The Mysterious Dr. X Returns With a Very "Meta" Take on the Harry Lupus Adventures!

Long-time fans may remember Dr. X as a regular columnist on the now-defunct "Quinton's" blog, which simply reported the "facts" of the boys' evenings on the town. Dr. X. quickly grew tired of the notoriety of being a blog-star and took to appearing around town with a bag on his head (here he is, pictured at one of N.ggle's poker games):
















Today he makes his triumphant return to the blog-world with this "meta" look at our favorite boy werewolf which shatters the distinctions between Harry's world and the already blurry lines between the LC's own part truth/part fantasy world. In today's installment, Dr. X cleverly (and perhaps unintentionally?) references recent blog thoughts on Schlitz, draws on the powerful pop-culture mythos of both Back to the Future and Teen Wolf, restores the "reality" of "Chip," uses the classic "it's all a dream" narrative device, and employs the word "fuck" more times than a Mamet monologue. Enjoy! And prepare for more guest writers in weeks to come, including the one, the only, Dr. C!



"But then, this shit happened:

'The power of love is a curious thing...

Tougher than diamonds, rich like cream
Stronger and harder than a bad girls dream
Make a bad one good make a wrong one right
Power of love that keeps you home at night!'

Harry's alarm bleated at him and stirred him from his sleep and his hands from his pants. As usual, all of the above was sticky with creamy ooze that seemed to indicate that he had gone through another in his series of tommy-gun-firing nocturnal emissions. Granted, during the day, his gonads, hanging softballs, more like funbag-sized protrusions...

Incidentally, that's what we call meta-commentary. It's directed to an audience of one, Dr. C. That's right, fucker, I just showed you love. Now show me tits! Yours will do. See, I just broke the mother fucking fourth wall -- normally you have to pay money to read heady shit like this. Pynchon costs, like, $1.30 at most any Larryville fuckshop and shitstore that has these supposed hipster texts piled up because hipsters don't read (They just match the colors of their beer can to distinguish from Pabst, PBR, and that other shit, the finest bread ever poured into a can, Schlitz. Which, incidentally... yah, I like that word. What of it? That's what I thought. Fuck you. Yah, Schlitz. Which is exactly one letter too much of what it causes.

Back to the story... that you mother fuckers don't deserve because you ain't paying shit for this genius. Know it.

Anyhow, we were just getting to the point where Harry realized that he had spent another long evening in the dream state imagining all kinds of scary Marky-Mark shit like the fact that he thought he was a dog, and he wanted to fuck this bitch [That's a pun, bitches (because we're foreshadowing that this fucker is a werewolf). But when I called you bitches, _That_ was not. Because you're my whores. Bitches.] named Muffy. She really did exist, but she did not have time for his shit. Because her tits were fine, and she packed much back. And, if the sheer volume of gelatinous goo turning his bedsheets into the pasty village was any indication, he, indeed, wished to tap that ass.

With the utmost fury.

But, dear reader, we get ahead of ourselves for the dulcet tones of Huey Lewis and the muthafuckin NEWS! was any indication... Harry had overslept for school again... because he was at least five songs into his Huey Lewis mixtape alarm clock radio given to him by his best friend K!p.

Who was K!p? You'll just have to wait and see, but I can tell you this: #1 He's not a hard core pimp hustler with a standing rod that he uses to smack the bitch's ass when she doesn't bring him his money #2 He's completely a literary invention, because what kinda man could be that doughy and real. Word. And #3 -- the ! stands for excitement!

But that's a story for another day. Right now -- all you need to know is that Harry did not have time for his daily pop tart. He did not have time to clean the gleaming mucus from himself or his bedsheets ("Who slimed me?" he thought, in yet what remains to be a set of timeless references to 80s movies both good and bad -- because the 80s were WHERE THE SHIT WENT DOWN! Michael J Fox rules the world with Hits such as Teen Wolf (Irony? Fuck no.), The Secret to My Success and this shit we're stealing right here from the first of not one -- BUT THREE -- Back to t he Futures. The Bangles were still and the Go-Go's were still hot and whorey enough to gang bang you in the back of their mother fucking trailor!). And he certainly did not have time to shave his palms or venture a guess as to why they were so damned hairy.

But he had heard the stories, but he did not,as yet, know why he was not blind. Because werewolves have excellent eyesight! I read this shit in a book called Tw!light. This time the ! does not stand for excitement -- it stands for me not getting sued!

Anyway, back to the matter at hand: All Harry had time for was to use the goo for hair gel, grab his Old Navy life preserver vest, pop his collar and grab his skateboard. His ass needed to get to class, and this bitch was already late.

Yah. That's like three weeks of adventure right there.