitled ‘Stone Killer’ (note the curious use of ‘Killer’ in the title). In this unrememberable role he played the part of Officer Mort. Isn’t Mort awfully close to ‘la mort’, which means death in French? And believe it (*or don’t), John Ritter’s grandfather was French!

Indisputable Fact Number Three: Norman Fell co-starred in ‘Stone Killer’. He was also in ‘Three’s Company’. Doesn’t that tell you enough about the complexity of this conspiracy?

Indisputable Fact Number Four: In 1975 John Ritter had a role in an episode of ‘Barnaby Jones’ which was entitled ‘Prince of Terror’. Terror? And haven’t many Ripperologists claimed that Jack the Ripper was descended from royalty?

Indisputable Fact Number Five: Jack the Ripper was christened ‘Leather Apron’ by nineteenth century scribblers who tracked the killer’s grisly handiwork. Jack Tripper often wore an apron!

Indisputable Fact Number Six: a 1977 episode of ‘Three’s Company’ bore the name ‘Jack The Ripper’!

Putting all these facts together and coming up with a meaty yet suspicious stew, I went to see our resident Jackologist, Dr. Fantastic. As he looked over the mounting evidence, I painted a startling picture for him.

It seems clear to all of us at Case Closed™ that Jack Tripper was, indeed, Jack The Ripper. As horrifying as it seems, this also means that Jack the Ripper was John Ritter. It’s a mystery wrapped in an enigma tucked in a sock and stuffed in a closet. But an intrepid wordsmith like myself was able to break through the mystery and realize the real story.

Sometime in the seventies, John Ritter began travelling back in time to murder prostitutes in nineteenth century London. His latent homosexuality, womanizing and uncertainty about his own identity led him to commit these terrible crimes. Back and forth he went until sometime in 2003 when he made a tragic miscalculation. Something he did in 1888 created a terrible ripple effect in time. John Ritter (aka Jack Tripper, aka Jack The Ripper) disappeared from existence!

So… had my original questions been answered? I pondered them once again as I returned to my thinking juice and the next episode of ‘Three’s Company’.
1. ‘Three’s Company’ went off the air when it was still popular because producers began to suspect that their star was engaged in dangerous off-camera activities (time travel and whore murder among them). The risk outweighed any ratings.
2. Jack Tripper = Jack T. Ripper. How many times do I have to say it?
3. Ritter’s drug and alcohol abuse stemmed from his murderous activities. As his guilt ate him up be turned to substance abuse to help him cope with problems. His absenteeism and lateness could also be blamed on his time travelling!
4. I couldn't access the Special Features on the DVD because there were no Special Features!

Anyone with half a brain (and if readers have half a brain, we here at Case Closed™ are glad to have ‘em) can see the truth behind the charade. While America was laughing it up with the goofball antics of Jack Tripper, London prostitutes were being slaughtered. All in the name of entertainment.

Of course some might say there is one question remaining. How could John Ritter be Jack the Ripper when history books were well aware of Jack’s crimes before John Ritter was born?

The answer is as fine as paint… **retroactive time travel!

So remember… the next time you sit down to watch your favourite TV program, ask yourself this one important question…

Is my favourite actor a time-travelling serial killer?
The answer might surprise you.

CASE CLOSED™

*you probably shouldn't believe it
**this startling phenomenum will be examined in a future installment of Case Closed™

_______________
From the desk of Kipling Glenavon, Case Closed's™ new photos editor:

Resident forensic photographic comparologist, Dr. Fantastic, examined the pictures and inconclusively and undeniably concluded that the sketch may indeed be John Ritter, or someone who looks like him.

In the above two photos, one shows a promo shot from "Three's Company" and the other is of Jack the Ripper at a staff party. But which is which? Could the knife in the left photo hold the key? And, if so, is it for a deadbolt or just a bike lock?

An Omnibus Reply From the Legal Department

2006-06-28T07:58:00.000-06:00

To the lawyers representing Stephen King, OJ Simpson, the Goldman family, Sam Waterston, NASA, the US government, the estate of Elvis Presley, and Uncle Ned: We stick by our stories.

The Myth of Radiation Poisoning (concluded—for now)

2006-06-27T09:14:00.000-06:00

Apologies to all Loyal Order of Case Closed™ Readers (esp. those of Local #67821 in Utica, NY) for my absence these past weeks. It's just been a nightmare here at Casa de Case Closed™. My damned neighbour—the one who I've been secretly irradiating—upped and died for no good reason—I think he was purposefully starving himself to death because he sure was getting skinny—and it turns out he must have been working for the government because guys in black suits and sunglasses swarmed the area, followed by wieners in hazmat suits. A radius of two blocks was evacuated and we've all been questioned upteen times. Despite journalishistic credentials, no one's talking to me, and a lot of my neighbours have been giving me dirty looks at the hotel where we've been relocated. Obviously I was getting too close to The Truth™ and now the government has enlisted the neighbourhood to participate in the conspiracy.

So, the experiment has been called off because (a) my neighbour died unexpectedly and (b) the government knows that I know what's really going on. While not actually Case Closed™, I think that we can move radiation poisoning into the myth column.

The whole shitfizzle in the neighbourhood has also hampered my efforts to really dig into the whole Double Wide conspiracy, but don't worry, faithful readers, I'm on this one like a beagle on a leg. All I can say for now is, what do we really know about who played Jabba the Hutt …?

AND NOW... A Case Closed™ Little Known Fact!

2006-06-23T10:58:00.000-06:00

Did you know that in 1976 Elvis Presley attempted to get a patent on the world’s first self-lubricating lubricant? The patent was refused and Elvis reacted in flamboyant Kingly style, shaking the cape on his jumpsuit and firing three shots into the trunk of his Cadillac!

IT’S TRUE™

(This has been a CCLKF)

Murder, Mayhem and Moon Landings

2006-06-23T10:40:00.000-06:00

The Truth™ Behind the Framing of O.J. Simpson
A Case Closed™ Exclusive by Manny Fatback

At one point or another, every bored movie nerd has played the ill-conceived game of ‘Six Degrees to Kevin Bacon’. Even yours truly, Manny Fatback, has engaged those of lesser-intellect in this mentally stupefying game of celebrity connect-the-dots. You know how it goes… Ron Jeremy (epitome of the hairy porn star) starred in ’52 Pick-Up’ with Ann-Margret. Ann-Margret (whose missing ‘a’ has been linked to Freemasons and the death of James Dean!) danced alongside Elvis Presley in the musical showpiece, ‘Viva Las Vegas’. Elvis swung his hips in ‘King Creole’ alongside Walter Mattheau. And Mattheau acted with Kevin Bacon in the conspiracy of all conspiracies, ‘JFK’. The connection between Ron Jeremy and Kevin Bacon can be made… and in five steps rather than the expected six. And what does it all prove (besides the fact that most parlour games are meant for mentally-stunted children and that I, Manny Fatback, cannot do math)?

It proves nothing. But it does make us look more closely at the superficial and laughable frame-up of O.J. Simpson!

From the outset, the idea that O.J. was guilty for the brutal murder of Nicole Simpson and Ron Goldman is ludicrous. Even dismissing the glaring lack of motive, where is the compelling evidence to lead one to conviction? Does it exist in the DNA evidence? The blood samples? The unexplained abrasions on Simpson’s hands? I don’t think so (And If I Don’t Think It, Neither Do You®). Lawyers for O.J. put it best when they said, “If the glove don’t fit, you can’t convict.”* There’s never been a more clear-cut legal reason for a not-guilty verdict.

Still, however, I can hear you naysayers droning on like cows in a field. Well, if a lack of evidence, legal rhyming and a slow-speed chase (really… would a guilty man drive so slowly?) aren’t enough to convince you, this should: O.J. Simpson was framed for murder because of the faked moon landing of 1969.

**********

After playing ‘Six Degrees to Kevin Bacon’ and drinking a half-litre of Wild Turkey, I began to make connections between other great moments in history. My mind eventually came to rest like an overweight prostitute, leaning heavily on the American Government’s faked moon landing back in 1969. That, ladies and gentlemen, became Degree Number One!

We all know that NASA, in conjunction with the department of defense, the American government, Neil Armstrong, Buzz (if that’s your real name!) Aldrin, Walter Cronkite and Hasbro (maker of the perennial childhood favourite, Lite Brite™), conspired to convince the world that the USA landed on the moon on 20 July, 1969. If there is anyone alive today who still questions this conspiracy, he or she must question a lot of things. The man who originally brought this question to light was author (and fellow purveyor of all things true) Bill Kaysing. His self-published shocker, ‘We Never Went To The Moon’ becomes Degree Number Two!

But how does that get us to O.J.’s frame-up, you might ask? Like a running back with a ceramic hip, that’s how. Slowly and carefully.

Strangely enough, Kaysing’s book wasn’t accepted with much critical appraisal. Our own band of brave literary experts here at Case Closed™ examined Kaysing’s tome and were vehement that it indeed was a book, though perhaps its covers were a bit too far apart. Regardless… Hollywood took an interest in Kaysing’s puzzling story and they came knocking. However, they were knocking on Elliot Gould’s door, asking if he might join the cast of the movie ‘Capricorn One’. This mind-boggling film, which Roger Ebert has called ‘…a movie I didn’t review…’, takes Kaysing’s story of a faked moon landing and turns it into a faked Mars landing. This movie is packed with an all-star cast, including James Brolin, Telly Savalas, Hal Holbrook, Sam Waterston and… O.J. SIMPSON!

Coincidence? Here at Case Closed™, there are no coincidences!

What are the odds that a movie about a faked landing on Mars would star O.J. Simpson (victim of a frame-up by a District Attorney) and Sam Waterston (who played a District Attorney on TVs ‘Law and Order’)? The odds certainly aren’t Vegas odds.

I now had Degrees Three… and Four!

But where to go from there? Uncertain, I consulted our own forensic frame-up-ologist, Dr. Fantastic. Using Internet websites and pages culled from the supermarket tabloids, he came to the conclusion that the evidence in the Simpson-Goldman murder pointed toward the work of covert government agents. Who else could have masterminded such a crime? Who else could have made it appear to be the work of one emotionally-disturbed madman? Only government operatives, that’s who. Operatives of a government who had once faked a moon landing!

Degree Number Five!

It certainly doesn’t take much to get to the final, all-important sixth step. Does it?

Clearly, O.J. Simpson was framed for the murder of his ex-wife and her friend because of what he knew about the faked moon landing of 1969. His role in Peter Hyam’s ‘Capricorn One’ had left him a marked man. Perhaps he picked something up at the catering table while on set. Perhaps he had only surmised something over time. Had O.J. Simpson read Bill Kaysing’s book? Was he, too, curious as to the lack of stars shown in the lunar sky during the landing? Our experts say, “Anything is possible.” And I, for one, agree with them.

Degree Number Six exists in the bloody crime perpetrated on Rockingham Avenue one warm June night. It was a crime that shocked a nation of tabloid-readers and second-rate-star watchers. From the get-go it seemed almost too easy to suspect the violent ex-husband… and it was. O.J. Simpson was no different from Lee Harvey Oswald… he was a patsy. A victim to government conspiracy and prosecutorial corruption. His life was ruined because of NASA, the US government and Hasbro!

The glove did not fit, indeed.

CASE CLOSED™

*quotes have been made up or are misrepresented due to authorial laziness.
M.F.

Editor's Addendum: To show how easy it is to fake this kind of stuff, our Case Closed™ intern, Lance Trout, inserted OJ into a moon landing photo. Note also how OJ doesn't cast a shadow in this picture. If Lance can make such a compelling, yet false, photo, think what the federalés can do!

The Myth of Radiation Poisoning (cont'd)

2006-06-02T08:22:00.000-06:00

Alas, faithful reader(s?), there is little to update on this investigation. As expected, in the first few days of the study, my neighbour showed no ill effects of living with the enriched uranium I had hidden in his home. He must have picked up a cold or something, though, because he hasn't come out for several days now, and just keeps moaning loudly and incessantly. I'm getting kind of annoyed, too, because his cat is dead and laying on the front steps. Not my business, though, I remind myself.

However, recent developments in the neighbourhood are about to explode, as I believe I have discovered shocking news about another neighbour. I hope, within the next few days, to expose the secret identity of a neighbourhood resident known only as … Double Wide! Stay tuned!

The Uncle Ned Theory of Murder

2006-05-30T11:16:00.000-06:00

Ever since the Xanathians altered the DNA of apes and penguins, giving rise to modern human beings, a theory of figuring out who is certain to be a murderer and who could never kill has haunted us, obsessed us, caused us to expend treasure and consume drugs. But, as with everything, people think that the answer is complex, when, like picking winning lottery numbers, it is remarkably simple.

Quick quiz: who are the greatest murderers of all time? The answer, as everyone knows, is Adolph Hitler, Joseph Stalin, and Saddam Hussein. And what do they have in common? An affection for military uniforms, yes, but so did Bob Crane. No, the answer is mustaches! They all have mustaches! Persuasive, I know you are saying, but conclusive? Not yet.

Another quick quiz: who is Hollywood’s everyman, the one actor who embodies our ideals? Uncle Ned, star of Bachelor Party, Volunteers, Joe Versus the Volcano, and You’ve Got Mail, among others. Now, in almost all his film career, Uncle Ned has been clean shaven … and never killed! However, in his one mustached movie, Road To Perdition, Uncle Ned is a killer. Compelling evidence, I’m sure you’ll agree. After all, Uncle Ned didn’t win an Oscar for his role in The ‘burbs and been a runner-up for The Man With One Red Shoe for nothing!

But wait, some might say, but I’m way ahead of you, waiters. In both Castaway and in the running across America scene in Forrest Gump, Uncle Ned had a mustache. Faithful peruser, I would point out that in said instances, Uncle Ned also had a beard, and everyone knows that beards negate the evil influence of mustaches (see, for example, Jesus Christ, my Uncle Walter, or Obi Wan Kenobi).

So, what does this stunning and significant discovery mean? Well, for starters it simplifies murder investigations and trials. It also could free a lot of wrongly convicted unmustached prisoners. Quit picking on O.J. and start asking Ron Jeremy where he was when Ron and Nicole were killed. And it gives a lot of us a heads-up as to which co-worker is going to bring a gun to the office and start shooting.

Thus the undeniable connection between mustaches and murder. Case Closed.™

Elvis Captained the Titanic!

2006-05-28T22:06:00.000-06:00

A Case Closed™ Exclusive by Manny Fatback

They said she was the best of her kind. They said she would modernize sea travel. They said she was “unsinkable.” They said a lot of things. The one thing they didn’t say was that one fateful April night in 1914, the pride of the White Star Line —the Titanic— would strike an iceberg (or at least something that appeared to be an iceberg) and plunge into the cold depths of the icy Atlantic. That was omitted from the travel brochure.

It was Robert Ballard who found the Titanic’s chilly resting place. It was James Cameron who wove a tapestry of magic in his aptly titled movie, “Titanic.” And it was yours truly, Manny Fatback, who discovered the real truth about what happened on that cold April night over ninety years ago. And the truth about that terrible, awful, horrible night will shock readers to their very souls!

“I remember seeing the Captain a few times on the voyage,” said coach passenger Tinkus McFee. “He sure didn’t look much like anyone else on board. Big hair and sideburns. He was an odd one.” An odd one indeed.

During the midnight buffet, passenger Alicia Liver said that the Captain began singing for all the passengers. “I’d never heard music like that in my life,” claimed the spry ninety-nine year old. “It sounded like some kind of devil music.” After the performance, the captain headed to the buffet where he devoured everyone’s fair share of bacon, meatloaf and amphetamines.

“We don’t normally have amphetamines at a buffet, but the Captain insisted,” said second-class passenger Haines Boots.

The idea that Elvis Presley—the King of Rock and Roll, the Emperor of the Singing Picture—took the helm during the Titanic’s fateful maiden voyage seems the thing of fantasy! Well, I say this: at Case Closed™, the line between fact and fantasy is paper-thin. I gathered up the “evidence” and presented it at an Elvisology Symposium and left the attendees stunned. Even our own Case Closed™ panel of experts™ seemed mystified. When asked if Elvis could actually have captained the Titanic, they responded with a resounding, “Why not?”

Is it possible that Elvis Presley took advantage of a rift in time to visit the ill-fated Titanic? And how coincidental is it that the White Star liner sank on April 12 and Elvis died on August 22? Even famed explorer Ballard couldn’t explain the trunk full of sequined jumpsuits found among the debris at the ocean’s bottom. “It might’ve just belonged to a really big woman,” he suggested.

Really big woman...or really big Rock and Roll star? It is the opinion of this reporter—and you can take that opinion to be fact!— that Elvis Presley travelled through time to captain the Titanic! Unfortunately, during a drug-addled stupor he very likely mistook an iceberg for a barbecue restaurant and the rest, as they say, is history. But what isn’t history is the gripping intensity of this story and the question that it raises: did Elvis travel through time on other occasions? Was he driving Kennedy’s car that fateful day in Dallas? Did the King of Rock and Roll help build the pyramids? Was Elvis Jack the Ripper? Right now, these are questions that no one can answer.

But one answer is clear: Elvis Presley stood bravely at the helm of the Titanic, mutton chops and all! This disaster at sea was less about icebergs and bad decisions than it was about one Rock and Roll singer's night at sea.

CASE CLOSED™!

The Myth of Radiation Poisoning—An Ongoing Investigation

2006-05-25T20:58:00.000-06:00

To hear "scientists" and "the media" and "the government" tell it, radiation is bad for us. It supposably gives us "the cancer" and makes us "die" "painfully." As far as I'm aware—and at last measure it was 14.3 kilometres—there has never been any conclusive study that proves radiation's so-called harmful effects. Well, I'm not a pawn to the anti-radiation forces, and so, at great personal expense, I will be conducting a lengthy investigation as to whether radiation is, in fact, even remotely dangerous to people.

I have procured a significant amount of enriched uranium from a former Soviet republic (don't ask which one; us journalists gotta protect our sources) and have hidden it in my neighbour's house. I've also purchased an x-ray machine from a dentist who was being sent to jail, and will, whenever possible, secretly take pictures of my neighbour to see if he seems to be getting cancered up or developing superpowers. Any results—or, as I believe, non-results—will be posted here when they come in.

This is, I believe, a momentous event, when the tyranny of science and medicine will finally be exposed.

Stephen’s Lot (or a Whole Lotta Stephens)

2006-05-24T11:10:00.002-06:00

Flashback: Dateline June 21, 1999
Horrormeister Stephen King is run down by a mini-van and barely survives… or does he?

It was June and yours truly was just returning from a week-long stay in the Himalayans, where the famous Mountain Yeti had just won his fourth straight bowling league championship, when I heard the news. Stephen King, renowned for his tales of horror and keeping Maine’s returnable beer can and bottle law jumping during the 1980s, had been critically injured in a traffic accident. At first, reports were as sketchy as the screenplay for Maximum Overdrive, but it was finally revealed that King had made a full recovery.

Or had he?

If there are two things that I’ve learned during my journalistic endeavours, it’s this: nothing is ever what it seems. Unable to locate any documents charting King’s release from hospital, I became convinced something was afoot and possibly even afoul. King had taken a stand against a blue mini-van, but what had really been the outcome? Had the gnashing teeth of the publishing industry chewed up the truth? Did the minions at Scribner and Doubleday want to hide the fact that Stephen King had slipped into a dead zone of his own?

With my daring photographer and intrepid editor by my side, I set out to prove, once and for all, that Stephen King perished that day on a rural Maine roadside. But even he wouldn’t let that interfere with his writing!

I scoured the hospital for evidence, but came up with nothing. It was almost as if the hospital was Stephen’s own personal kingdom! I was thwarted at every turn, from my interview with the Bangor police (“Would you get off the steps, you crackpot?” Sergeant Ace R. Lois requested respectfully) to my request for some local news footage from OWE-1 TV. It seemed as if my investigation, like my 1975 Dodge Dart, had stalled.

Not so…

Fast-Forward: Dateline October 2000
Sultan of Scares Stephen King publishes On Writing to critical acknowledgement.

I, Manny Fatback, have always been a fan of Stephen King’s stories of unflinching horror—Stand By Me and The Shawshank Redemption brought chills!—but nothing terrified me more than what I found inside the cover of King’s aptly titled tome, On Writing: CAN$37.00 for a book barely over 250 pages? Without pictures? Still, I slapped down my hard-earned cash (the receipt submitted for reimbursement was for $52.95—ed.) and began reading. What I discovered both shocked and galvanized me! There, in black and white, was the piece of evidence I had been seeking!

A lengthy 255 pages into his book, King writes that the man who hit him (a man who conveniently died a short time later!) noticed that King’s ”spectacles [were] lying on the front seat of his van.“ I found this to be very interesting indeed because Stephen King doesn’t wear spectacles! At best, he wears glasses—though to be fair, anything with lenses that thick should be called goggles! I immediately investigated this information and was politely told that any number of photographs show King wearing spectacles. Doctored photographs, I thought. I allowed our panel of Case Closed experts to examine said photographs and asked if they had been doctored. Our experts say … maybe!

So … if this one bit of evidence had been fabricated, what else had been made up?

Deciding I had to find out, I packed a bag, grabbed my dog-eared copy of On Writing, and headed out the door …

… After unsuccessfully returning On Writing to the book store for a full refund, I drove straight to Bangor, Maine, the hometown of Stephen King, Monsignor of the Morbid. A stop at Bangor’s Acadia Hospital brought me the next piece in the puzzle—King had never been admitted, nor had he been discharged from the facility! And if this was the case for Acadia Hospital, I knew I could make the assumption that I’d discover the same information at Bangor’s remaining hospitals.

It seemed clear to me then—as clear as the reason for the demise of King’s Golden Years—that he had, in fact, died after being struck by that van! But why? For what nefarious means? I returned to my room at the local Bangor Hojo to gather my thoughts. Little did I know that, thanks to free satellite TV, A&E, and pay-per-view adult movies, I would find satisfaction before the night was out …

… While my intrepid photographer took snaps of the local scenery and my editor finished himself off in the shower (sans Viagra!—ed), I became immersed in an A&E biography of Stephen King. Ironically, it wasn’t the program that broke the Stephen King conspiracy wide open—it was a commercial for King’s novel, The Dreamcatcher. I was only half-paying-attention as King, who narrated the advertisement, stepped into centre screen and declared, “I should know. I wrote it. I’m a Stephen King.”

I sat up, grabbed the remote and punched rewind. Upon remembering that I didn’t have a VCR, I replayed the scene in my head.

King … walking to the centre of the screen. He’s wearing flood pants that expose his white socks. His face is thin. He looks into the camera and says, “I should know. I wrote it. I’m a Stephen King.” (No, really, he says this—ed.)

I’m a Stephen King?

At last it all came crashing down around me. The doctored photographs … the errors in On Writing … the lack of hospital paperwork… it all pointed in one direction.

Stephen King had been cloned!

By the following morning many of the startling revelations had become foggy (thanks to a bite from a Wild Turkey), so I reviewed the list of compelling “evidence” (I’ve grudgingly used quotation marks on the advice of our paralegal’s janitor). I worked my way through the proof, starting with King’s “spectacles” and ending with his TV ad. The conclusions were everywhere as long as you were looking for them!

Still, I knew there had to be more. A quick cell phone call to Case Closed™ headquarters and I was able to speak to our Cloneatician, Dr. Fantastic. Searching the bowels of his wisdom, Dr. Fantastic informed me of several well-known facts about clones. They include:

1. Clones love organized sports… KING LOVES BASEBALL!
2. Clones hate cold weather… KING WINTERS IN FLORIDA!
3. Clones are indecisive… KING HAS REPEATEDLY UN-RETIRED!

He provided me with many other Truths™, but by then my mind was made up. However, to assure that my assertion would stand up under the close scrutiny of the Kings’s lawyers, I decided to analyze King’s writing for more clues.

I returned to the book store, where I was informed that King’s novels weren’t available in Cliff’s Notes—“They only do those for real writers,” explained the moon-faced clerk. With a resigned sigh, I selected a few of King’s novels to explore. The Carrie and The Cell seemed like good starting points.

I was dumbfounded®! In King’s pivotal work The Carrie (a touching story about Vinnie Barbarino and the prom), his writing was concise, brief and to the point. The novel comes in at under 250 pages! With The Cell, however, the work of a clone was evident. The novel (a heartfelt story about girls, cinderblocks, and head injuries) is a meandering tale at best; a wandering story at worst. It became quite clear that, unlike King’s books, his clones weren’t improving after a number of drafts.

The biggest sign of Clone-ism appeared in King’s The Colorado Kid. Not only did it lack an ending (a sure sign of a clone’s declining mental faculties), but in the afterword, he writes, “all I can do is summarize from memory, a notoriously unreliable reference source” (p. 181). Especially for a clone!

Gathering up my evidence, I left Maine behind and headed home.

Dateline: May 24, 2006 (The Present)
The very idea that King, the Earl of Eerie, has cloned himself—perhaps dozens of times—leaves me exhilarated and terrified. This seems like something out of one of King’s horror novels! However, the evidence rarely lies. Our own Case Closed™ panel of experts, when asked if my theory could be true, had to respond with a resounding, “Why not?”

So… could a thousand Stephen Kings on a thousand typewriters complete a novel (before retiring) that came in under 800 pages? It seems possible. So, the next time you pick up a King novel at your local bookerorium, ask yourself one simple question: is this worth $42.95, and are you a Stephen King?
CASE CLOSED™

Note: why was the recent TV movie called “Stephen King’s Desperation”? Is this a clue that the real King (unable to rest thanks to all these clones?) is desperate? Or are they trying to assure us that the real King is still alive?
CASE CLOSED…AGAIN™

An inauspicious beginning.

2006-05-01T20:26:00.000-06:00

Cletus and Manny thought that they were ready to unleash The Truth™, but it seems that they aren't quite ready (Manny didn't bother to preheat the oven to 450˚, so The Truth™ didn't rise properly). If you're reading this—congratulations on becoming one of The Enlightened™— take a break, swallow some Lies from the media and come back later for a Truth™ enema.