I know my nemesis.

Listen up, people! It's me, Matt McClane, coming at you with another exciting adventure further into... THE TIRADE!!!!!

(It's important to remember that I began writing this blog entry with the goal and idea of having giant Photoshopped images and hilarious captions, etc. into it, but things don't always pan out like we'd like, do they? Do they Skeletor? If you still don't believe me about how things don't always pan out like we'd like, consult THIS GUY.)

I'm here to give you a bit of a biology lesson today. Well, hang on, let me take that back. I'm here to give you a bit of a religious-cult / devil influenced / biology lesson today.

Basically I'm gonna go ahead and fill you in on a bunch of junk you obviously don't know (unless you're one of the scientists that accidentally turned a teen into a car, then you definitely already know this stuff).

There's one species on this planet that transcends simple biology. This unique animal's bimolecular makeup is like nothing you've ever seen; made of thousands and billions of very interesting strands of DNA super-matter inside its brain.

Basically, what I'm saying here is that this animal is the devil.

All that science stuff all leads to some un-knowable source beyond the areas of human understanding. This creature was actually born in hell, forged in the fires of Mount Doom and was kept as a pet (for training purposes) by the Fiery Man of the Magma.

Actually, I just made up that part about the Fiery Man of the Magma, but I think that should somehow be inserted into Pop Culture as just another one of the shit-tons of names for the devil. Let's work on that, okay, readers?

Somehow, back to the point: the creature I'm here to talk about is evil. It wants blood. It wants OUR blood, and it will stop at nothing to get it. This killing machine that I speak of?

The woodpecker.

How do I know all this, readers? Because that damn thing wakes me up every single morning at 6:45 by jackhammering the back of my apartment like a flippin' machine gun.

I guess those of you who live right beside a massive skyscraper construction site know exactly what I'm talking about. Or even those of you who actually live on a machine gun firing range. It's a nightmare, isn't it? 6:45 is just so damn early for me.

This morning, the bird was slashing into my wall, directly above my bed, with blood-craving, bone-sawing accuracy. It seemed to have located the spot outside my apartment that's literally inches away from where my head lies on my pillow. I'll give it to him: he's a crafty, methodical bastard. I HATE that bird. HATE it. But dammit, do I respect it.

With every punch of his razor sharp beak, his movements appear to me in slow motion, as a flaming spire of red and yellow flashes blaze from his mouth into the wood. Sparks and lasers fly out of the newly-made hole. The adrenaline surges in my fists, causing me to jump out of bed and shake my fist repeatedly at the wall like a 70-year-old man in a nursing home, complaining about his stale soup.

This scenario is a typical morning these days.

You see, my apartment, unlike most, is made entirely of this material called 'wood'. For at least a whole millennium, apartments were forged out of powerful iron, sweat, screams of pain and concrete. Now a days we have this material called 'wood' that these devil hell-creatures crave like a lusting French prostitute craves American tourists. Tourists with oddly-fitting fanny packs. Tourists who are traveling all alone. Tourists who will most likely be at the corner of Rue de Rivoli and Avenue Victoria at 10:00 p.m. on Wednesday, June 4th, in case any of you Paris-based French Whores are in the area and looking for a good time.

I know what a lot of you are thinking, or possibly even speaking out loud right now. Maybe you're even reading this with your friends on a typical Friday night. If any of that is the case, let me go ahead and put a cap on this quote:

"I'd buy me a b.b. gun."

Or this clever one:

"I'd get out there and shoot that damn thing with something. Probably a gun."

Either way, we have to acknowledge that I do live in the city. Technically. Also, my incredibly cool landlord keeps a series of video cameras around the property. I'm not trying to say that he'd care if I was to carry around a rifle through the bushes of his apartment complex area... I'm just thinking that it would be possible to trigger a mean war flashback of some kind from the old man who lives a few buildings down.

There's one thing that I DO know, readers, and that's a solid rule: don't give old dudes flashbacks, man. Whether it's a major land war or acid, don't get those guys fired up. If they don't come at you with a weapon of some kind (mostly it's going to be that extra pair of dentures that they've sharpened into a shiv, a clubbing device of some kind or some plastic silverware), they're going to use direct physical combat training to disarm you and more than likely resort to ball-flipping or dick-smashing with their fists.

I do NOT want to get caught carrying around a rifle, and most definitely not at 6:45 a.m. Besides, at that time of the morning, I got no aiming skills. I can barely hit the toilet with my piss on most mornings. How the hell am I supposed to shoot a little demon bird from a mile away with a pellet gun?

Plus, these things are extremely fast. We're talking Flash fast. We're talking super speed. Since they came from Hades, these woodpeckers actually coined the term, "Fast as Hell," because they just are. If you don't believe me, why don't you become a freakin' woodpecker hunter and see how much money you make, bud. Yeah, don't quit your day job.

Anyway, short of camping out all night long in a bush next to Micah and Whitney's back porch with a hand cannon, I've already come up with a few solutions that'll do the trick. In the morning I plan on covering the back of the apartment building with Holy Water I stole (ala "The Lost Boys" style) from the parish last night. This will help burn the animal's talons when they latch onto the wood, hopefully delaying their machine gun attack.

(Editor's note: I am NOT shitting you here, people. These things LITERALLY sound like a jackhammering machine gun is crashing through your wall. Ladies, if you don't believe me, let's schedule a time for you to come by one night this week, say... Friday... and join me in a "let's stay up all night to hear the woodpecker jackhammer" session and you'll totally see what I mean.)

Anyway, after the Holy Water I'm going to get Jared McClane, who's actually an ordained minister, to come bless the back of the apartment and anoint it with oils and stuff. Basically it's just a formality, since he uses this mixture of generic Kroger-brand olive oil and Bud Light. The trick, though, is to do it while the satanic monster bird is watching and listening from a distance. Maybe even some dialogue will help sell the deal:

Jared: I hearby anoint this apartment building with the sacred oil of the spirit and heaven for every and all eternity, amen.

Matt: Thank you, REVERED, for delivering such a strong blessing on the back of my apartment building. Now that all these powerful BLESSINGS are on this apartment, any certain animals from hell that come near it will really definitely perish under their powers. Especially any and all birds that happen to be in the area. I sure hope they're not listening right now.

Jared: Fuck yeah.

Well, don't worry readers, we'll work this out. I have some secret skills up my sleeve for dealing with this situation (Read: I'll just call my landlord and have him spray some stuff back there), so don't worry. Everything's going to be just fine.

If you don't hear back from me in a few days... I'll see you in hell. With that bird's corpse in my bony, hell-fire-burned hand.

I love you.

-McClane






Also, while we're getting in touch with nature's comedians, check this guy out. He looks like he'd be a whole shit-ton of fun:

Exciting news!!!!

Hey there you readers, haters and McClane-a-maniacs,

I have some amazing news today. I just got a great message from my buddy Justin over at CAMP VOORHEES telling me that the site is coming back on Friday, June 13th!!!





This is absolutely awesome news for obvious reasons, but also because it gives me the opportunity to make more video commentary on this series. He's going to have all the clips back up, thousands of photos and tons of information. Basically, you should go ahead and get ready to be readily annoyed by my endless speeches about how awesome Friday the 13th is. That's just how it's going to be, so if you're gonna be a pussy about it, maybe you should go find a blog that's better suited for your pussy-ness. Like THIS ONE, for example.

Thanks for keeping me posted, Justin, and good luck with getting the new site up!!

Much love for the machete,

-McClane

Letters to the Editor

Man, readers, I've got news for you: It's really tough letting down your fans.

This past month has been so out-of-control busy that I've really stepped up the pace on getting my robot clone finished up. The crazy thing about a robot clone is the hair. You've got to get the hair right, or nobody is going to buy it. The voice part won't be any trouble... I've just recorded around 1,056 consecutive hours of me talking about movies, lame stories and other random bullshit, and I figure that should last a solid two days.

It won't be long 'till "McClane X" is off and running, and I can get back to life, eating non-fast food, walking outside for more than five minutes, sleeping a full six hours instead of four and—of course—writing my life away (as therapy, mostly) on this tirade.

If you don't see me again on here for another 18 days or so... you'll know that:

1. My robot clone didn't pan out like it was supposed to. (Probably the hair.)
2. I finally generated the 1.21 gigawatts of electricity needed to get my ass back to 1955.
3. I got a job working for Steve Christy, even though Ralph warned me about it.
4. The Lybians found me.
5. My energy drink concept finally paid off. (The main ingredient: my own semen.)
6. My check bounced; I had to return the penis extension.
7. I had a flagrant love affair with Dean Vernon Wormer's wife at a toga party.
8. I actually met a single woman in Knoxville worth a damn.*

*I'd have a better chance of generating 1.21 gigawatts of electricity by spinning around in circles holding some chicken wire and a car battery.

However, the most important feature about this blog is how I'm back in action with this post. Let's live in the present, man. This is the power of now.

I've decided to run a few "letters to the editor" that I've received in my long absence from the Tirade. These people are obviously dedicated readers who've felt really let down by the length of time I've been away. Here you go:

_______________________________________

Hey McClane,


I'm a 40-year-old soccer mom living in Houston, TX. I really enjoy your blog; it keeps me sane amongst a very hectic schedule and managing my three children. (Nick-9, Amy-5 and Dane-2)

I followed your advice recently and tried one of your ideas from your "IDEA series." These were really great ideas and it promised to really take my life out of the monotony of cleaning windows, getting my kids to practice and cooking healthy meals to feed five.

I pretended that I was hunting a giant anaconda in my kitchen.

(Editor's note: CLICK HERE to actually read this idea.)

To add to the effect, I followed your advice and got out my extra-long vacuum cleaner hose. This hose helped me really get in touch with the vision. At first, the monstrous beast had the upper hand; it found its way around my neck... choking the life out of me. But I wasn't going to give up. I knew that I had to fight my way free in time to get the roast chicken out of the oven.

Thrashing and kicking in the kitchen floor, my husband came home with the kids just in time to see me finally rip the snake / vacuum hose from my throat, rip out its heart and taste the sinewy flesh on my lips. I screamed triumphantly as I held the snake / vacuum hose above my head in praise to my tribal lords.

Then I took out the chicken and had a nice meal with my family.

Thanks, McClane for such a neat blog! You're behind on your posts, so pick up the pace and keep up, okay? You've got families that depend on you!

Sincerely,

[Name withheld by request]


_______________________________________


Hey McClain,

R U tha same McClain in that Die Hard movie? LOL U wear awesom when u drove tha car n 2 that helicoptr. I was like WTF? lmao

P.S. rotf jk

_______________________________________


Mr. McClane,

For years now I've been stalking you through the streets, following your every move and waiting... waiting for my chance at revenge.

My name is Frank Stallone, and time and time again you've foiled my plans for world domination.

It all started with your English class project 1995 where you outed me as being the reason for Global Warming. I have no idea how you received this information as a 16-year-old boy, but I underestimated your genius.

In 1999 you somehow discovered my plans to ruin the interpersonal communication of all human beings with my anti-interpersonal communications ray. You made this announcement in your interpersonal communications class when you didn't have your presentation ready. Well played, Mr. McClane... well played.

In 2000 you somehow learned of my affiliation with Napster, identifying me as the sole reason for modern internet music theft as the world knows it. Do I regret this? No, my friend. I don't. At all. I still have my stolen Sisqó album: Unleash the Dragon which, to this day, remains one of my favorite albums of all time.

Again and again you discovered my plans, and again and again I had to reinvent myself. (My plan to violate and destroy Associated Press journalism ethics in 2001, my goal of sabotaging Japanese / American political relations in 2003 and funding illegal terrorist cells with the objective of eliminating general studies requirements for bachelor's degrees in state institutions in 2004.)

All this will soon come to an end, though, my life-long nemesis. Soon I'll find you; and when I do you'll have some answering to do. Watch your back, McClane.

-Frank Stallone

P.S. Dude, you're like 18 days late on a new post. Get your shit together.

_______________________________________

Yo McClanez,

WHatz the difference between a big pile of dead babies and a cadillac?

I dont have a cadillac in my garage.

U got owned!!

_______________________________________

Hey Matt,

My name is Pixie and I'm an adult film star living in Los Angeles, California. Just wanted to write and tell you that I've really missed your blog the last month. I always read it before every scene I do because it turns me on so much. Without your blog, the last two films I've shot have been really boring and my director has been getting really mad at me for not performing. Could you please write something new soon? If I can't make this next scene really super hot, I won't be able to afford groceries or school clothes for my 2 kids.

The cute little video about Billy Ocean got me so hot that I killed two stunt men with my boobs alone in the last film. They're registered as lethal weapons in 32 states, and your reading your blog is like pulling the trigger on a nuclear warhead. A nuclear warhead made of boobs. My boobs.

Anyway, take care honey and please keep 'em coming. If you ever make it out to LA, look me up and I'll take you to a really nice sushi place that I like.

Love,

-Pixie Powers

_______________________________________


Wow. If you're thinking what I was thinking when I got these letters, you're probably pretty amazed right now. It's so great to know that people are actually caring about what you're doing out there. To all the people I've touched with my videos, rants, reviews, ideas and love: thank you guys for reading.

Keep the letters, comments and emails coming, and take care of yourselves out there in internet land.

Hopefully we'll see you soon... at least for Pixie's sake.

Feed them kids, darlin'.

Honey Bunches of Love,

-The guy who drove that car into that helicopter

Benny Lava

Thank you, Mealand, for turning what's left of my brains into banana pudding.




Listen to me, people:

I hate to break it to you like this, but this is the best video ever made since they invented cameras to even capture this kind of thing. Before this video and cameras, the best thing that the world had going was boning monkeys and skinning deer. This just took all that to the next level. Big time.

Here I was, getting all pumped up about the biggest reunion event in the history of time, and Mealand hits me with this video. I'm not sure my brains can take this kind of punishment.

Can you? Seriously?

Life can be pretty genius sometimes.

-Benny Lava

Phoning In? No way José.

Hey faithful readers and random people who're stumbling up on this shit.

My name is McClane. Matt McClane.

I'm here to get you up to speed on things in my part of the world, and I only have a short time to do it. You see, I've broken into the children's wing at the local hospital to switch around a few babies (I love this), and I thought I'd take some time to make a quick blog update.

First of all, my phone is jacked up again and this time it's not because I threw it out the window of my truck. I actually have no idea what's happened to it, but it's got this crazy weird display... scrambled like Waffle House cheese eggs on one of those horrifying carnival rides that spin you around until you actually see God.








So if you fools are trying to text message me, call me or summon me up with your mental telepathic powers or whatever, you're wasting your time. My display is busted, my ringer isn't working and I've recently committed to constantly wearing an aluminum foil skull cap specifically designed to keep hoodlums like you from robbing me of my thoughts. Better luck next time, bud.

Next up, I've just had to pay the city of Knoxville more than $450 dollars in unpaid parking tickets since January 2006. This kind of thing would give me some major heartburn and cause me to really flip out and steal some forks from a restaurant... but that was the old me. The new me is just actually laughing a little bit because... come on, really... what the hell else am I gonna do?

The letter I got was absolutely awesome, in that scary kind of way. They tell me that unless I pay the full amount due in less than 10 days, they're issuing a warrant for my arrest because of these parking tickets. I think that the genius of that mental picture is so awesome that it really doesn't even merit a comment from me. But I will anyway:

McClane:

So what got you in here, man?

Inmate Buddy:

I went in to a Pilot to steal some power bars, a 40 oz Red Dog and yesterday's newspaper, when the guy behind the counter spoke to me with a condescending cadence when I asked if he'd seen the last episode of "LOST." So I pulled out my knife, reached across the counter, slitting his throat like a Zip-lock bag full of marinara sauce. The old woman behind me got a little nervous, so I roundhouse-kicked her into the Krispy Kreme display and mocked her as I broke both her legs with the giant plastic slushy cup display sign. Next thing, some hero guy came in, thinking he was all badass, waving a gun or something at me... I guess he shot me a few times in my legs and arms, I don't know. I ended up bitch-tackling him through the front door glass, dousing him with gasoline from one of the pumps (the high-velocity deluxe gas), and put my cigarette out in his face. As he burned, I silently ate my power bar, took a sip of Red Dog, and warmed myself by the fiery remains of this pitiful little man smoldering under my boot.

So what are you in here for?

McClane:

Oh, I didn't pay for a bunch of parking tickets.


The moral of this whole engrossing-yet-idiotic rant is that if you're trying to contact me, send me an email to this address. Just kidding. It's THIS address.

I'll get back to you as soon as I can. In the mean time, take the turkey out when you can poke at it and it feels firm but squishy, keep working on your sonnet, get the laundry done and do whatever the babysitter tells you. I'll be back in a few days. With some souvenirs.

Muah.

-McClane

P.S. Also take some time to watch this:




And while you're at it, roll over to Corey McPherson's blog and check out 'Ol Glory.