Undiscovered Living Legend

My lifestyle would lead anyone to believe that I am a genius, a prodigy; an undiscovered living legend.

It's pretty obvious. For one, I have very unruly hair, a result of late nights tossing, turning, and otherwise toiling, dreaming up grandiose schemes and/or ways to generate reports and data views and organize produce in the crisper. Also, it is a little known fact that I haven't seen a dentist in 15 years and it is a well known fact that it was unlikely that Einstein had his teeth cleaned on a semi-annual or regular basis. It is also unlikely that I would be likely to go voluntarily to a dentist anytime in the next 15 years.

More evidence: my bedroom is drafty and smells like mold, red wine, and spray butter. In sum, if I were just to bathe in a trough of luke warm water and in poop in a bucket, I would be Mozart.

Popular Mechanics

I always said that I don't need anyone to ream my ass with sunshine. I'd prefer to meet someone who can clean a carburetor and/or make soup. And I did.

He isn’t too old or fat or stupid or sexist or married. He might not even be an alcoholic. He’ll probably never ask me to eat beef or shave or hold hands in public or meet his parents. He’ll probably never ask me to do anything other than to pay in cash. And I know, it’s such a cliché, but my mechanic is pretty much perfect.

He sure can talk about voltage swing… I hang around the shop, rifle though garbage , play with my hair, and try to impress this gentlemen with the breadth and scope of my self-deprecating humor. Closing time comes and goes and he continues at length about the benefits of monitoring my own tire pressure and wearing polyvinyl microfibers. I wonder if he is retarded. I also wonder if there is a panic button he's been trying to engage all afternoon that doesn't seem to work... Or if he thinks I’m too young. Or silly. Or if my fly is down...Is he trying to scare me away with this business talk?

Maybe he’s seeing someone. I wonder if I should accidentally leave my glasses so that he can have a reason to call me. Who could this other woman be? Surely, she can’t make jokes about Quantum Leap and nineties Hip-Hop like I can. Does she even have health insurance?

I can also open imported beers with a lighter. Can she do that? She’s probably totally controlling, suicidal and a coke-fiend. He’s got to take care of her. I guess… I guess I should check to make sure my fly isn’t down. Whoever she is, she's probably creepy.

Or maybe it’s not that bad. Maybe he just has a really physically, physiologically, and sexually crippling venereal disease. Like anal warts the size of brussel sprouts.

Otherwise, it could be that he thinks I’m flaky. Maybe he doesn’t like my jokes. Maybe he doesn’t like jokes.

Lately, I wonder why he hasn't returned my phone call about the battery I ordered two weeks ago. Should I take it personally? Should I stop by? Maybe he lost my number. Or maybe he’s too busy to order a battery. Or maybe he doesn't want to be my mechanic anymore. No. That’s silly. Maybe he’s dead. Or on vacation. Or getting married in France. Sheesh. Maybe he had to pass a kidney stone. Or maybe he's being held up at gun point by his girlfriend, who he finally realized has PTSD and rabies.

I should probably stop by.

Dear Lord:

I haven’t prayed since I was I was six-years-old and foolish enough to believe that if I asked you for a 24 pack of crayons and a dirt bike, the next day you might deliver.

Now I know better. I know that if I am ever going to buy into you, I need to pray for more important things; things that no human being could ever deliver on – like clearing up the acne around my chin. I’ll save that for a time when I’ve been especially good. In the meantime, I think the best way for you and I to get reacquainted would me for me to start giving thanks for all that I’ve gained since we last spoke.

Thanks for that snow day. And thanks for giving me my health. I don’t take for granted that I haven’t lost both my legs, all my parts work, and that, technically, I don't have VD.
Thank you for giving me friends. Thank you for my Mom and Dad. Thank you for Stars and Stripes Fruit Mist Tangerine Lime Naturally Flavored Sparkling Water Beverage.

I guess that’s about it.

Later I'll hit you up with some of the things I need forgiveness for. Until then, please keep my legs in tact. Oh, and please bless all the people that matter.


-Olga

Tiny Things

Top Reasons to Carry a Tiny Dog
1. To distract others from your fat, stupid face.
2. To finally have a reason to buy tiny clothes.
3. Companionship.
4. To have something to distract yourself and others from your sick, miserable lives.
5.To study how to bite the hands off of small children and bark incessantly.



Top Reasons Why People With Tiny Dogs Make Me Sad
1. Because they suck.
2. Because both tiny dogs in handbags and their owners waste valuable natural resources, contribute to global warming and take too much time ordering very complicated beverages at Starbucks.
3. Because for the price of one tiny dog, in a tiny sweater, in a leather handbag, one could sponsor 4 Sudanese children for a year, covering the cost of food, clothing, and a mediocre Christian education.
4. One tiny dog could probably feed at least 2 hungry aforementioned children for a day.
5. Because I heard somewhere that our purchases reflect our values; hence, decadent, useless and ugly things: like Chihuahuas in tutus are generally in poor taste. Like powdered wigs.

Nightmare

Scenario 1. My boss needs a hot tea. NOW. I go to the microwave to heat up the water and discover a 4-week-old kitten living inside. There is no time to think.

I place the cup of water in the microwave with the kitten and close the door.
I try heating up the water for thirty seconds. Beep Beep Beep.

The kitten is alive. But the water is luke warm.

I try sixty seconds. Beep Beep Beep

The kitten is screaming. The water is warmish.

I try ninety seconds. Beep Beep Beep

Scenario 2. Gino, a 43 year old divorcee and father of two, is driving me around on a vintage Honda. He yells in my ear, "Is this as good for you as it is for me!?" I pretend I can't hear him. He repeats, " Is this as good for you as it is for me!?" He installs a shitty clutch cable, then emails me for the next two years about getting another ride and a tune up.

Scenario 3. It's Friday night. I'm hanging out at a bar with my friends, who are a married couple, and getting relationship advice over Budwieser and calamari.

He says: If you want a man to notice you, buy him a bagel. If you want a man to date, find a foreigner who desperately wants a greencard.

She says: Stay away from men. They are stupid. You can always substitute the happiness they bring to you with fried food and trips to Burlington Coat Factory.

Scenario 4. I look in the mirror. My teeth are falling out. I'm pregnant. I have the baby and it fits in my palm. I have to keep it alive. It's shaking and crying. Before I can give it CPR, it turns into a kitten.

Vegas, Baby, Vegas

Itinerary: Upcoming Trip to Vegas

Friday: Arrive in Vegas

-Get rich

-Find and marry Future X-husband

Saturday:

- Wear red sunglasses with rhinestone frames shaped like stars

- Acquire a fabulous tan

-Speak with a thick southern accent and purport to be an aspiring show girl

-Sit poolside and sip from a colorful beverage which includes, but is not limited to:

rum, sugar, orange juice, vodka, cherries/strawberries, pineapple, gin (preferably Tanqueray), a live sea creature, a plastic sword and a miniature pink and green umbrella

-Forget own name

Sunday:

-Wear a cowboy hat

- Take pictures of self wearing aforementioned cowboy hat, in front of

a monolithic flamingo

-Take The Big Lebowski tour (if one exists) or

- Hang out in a bathrobe and drink incessantly

-Attend cousin Jake's wedding *

Monday:

Return Home.

Maybe.

*remember to change out of bathrobe

Shoulda Bought a Boomerang

I thought it would be fun to play in the park. Unfortunately, frisbee requires a partner.

Esteemed Former Collegue, Esq.:

Out of all my colleagues, you are definitely the only one who wanted to smoke peanut shells for fun on a weekday. I could accept that. We are all somewhat artistic, jobless, and in need of haircuts. I suppose huffing glue and robo tripping are logical next steps.

However; I was disturbed when, after inbibing another psychotropic cocktail, you decided to inform me that I have a penis infatuation.

It is with deep regret that I write to inform you that your most recent epiphany is just one of many of your self-inflated delusions fueled by malnutrition, PBR and paint fumes.

It’s a shame that you won’t be joining us for lectures at the library anymore. I’ve enjoyed your company. You are a sensitive and introverted queer bumbling through life with the ego and social etiquette of a total butthead. What’s not to enjoy?

On the bright side, your brilliant conclusion has taught me more about how other men might interpret my brand of humor and what seven drinks can do to a six foot painting student in two hours.

And I realize that you have a penis infatuation.

Thank you for everything. It was nice knowing you.

Stop the Funny Train

I would like to get off.

Dance Master

I really enjoyed taking Intro to Ballroom Dance at my neighborhood arts center. It was challenging but I was glad to meet some friendly people in my neighborhood while learning a little bit about Cha Cha, Waltz, Tango, Swing and even a few new things about myself.

For one thing, I have an aversion to being held by strangers, which I didn’t realize was “unnatural “until I took the class. I am apparently an anomaly in a group-Waltz setting because unlike 98% of women under the age of 70, I really dislike being engulfed by old men with big feet who smell like ham. I’ve also determined that I am not comfortable being steered around in circles, in a mirrored room, with spotlights shining in my face. I guess I’m more of a visual person. I had a hard time with those particular facets of kinetic learning.

Followers (i.e. ladies, me) are not encouraged to tell leaders (i.e. old men who smell like ham) that they are doing everything wrong. It is also not okay to laugh at or infer that anyone in the class “looks really stupid” doing anything, not even yourself.

What I liked most about ballroom dancing is that you don’t have to look your partner in eye. I think. In any case, I’ve been meditating on an awful lot of shirt collars over the past nine weeks. Ballroom principles do not adhere to the tried and true empirical laws of survival such as “every man for himself” and although some of the footwork translates, ballroom dancing is actually not a martial art.

To that end, it is not acceptable “psyche out” your dance partner when they want to go in a new direction, nor is it common to hunch over in an effort to keep your body as far as possible from your partner’s. I would enjoy partner dancing that much more if my partner would mind their own business, read a book or something, let me listen to my IPod, and stop breathing in my ear.

No Complaints

I’ve had my whole life handed to me on a silver platter. I guess I’m pretty lucky. Some people have their whole lives handed to them on a stick.

A lady always has an unused purple loofa.

What the hell is it for?

Excuse me, Mam! Mam! Before you get on that bus, I gotta show you this great thing!

What?
This thing, right here. Take a look for yourself.

God. That’s so weird. What’s it for?
Well… It’s magical and for just 2 dollars, it’s yours.

But why do I need it?
It makes lewd sucking noises.

That’s great. But can it solve my problems?…
Of course. It’s very creative.

Is it art?
No. But it can drink red wine and look completely un-amused at hockey games.

I see. So is it ,like, a paperweight or something?
It can do that.

Sorry. I don’t think I need it, whatever it is.
No. Wait!... It…it can open jars too… And it’s yours for just one dollar.

It’s a jar opener?
Not exactly. But it has a lot of related experience.

Look, whatever it is, I don’t need one of those.
In that case, can I get two bucks? I really need to get on this bus.

Pink Gold

Kind Sir,

Occasionally I suffer from pressure and discomfort associated with gas.
Of that, I am not ashamed.

As you are now aware, I ensure that no one else is affected by my gastro-intestinal distress by taking ant-acid tablets, which I think I accidentally dropped on the floor at your house.

What you may not realize is that Extra Strength Cherry-Crème Chewable Gas-X does not grow on trees.

I know you are apprehensive about confronting me regarding this loss because you are probably very stoned and have discovered that Cherry Gas-X is extremely delicious. Nevertheless, it would mean a lot to me if you would return my 18 tablet solution to mild discomfort so that I can continue my pursuit of gas-free lifestyle.

Yours,

Lady at Large

Plastic Monsters

It was a brief and painless flight. After 7 hours, we landed in Rome. The sun was setting over the mountains and it was the perfect time for a holiday. My sister got up from seat B59 and we re-united in the arrival gate. Both of us needed a vacation and I was glad she decided to come with me to the Eternal City.
“How long do you think you are staying?” I finally asked.
She looked at the ground. “My return flight leaves in an hour.”

“An hour!?” I thought we were going to span time together…

“I’m sorry. It was the cheapest trip I could get.”
“I guess so.”
“Well… I better find a souvenir.” She said.
I stood there, stunned. This was just like her, with her false commitments and bogus attempts to connect with me. She was always finding some way to escape. I fell back into a chair at the gate.

“Could you watch this for me?” She took off her face, set it in the seat next to me and wandered to some other part of the airport terminal.

I watched all the people in the airport. Families and lovers were constantly separating and uniting, exploding with tears of pain and joy, dropping things and looking very much unlike anyone on television. I flipped through my travel magazine, thinking about all the places I’d like to visit again, and places I wished I was visiting with my sister. She really needs a vacation. Out of the corner of my eye I could still see her face. I tried to pretend it wasn’t there.

She never liked her face and, since childhood, she had always denied its existence. Out of politeness, all of us ignored it too. But I did find it strange that she would just leave it there with me and expect me not to look at it. Did she want me to say something to it? Seeing as I’d never done so before, I used this opportunity to examine her facial features carefully.

First, I noticed her chin was completely plastic and there was rubber padding underneath to connect jaw-type things to her neck. That must be new. We’ve known each other for years. How did I miss that?

Then, I realized that her forehead was plastic too. I could see that someone had doodled in silver pen along where she used to have dimples. There was other graffiti in sharpee marker and blue pencil everywhere. Some teenager had inscribed “Kiki-N-Dwane 4 Eva” above her left temple. In fact, her cheeks, lips, and nose were also made up of hard plastic which bore signs of abuse far more serious than those I remembered her with. She’d been completely defaced.

To her, this prosthetic face was the ideal alternative to the natural indentations, acne scars, bumps and soft hair on her human skin. She’d invested thousands in her plastic face only to have people treat it as if it were an abandoned stall in the Fresh Grocer bathroom. It broke my heart.

I sighed and set her face back down just as she returned. I finally looked at her. I could see the under-face where her new plastic mask sat and I tried not to acknowledge it. It was like a bumpy pink hockey mask with two charcoal scribbles where her eyes would be: those eyes without a face.

She held up her purchase. “I got some really great lip gloss. Wanna try it?”
“Sure. But only if it will change my life.”
“It better. It was 16 Euro.”
“It will really compliment your face.”
“Are you sure? I mean. Would you wear it if you were me?”
“I could never be you. But I guess I would.”

And so there we were, two people looking something like people wearing lip gloss, spanning what was left of our time together.

Happy Valentines Day

A Lady's Love....

A Lady loves sensible shoes.

No, thank you.

I can kiss my own boo boos.

Ladies of the Dance

No one with any common sense would allow this to go on for more than two minutes.

In black unitards and cropped shirts, former cheerleading rejects smack their thighs and stomachs with colorful foam tubes, awkwardly struggling to stay on beat with the percussion ensemble. If not previously ruined, these precious young lives are certainly doomed now. Flying about the stage in an apocalyptic haze, members of the dance team wave their arms emphatically to signal the End. Then they regroup into undulating puddles, piles of young women writhing on the floor. In a single dance number, something intended to be creative has spiraled into something tragic, embarrassing and perverse. I cover my face with the program. I’m not sure I can endure much more. This feels like watching someone make out with their uncle for an hour and a half.

The theater is filled with the sound of stomping and bagpipes.

The only thing that could save this performance would be to set one of the girls on fire. Is the meteor ever going to hit the earth and save us from the rest of this? Perhaps I missed part of the narrative. I spent the first half of the performance laughing hysterically to myself. During the latter half I was furiously taking notes.

What this routine needs is some unifying gesture or prop, an element to tie the choreography together.

One of my friends has the perfect solution: This performance needs stray cats. Three dozen stray cats milling about the stage, licking themselves and looking confused would provide a profoundly symbolic cue for the audience to breathe a sigh of relief. It has come to this. Thank goodness the Mayan apocalypse is upon us. In the meantime, what is up with the cropped shirt? No one looks good in that.

What Kind of Motorcycle are You?

FIND OUT NOW!

The Others

New York City is overwhelming. All the others pulse through the streets, in and out of bars and restaurants, spilling from the front doors of tall glass buildings into taxis, on their way to the rest of their lives.

The Buddha and I stroll through Manhattan late on Tuesday night. People are everywhere. I think about how strange it is- all of them on one side of the thin membrane of my skin and just me on the other.
“I hate this. It’s like Tokyo or something, but in English.”
“Get over yourself. You could’ve been anybody." he says.
And he’s right. Just a few measly skin fibers separate me from them. I am bothered by the fact that I can see them but they don’t see me. “I know how you feel.” says Buddha.
“How come they don’t realize how important I am? Don’t they read my blog?”
“There is no They, silly. Only We. “

This is a hard pill to swallow in New York City but it opens up a whole new world of possibilities.
“So, if there is no They, that means we are intimidated by our own haircuts?”
“Exactly. And twenty minutes from now, we’ll be holding ourselves up at knife-point in the snow, breathing down our necks and whispering racial slurs.”
“You mean we are angry, racist pedophiles?”
He nods.
“And later on, we’ll be half-naked in chaps, lying on a bed of machetes in a literary freak show on Avenue A. “
“Wow.” That I can believe.

This is incredible.

I am somewhat comforted by the idea that we are all real writers who still feel the need to compensate for everything.
“See over there? We are stoned out of our minds, eating nachos in the bushes.”
“And we have a cheap tracheotomy and a personality disorder that is often mistaken for crack addiction?” I ask.
“Yes. We were molested by everyone. No one understands us.”
For a moment I get it. It all makes sense now. I realize exactly why we need pink patten-leather boots:

To complement our prosthetic elf ears.

I also understand now why we don’t have any personal time. We are completely unconscious. I get nervous, realizing that we are fractured at every joint. We are thankful. But we must have more...now. We are tired and we always have to pee. We are having plastic surgery. We are living underground with rats. We can’t stop talking about how important our work is. We can’t sleep. We don’t make sense to us. We are locked in fetal position, praying that we don’t burst in at any moment ready to mow us down with semi-automatics-hoping that we will listen to reason and begging ourselves for mercy.

I grab his golden coat. “Holy shit. Will we have mercy?”
Buddha scowls. “What do I look like, a Catholic saint?”

Easy Rider

There was a reason the Buddha wandered for years --and it wasn’t because he was busy touring the Midwest with Peter Fonda. He probably spent too much time sitting in cafés, drinking lattes, getting a little belly and thinking about his mom. In essence, he was sort of a buzz-kill.

I’m just like the Buddha but more popular. Most people like me. They say things like “You have such pretty hair.” “You are so funny.” “Be my maid of honor!” “I’m going to name my first child after to you.”

Nevertheless, I relate to Buddha and his self-imposed isolation and it’s not that I have a fear of commitment. Because I don’t.

I have a fear of other people's commitments. To get out of the last relationship I was ensared in, I actually had to chew through my own femur. Now I hobble around with a fifth of gin, shaking my nub at people and offering sage advice. “Always wear a helmet. Moisturize after showers. Don’t date men who wear fishnet…”

It can be so stressful sometimes, knowing everything at such a tender age. I suppose it has its rewards. I am always either content in my omnipotence, or in some cases, pleasantly surprised when my garbage can hasn’t been stolen.

I’m doing pretty well. It's special. I’ve always wanted to be with someone who would leave me alone and I am not particularly good at, nor am I fond of, intimate relationships.

Unfortunately, I am fond of gin and intimacy seems to go really well with gin; as do cigarettes and more gin. The Buddha and I do not have these particular vices in common, which is why he is not touring the countryside with Peter Fonda-and why he will probably never have his head blown off by a homicidal, mustache-fearing redneck.

Race you to the Bodi tree. Fool.

Market Principle

Statistically speaking, I am likely to land a job eventually. The more interviews I go on, the more likely I am to get one right. By some act of God or administrative desperation, some organization will hire me whether or not my fly is down or if I have toilet paper stuck to my shoe. Otherwise, I don’t know…I’m too old to do anything sexy and get paid for it but maybe I could get paid doing things for people who can get paid for being sexy. For example, I could “bathe the maidens” at the XXX Forum on 23rd & Market Street.

I’ve also looked into selling the contents of my ovaries locally, but I’m too old to do that too. My brother gave me a tip that In NYC they’ll take eggs up through age 34 but the clinic wants to monitor you every day for 2 weeks while they pump you full of hormones.

I’m not sure what my problem is. It could be that, even in an interview setting, I absolutely cannot pass up a chance to make a good joke. I also have trouble asserting anything about myself without negating it in the very next sentence. And as it turns out, I really, really enjoy not working.

I can justify my unemployment with a little economic model called “The Law of Supply and Demand.” I do not work because no one is paying me to work.

It’s the founding principle of a free market, dude. The lack of demand for my services is justly reflected by the absence of my services. I’m only being responsible to the market.

In fact, no one is paying me to do anything. And until I do find a job, I am more than happy to pass the time drinking free trade coffee for hours until I can actually feel the sweat droplets forming in my balmy armpits and cascading down my sides. By night, I play darts, take Cha Cha lessons and most recently, bowl. It’s probably un-American of me, but for the time being, this totally feels worth whatever I’m not making.

The Value of Cultural Experience

I know everything about West Philadelphia, the land of promise, diversity, strong artistic communities, cultural connections, economic empowerment and opportunity for all.

I also know all about the deranged crackhead who stands outside of the video library demanding high-fives. The police are glad to have my story as they shove my favorite crack addict into the back of a cruiser with his paper cup and imaginary machete.

After giving my name and ID, I am told I need to give an official report at the Southwest Police station. Regardless of the cultural revitalization in my neighborhood, I indicate that I will not be visiting that particular area unless escorted in a police vehicle. The cop opens the back door of the cruiser for me and says, “Uh. Sorry about the smell. I had a whole bunch of guys in there earlier. I’m not sure what they ate…”

I’m lucky. I am unharmed. I’ve lived in West Philly for about 5 years and I’ve never been to the police station or in a cop car. But I highly recommend this form of transport. Police cruisers are exactly like taxis but cheaper, the cops have to open the doors for you (so it’s kind of like a limo service) and the back seat is made entirely of hard plastic. I press my face close to the window and laugh, thinking about how great it would be if I stuffed my scarf into my own mouth and started pounding on the windows with my feet.
“You okay back there?”
“Yeah. I’m fine. It smells like cherries.”

I make a note of the all the signage in the waiting room. No firearms permitted beyond this point. If you are armed please notify desk supervisor. To the left of that sign is color print-out with some writing taped to the glass. It’s a photo of one of the Philly detectives. Hi. My name is Todd. I really need a date.

About 32 “detectives” come out of the office to visit the vending machine throughout my stay. They all want to know what happened, am I alright and could I describe the suspect, to which I reply, “Yeah. It’s guy you arrested.”
“We arrested him?”

The couple who initially reported the crime and I wait on that bench for over an hour. The woman is a Ph.D. cantidate from UCLA. They’ve only been living in West Philly for 6 months they've already been mugged once and had to deal with a gun battle on their block. The husband apologizes profusely about “dragging” me into this. The wife looks like she is about to cry. “I can’t wait to move back to L.A. This is crazy. Do you think they’ll deliver a pizza here?”

I feel better about the ordeal after meeting a nice girl who’d just been robbed at gunpoint with her 2 year-old. The robber got a bag of sippie cups and her student ID.


Finally, I am escorted into the central office, which, not surprisingly, turns out to be 32 fat white guys watching “The OC.” Joe, the detective who interviews me, laments, “It makes no sense at all. The City can pay millions of dollars for a new sports stadium but we can’t get enough together for another prison. What do you think about that?”
“Um. I think the stadium generates a little more revenue for the city than another jail. Besides, I’m not sure Wachovia would want their name on a brand new prison.”
He nods his head and says, “But think of all the license plates…”

We begin the interview. As an explanation for spelling of the crime scene “video libery,” Joe points out that, unlike me, he did not go to “some fancy college.” To expedite the process, I offer to type the report for him and he accepts.

The head detective looks over my shoulder at the computer screen and puts his hand on my shoulder. “46th street? Oh my goodness sweetie. How long have you lived there? When is your lease up?”
“Oh, not until next September. It’s actually not a bad neighborhood. It's really multi-cultural. You know, ‘up and coming’.”

False Impressions, False Pride

Somebody put calories in my salad dressing...

I like you too!

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I Can't Take it Anymore

I plead with you to make it stop. I hold my breath until my face turns blue to no avail. Without looking back I run to the window, gasping, and I tearfully hoist myself onto the edge of the windowsill. The reverberations of my final shriek of terror echo through the streets of West Philadelphia as I plunge to my death.

I don't like your feet.

Tucked inside dirty socks with the absorption capacity of the average sandwich baggie, they simmer in your sweat for the entire day and most of the night. That you dare unleash them ever, much less in my company, should be outlawed under the terms of the Geneva Convention.

I hate your feet more than I hate "A Prairie Home Companion." I would rather shove my right arm into an active garbage disposal than be subjected to crimes against humanity like “Guy Noir” but I would relocate to Lake Woebegone to escape the ineffable tyranny of your feet. Their stink, so foul and pungent, seems to carry its own primal scream. They are purple and weird and hairy and bony in ways that no part of any living human should be.

They are the children of Satan.