OMEGA-LEVEL TURNS THREE: THE SECRET ORIGIN STORY.

Three years ago today, I awoke with a mission. I was going to grow wings, fly to Mars, and fuck each and every Martian I could find. All holes. Any holes. Dudes, chicks, transgenders, Siamese twins. It didn’t matter. I was a man with a plan, and on Mars nothing is impossible. Unfortunately for me, and each and every Martian babe and hottie bro, my girlfriend awoke. Slathered in my own spittle and hanging precariously from our roof, she calmly Michael Jordan’d a deec amount of lamotrigine down my gullet. No backboard, all throat. Teary-eyed, I went from crying that my wings weren’t working to politely asking her to pull me up into the house.I was too heavy, we both fell. She broke her tailbone and my fall.

When I recovered later that day, I decided I would start a blog.

I went down to the local high school track to confront my friend Patrick Bateman. You can always find him there during the afternoon. He is a big fan of the varsity female color guard. I cannot fly, I told him. He told me he knew that. The girls were stretching. He leaned forward, an uncomfortable groan quietly escaping his chapped lips. I have an idea, I told him. Me too, he said. I looked down. His sweatpants had a snake in them.

I want to start a blog. I wish I could twirl like them.

We weren’t seeing eye to eye, but I promised him I’d buy him an instructional video if he promised to code the website. He agreed. We shook and as I walked off I saw him adjusting himself and lifting up his binoculars.

The last person to recruit was my brother, Pepsibones Kruger. He was a difficult one. I found him in his room, staring into his laptop. Without moving, he said hello. He knew it was me as I entered the room. He knew my gait. He knew it all. I cannot fly, I told him. He told me he knew that. I asked him if he wanted to write about funny books, butt holes, video games, and beer. He didn’t look over. As he contemplated my offer, his two hands worked independently of one another. One was typing into a miniscule text box, the other was opening tab after tab of some Wikipedia content.

Focus, my brother. I implored him. What the fuck are you doing anyways, I asked. He finally turned and looked into my eyes. Everything, he said. I’m doing everything. I offered him my Nintendo GameCube and copy of Mario Kart 64. He accepted, but with a caveat. There were times where he would be everywhere. Or nowhere. He may intermittently pop in and out of existence, affording an unpredictable amount of content. I said okay. I offered him some lamotrigine. He said no. He explained that like a snake, he must shed his personality. Personalities. He was no longer Pepsibones Kruger. I told him he never was, that his real name was A—, he cut me off.

Call me Ishmael, he said. I said no way. No way, Jose. Call me Rendar Frankenstein. I said okay.

It was a good day. Three years ago. Productive. Except for my girlfriend’s broken tail bone. 5,477 posts later, 12,872 tags later, 11,847 images later, the trifecta is still at it. Now with other members of this demented Justice League contributing. With ads (we don’t make any money off them, but they make me feel special). With t-shirts. A store.

Here is to another three.