So let's clear some things up.

The Dalai Lama once went at Jack with a broken beer bottle.

True, but he started it - he was signing copies of his newest book at the Barnes and Noble I used to work at, the big one in Union Square that used to be an old carpet factory. We got into a fight over the elevation of Terton Rimpoche - it was civil until he told me to "chill the fuck out and go shelve something" and, well. Then it got messy. Dude's scrappy, though, can't deny that, and he seems to be perpetually covered in a slick of sweat that makes it difficult to get a grip on him, even under the bookstore's industrial strength air conditioning.

Jack once forgot where he put his keys.
He then spent the next half-hour torturing himself until he gave up the location of the keys.

Turns out they were in my pocket, which I would've told myself if I hadn't been so busy finding the bolt-cutters and tying myself to a chair.

Jack once suspected his own mother of plagiarism. He set her aflame.
When he survived, he was sure she was a plagiarist,
so he ran her down with a monster truck named "NoamChomsky".

Not my mother, my high school girlfriend - right after we broke up she submitted a poem to the school's literary magazine, a poem she'd copied from a book by Henry Beard, The Raven as told from the perspective of Poe's cat or some such. The monster truck was actually her mother's '87 Volvo station wagon, and I didn't 'run her down' so much as 'knocked her flat.' Moral of the story is: don't post shit you didn't write or EDB will run you over in his studio-original Herbie the Love Bug.

The Vatican has started an atomic weapons program just so they can launch a nuclear missile at Jack's house.

Not at my house specifically, but I live two miles from the United Nations building. The incineration of my little abode is merely a happy coincidence...or it's the other way 'round.

Jack is simultaneously responsible for the homosexual agenda and the Westboro Baptist Church.

You forgot the Southern Poverty Law Center, West Virginia White Pride, the American Civil Liberties Union, the BCRA, the Warren Commission, and the Daughters of the American Revolution. Also, the Maginot Line? My idea. The Oxford Comma, though, was Brawl's idea.

Jack invented muzak and spam email.

That was a brilliant campaign of mine, I thought - fill quiet spaces with crappy music to keep people from striking up conversations with attractive strangers, and rub it in by trying to sell them penis enlargement pills. Pfizer paid me through the nose for that one.

Jack once choreographed a ballet that got him excommunicated from every major religion on earth, including Satanism.

Not quite: the Church of the Subgenius sent me a wicked awesome T-shirt and a coupon book good at participating Hooters.

Jack was ostracized from New York society because Payne Payson Middleton found out he was a founding member of NAMBLA.

Indeed, at the tender age of 8. What, you thought it was some pervy old man's idea?

Jack makes Chuck look like a little bitch.

And you know what? He likes it, particularly when I pull on his leash.

Jack is Bill Brasky's bigger brother.

Bigger don't mean shit when Bill's drunk on scotch and waving that 12-gauge around - if anything, it makes it harder to effectively hide.

Jack refuses to eat anything that doesn't scream when you bite into it.


What are we lovingly poem about?
Jack's forthcoming bloody reign of terror.

Ain't forthcomin', dudes. It's here. And it's gonna be awesome.

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