It’s true, I don’t blame the Captain for his inability to be a human. I don’t blame him for communication skills at the level of a toaster. I don’t blame him for a complete lack of anything resembling a managerial skill. Nay, Captain Charisma is a victim. Who is to blame then you may certainly be asking. Well, I don’t blame the parents of this devil spawn either and the list of likely culprits is slimming.

I blame the personal physician of the Charisma family. Surely through the advances of modern science, even what it was at during the stages that Charisma’s mother and father still passed the evening finger bangin’ behind the piggly wiggly to a choir of screeching cats and three toothed bums known by aliases like “bub” and “jimbo”, he could see the outcome. The strongest, fastest, most likely sperm of the bunch…the cream of the crop, if you will, had a tendency towards early hair loss and while loss of mentality was an option it hinged upon there being a suitable level of mentality to lose. Surely this doctor, if you’re still willing to call this shaman of medical science a doctor, knew the outcome. He saw it in his future that this lad would bring tidings of a new porsche and a hot young receptionist with tits bigger than her I.Q. to help compensate for his low self esteem and a penis that would look much less comical on a two year old.

This man was evil. A cog in the perpetual wheel of corporate America. A member of the upper one percent that is too busy fucking the daylights out of everyone to realize that they’re crushing the foundation of bodies they’re standing on. In a way this modern voodoo man was a victim himself, but we can only take things so far. Someone has to be held to blame for this outrage against humanity. A simple thump on the noggin’ at the appropriate moment during birthing could have saved us all…but he wanted that new porsche. Maybe some planning could have created a more elaborate situation where an act of subterfuge could have been used to cover the key moment when the boy, at least we assume he was male at the moment this bouncing baby idiot was summoned through the black gate onto earth, was dropped. “Well, call me Mr. Butterfingers!”. That’s all it would have taken, and I really don’t think it’s asking too much.

The point is that the Captain, in all his glory, is not responsible in much the same way that a new born is not responsible for their motor movements…or laying down a heavy suppressive fire of piss on the new helicopter wallpaper that was put in just for him. It would be on par with holding the vending machine repair man responsible for the nuclear reactor of a submarine exploding. He couldn’t help it. He was far too busy ensuring that everyone who had a much more important job, like giving a complex order like “turn left”, wouldn’t run out of nutty crunch bars. I see no situation were a lack of gooey centered chocolate snacks would relay directly into a nuclear blast. Maybe I’m not thinking it through well enough, but the situation eludes me.

No, the Captain is that vending machine guy. He can’t handle the “turn left” order. He’s not capable of taking upon the responsibility of sitting on a pillow and looking important. Do we honestly believe that when he’s at home, in his free time, masterbating to the sears commercial on his black and white television while desperately trying to drive a second knuckle into his own rectum that his mind is racing towards the solution of a way to make this world a better place to live in? Certainly not, he’s thinking about how this whole idea of shoving that knuckle up his pooper seemed a lot better before ass started to bleed.

In conclusion I cry out to all medical practitioners everywhere. Consider the responsibility you’re taking on while bringing a child onto this planet. Consider the repurcussions of it beyond that big tittied receptionist. Do something for humanity!

Follow