Ask General Kang

I have never owned one of your quaint “internal combustion engine” vehicles, so I have not had to worry about the high price of gas, but I have been getting nailed on the cost of most foods appropriate for the Thringian Keg-Beast that I ride to work every day.

On my home planet, I fed my Keg-Beast leftover hyper-bananas from the über-chimp orgy the night before, but since I’ve been on Earth, there has been a dearth of both hyper-bananas (apparently they won’t grow in your frigid Earth climate) and über-chimp swinging events (this explains why I am so cranky). So, I’ve found alternatives; the Keg-Beast works best on a mixture of corn syrup, mescaline and the sweat of writers living in a state of quiet despair. Most of those elements are plentiful and relatively cheap, but do you have any idea how costly corn syrup is?

You humans are stupid! You’re burning fossil fuels to grow corn, which you turn into ethanol to burn along with your fossil fuels. Why don’t you just cut out the middle-man and take a flamethrower to your cornfields when they’re ripe? You will lose only a fraction of the energy value and most of the vegetable matter will end up adding to global warming. As an added bonus: big fire!

Then your planet will be able to grow hyper-bananas, and all will be well.

… Assuming we can get a few female über-chimps down here too.

Next time: I’m trapped in the Andromeda galaxy because my hyper-drive engine is asking for a better benefits package — how do it get it back to work without giving it full dental?

Alright, The Skwib has disappeared from the top thirty of humor-blogs.com. You know you have to sign up for an account and vote, or this sad state of affairs will go on? Do you really want such a travesty to continue? You do? Alright, then go visit Alltop instead. I won’t mention it again.

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You probably get a lot of funny looks when you employ that adjective.

Some of the looks are from borderline homophobes, who believe that you’d have to be a little too effeminate to be interested in men’s clothing. You can ignore them and their loafer-lightening prejudices.

A large contingent will not know what you mean, or are your fellow-travelers: pseudo intellectuals who falsely believe that ’sartorial’ has something to do with Jean Paul Satre, and his existential philosophy. The funny look you’re seeing from the them is a simulacrum of understanding, masking their confusion.

The last group will know that many people will not understand the word. They are looking at you strangely because they think you’re a pretentious wanker.

You will find an hirsute, out-of-work intergalactic overlord with questionable tastes in his own clothes among that latter crowd.

Next time: If I use the word simulacrum, does that make me a pretentious wanker?

You will find nary a pretentious wanker here, nor even a simulacrum of one here.

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What kind of question is that? What kind of nut-job describes themselves as a fascist, even if they are? (I mean, apart from the original Fascists, who were definitely a few bananas short of a bunch.)

Actually, I would describe myself as a committed proponent of democracy — when I’m not in power, that is, heh, heh.

Seriously, if you want to take over and become the Supreme Ruling Chimp (and you don’t have an intergalactic war fleet brimming with angry gorilloids wearing high-impact body armor and fezzes) you need to be able to manipulate an election or two.

So you are a fascist.

No, I’m an intergalactic conqueror and advice columnist. Some day, I may become a Great Leader who will save the frustrated middle class from a nebulous group of “others”, which is somehow inferior to us regular chimps and yet, powerful enough to control our society and oppress us. Yah, I am your bow-legged monkey savior!

Next time: I’ve just spilled really hot coffee in my lap — is this what they mean by “global warming”?

Humor-blogs.com and Alltop are two of the essential bananas in my bunch.

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Severely.

On Planet Neecknaw, the original lifespan of the average Neecknabian was similar to the average for your chimpanzees, 40-45 years or so.

Is that on a diet of bananas or not?

You make any more banana jokes and you’ll discover why Genteelia VI calls me The Merciless Kang, Pain-of-Ingrown-Toenail Giver.

Now, when you know that you’ve only got 40 years to get something accomplished, you tend to get on it. So, on all of the planets I’ve conquered — which is legion — I install a strict no-procrastination policy, enforced appropriately.

Appropriately?

You should sound worried. On Marceauvia XII, which is inhabited by a race multi-brachial mime people, we discovered that they were particularly fearful of tickling. So if a mime was found pretending to be in a box, or walking against a strong wind, I had one of my uber-chimps tickle them until they got back on task. (Usually building monuments to my greatness.)

So what should I do?

All you need to do is tell me what you fear most, and I will put an anti-procrastination regimen together for you.

No, that’s okay. I’m motivated now.

Works every time.

Next time: What is the best approach of making first contact with a race that thinks of your species as food?

Humor-blogs.com and Alltop both think of The Skwib as a light snack.

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Wrap rage, for all my readers who are unfamiliar with the phenomenon, is the rising anger and dementia that you feel when you are unable to open the shiny new thing you have just purchased with your hard-earned cash.

CDs used to be the worst; that pathetic little zip strip does no good at all, and just rips right off, leaving you gnawing at the hermetically sealed package like a Zegtraagian pig beast. And the latest fad in packaging makes that seem genteel.

Last week I bought an “American Idol” Barbie and her packaging was insane. It took me 30 minutes to release her from her plastic clamshell prison. She was wired down, her hair was stitched to the box and she had thick plastic manacles on her arms and torso. It should have been called Petroleum-Product S&M Fetish Barbie.

I’ve got opposable thumbs. Barely. Give me a break people!

But the real evil, the most humiliating adamantine-covered items tend to be electronic gadgets. I bought a phone last month that I had to open with my phase pistol — and I had to set it on “blast” mode, which I’ve only ever had to use once before, on Blektreggie VI. (A planet inhabited by mango-obsessed carapace gorilloids.)

Did you say you bought a Barbie doll last week?

Just you wait until my fleet gets here buster.

Next week: Did you ever consider that perhaps the planet Earth is just not ready for your intergalactic enlightenment in chimpy form?

Humor-blogs.com and Alltop are both ready for any chimpy form of humor.

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Frankly, none. But never bite the hand that feeds you I say, particularly when it feeds you ripe fruit and vegemite sandwiches. This rule applies doubly for evil galactic overlords between gigs.

(And yes, the first continent to be occupied by my approaching armada WILL be Australia.)

But I digress. What is the proper amount of blogging? I guess it depends. Do you have something else to do? If not, then the sky is the limit. Blog ’till your fingers bleed.

Do you have a large audience who can’t wait to hear what stunning, insightful (or incite-ful) and elegant prose you will produce next? Then at least once a day, I suppose.

What if you’ve got a very tiny audience?

Oh, you sad and pathetic human.

Next time: What’s the best survival strategy for being trapped on a spaceship with a creature like the one in Alien?

Humor.blogs.com and Alltop are working on their strategy now, though I doubt you can make an alien laugh. (Maybe high-pitched screaming.)

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I have neither, nor do I have an infinite amount of time, so don’t expect to see me write Hamlet anytime soon.

I do, however, have this gripping script about an intergalactic overlord who comes to Earth, starts writing an advice column, and finds himself forced to beat one of his letter writers senseless after he makes a joke about the overlord’s hirsute back, bow legs and penchant for banana cream pies.

But back to your impertinent question: can a million monkeys typing randomly create a work of Shakespeare? No, Shakespeare has already written his oeuvre, so the best they could do is make a copy. (Which would be silly, because it’s now all available on the Internet.)

Some people have done the math, and believe it is impossible, thus proving the existence of God. Others believe that it demonstrates how the universe has evolved. Personally, I’ve watched a few movies by Million Monkeys Studios (a subsidiary of Fox), and I have to side with the first group.

Not only does God exist, It has a cruel sense of humor. More vicious even than Kragnarok the Icky, whose favourite pastime was eating the deep-fried skin of his victims while he bathed them in lemon juice.

Next time: Is it true that putting you face near a quasar will clear up acne?

Humor-blogs.com and Alltop could never be written by a million monkeys. Apparently a few thousand is enough.

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Wow, this is a tough one. First of all, I don’t put anything on my feet, so I’m not really sure what this “footwear” concept is all about. (Don’t be fooled by my picture, those boots were added with Photoshop.)

However, I do know a little something about the human female, from hours of observation and from my own (ahem) extensive experience with females of my own species.

They’re probably trying to figure out how much money you make. Human females seem to be primarily concerned with money and power rather than attractiveness, so they are probably not making an aesthetic judgment on your shoes. That’s what this “footwear” is called, right, shoes?

My advice would be to wear something made out of solid gold or platinum or perhaps something studded with diamonds and other gems. The shinier and gaudier the better. Don’t leave any room for her make a mistake. Ensure that she knows you are loaded.

Or you could go with the “shock and awe” option and purchase some jet-propelled clogs armed with tactical nukes (and it probably wouldn’t hurt if they were studded with jewels and a few rotating knives).

Or, it might be a sex thing. Get extra large shoes, just in case that’s it.

And for Klugnar’s sake, dump the Jesus boots!

Next time: I think my boyfriend is cheating on me with some kind of alien space-bimbo. What can I do to win him back?

Humor-blogs is hardly an alien space-bimbo, though we’re not sure about Alltop yet. Neither wear shoes.

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Yes, yes I have. I have also accepted Buddha, Jaweh, Allah, Vishnu, Krishna, Thor, Lugh, Zarathustra, Zakar, Zeus … all the “Z” gods are cool. Did you know that Zhang-Guolao — one of the eight immortals in China — had a magic donkey that he could fold up like a piece of paper? Is that cool or what!

I could have used a magic donkey during the Long Retreat on Sblismar XII — man, did we get our butts kicked in that war. However, eventually I discovered that a foot fungus found on a certain planet inhabited by other primates would let me control the Sblismarians’ minds, so that ended the fighting.

But I digress. Before I came to conquer Earth and discovered its excellent fungi, I’d never heard of religion. It’s something you humans have invented. Of all the species in all the worlds that I’ve become overlord of, yours is the only one that has the god groove.

You’ve got more religions than I’ve got parasites in my lower intestine.

But I dig them all (the religions, not the parasites).

Except for Scientology. That L. Ron Hubbard knew jack squat about aliens, particularly evil alien tyrants like his “Xenu”. (As if any autocrat would go to the expense of transporting people to Earth for execution in spaceships that look like DC-8s… I mean, that’s what Trigladian Gut Worms are for … it’s just silly.)

So, yes. Christ? Yes!

Next week: Do you have a decent recipe for peanut-butter chocolate-chip cookies? Also, how does one get into the Galactic Overlord business?

Humor-blogs.com and Alltop also have parasites in their lower intestines.

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Well, I’m totally against it.

From what I can see there is too much instant gratification happening here on Terra; and this is at least some part of the reason why I am conquering this world soon.

I’m a fan of a system of gratification we call The Rectitude on my home world.

The Rectitude started out as philosophical movement of neo-utopian bonobos, but it eventually caught on within the simian population at large, and I hope that someday it will catch on amongst the primates of this world too.

What is The Rectitude?

It sounds kind of proctologist-y, but essentially, to have some kind of physical gratification, the idea is that first you have to earn it. (Yes, just go ahead, say it just like John Houseman.)

The best kind of Rectitude to earn is through intense physical effort. For example, if you climb a mountain, that earns you lots of Rectitude – at least a week of all kinds of debauchery. Walk to the store instead of driving, and that probably earns you enough Rectitude to eat the Cheese Doodles you were going to get in the first place.

Once Earth is fully under my control, every sentient being on the planet can look forward to a lifetime of earning and expending Rectitude.

Stop groaning! It will be good for you humans to learn a little self-discipline!

Next time: How do you handle unwanted sexual advances, particularly from another species?

You know who has rectitude? Hard working humor writers.

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Ah, I get this question all the time.

The answer is an emphatic no.

The rule is: vermin are permitted, but they have to be smaller than your pinkie fingernail (and non-toxic).

In social situations, rodents (mice, rats and voles especially) can be quite off-putting, if only because they eat the tasty creatures that can make for a nice grooming session.

Quite often I’ll get together with General Coco and Major Bonzo, and our respective spouses; once Major Bonzo had a swarm of killer bees hiding in his goatee, and this was a real damper on the evening. (He was a colonel before this incident.)

Next week: My spouse has mutated into a 12-foot Gila monster. How should I introduce him at social occasions?

Humor-blogs.com is rife with gila monsters. Alltop has a iguana problem.

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