On Like Donkey Kong!

November 27, 2013

Dear Diary,

It has been well over a month since I last checked in but with good reason. I wasn’t just lazing about eating ice cream and complaining to Caligula about my sad lot in life. No. I have been quite the busy gal. You see, there has been a mutiny among my ranks. A coup, if you can imagine such a thing. In short, that blasted Annie tried to take over my job!

It all started just after Halloween. I was saving up my diary entry until after the annual party hopping—you know, that dreaded evening when I race from event to event in order to spread myself out amongst the boys, lest one feels left out or robbed of my wonderful presence. Just as I returned home with a crap ton of juicy gossip about the villain community, I found that bitch standing on my balcony, in my clothes, commanding my minions to do her biding, most of which consisted of killing my Bart.

Let me say that again so it has time to properly sink in.

She was wearing MY clothes.

I don’t give a flying flip about her trying to take over my empire. I don’t care about her commanding my minions or trying to run my show. I don’t care that she had Bart in a cage about to dip him in a vat of boiling oil. (Okay, maybe I cared a little bit about that.) The point is the bitch had on my best outfit.

But worse than that, she was wearing my fucking thongs!

Note to self: Go shopping for all new clothes. There is no telling what else she tried on while I was gone!

There has never been a force on earth that could match the power of my anger when I realized that cold stone bitch had squeezed her fat ass into my god damned good underwear. And how did I know she had wedged her huge butt into my tiny thongs? She showed me! When I confronted her on the balcony of my suite, she made a big to-do about taking over then proceeded to flash me. And I don’t mean just a quick lift and flutter, no. She raised the edge of her skirt and gave me quite the show. Ugh, seeing her ass in my panties was like gazing upon a gallon of cottage cheese compressed in plastic wrap then split up the middle with a piece of floss. I won’t even go into her poorly trimmed recreational area. Seriously, gals, if you’re going to do a little dance in your undies, consider some landscaping first. I’m not saying shave it little girl bald, but if the fur is creeping up your belly, you might want to invest in a pair of hedge clippers.

Note to self: Buy new razors. Best to practice what one preaches.

Anywho, she claimed the flashing bit was a show of her feminine power. I think she just has a thing for me. Or rather had a thing for me. And really, who can blame her. But back to me kicking her ass to the moon and back. Literally.

I don’t know what she thought would happen when I returned from my parties. I guess she expected to make a show of her so called power and I would just drop to one knee and beg for my life. As if! I knew exactly what would happen in just such a scenario.

First of all, my minions immediately stopped following her orders once they laid eyes on me. And those eyes were so grateful to see momma come back to roost. As they should be, considering each worker bee of mine is programmed over a three month long indoctrination the likes of which would’ve made Reverend Jones weep with jealousy. Within moments she went from all powerful bitch to revolting all by her onesises. That should’ve been enough to make any mutinous traitor beg for forgiveness, but no, she kept up the attitude, claiming that she didn’t need minions to take over my territory. She could do it by her cleverness alone. Especially since I had supposedly entrusted her with all of the secrets of my empire.

Pity she didn’t know the first thing about my empire, or she would’ve known I have a verbally activated security system in every section of my secret base, encoded to my voice pattern alone, and activated by a separate word for each area. But that’s just between you and me, dear diary.

Note to self: Add code word to diary lock. And a laser.

Once I said the code word for my balcony security system, that bitch was well on her way to being toast in seconds. A ten thousand volt jolt will do that to you. But luckily for me, she survived! Glorious day! This meant I was able to thoroughly enjoy punishing her further. And further. And much, much further. I kicked her carcass right onto a rocket, then proceeded to kick her all the way to my moon base and back.   

So that is how I have spent the better part of this last month or so. I took a break once we got to the moon, and had myself a little well-earned vacation. I had Dr. Luna keep the cow as alive as possible, so I could kick her carcass all the way back home again. Luna is such a dear, if not a bit on the strange side. But I suppose living on the moon can do that to a gal. She’s always smiling, and not in a happy way. More like an eerie way. Bart says it’s a side effect of the lack of gravity, something to do with warping the poor woman’s brain. I must admit, I always feel quite relaxed once I return from the moon, especially this time considering the pleasant company I kept along the way.

I guess I should call all of that a lesson learned. That is the last time I trust someone that I haven’t grown in a vat myself with the important things around here. Thankfully my favored minion survived. I don’t think the others would’ve really hurt him. Everyone loves Bart. As for finding a new right hand man, I think it might be time to consider creating another minion, though he wouldn’t be as wonderful as Bart. If I felt I could trust Caligula, I’d give him more duties. Or some duties. But we all know he would just ignore them, just like he ignores me.

Note to self: Get Bart to draft plan for growing a new minion. Surely he can do it cheaper than I did.

Ah well, there is much to contemplate and much to do. I wonder if my shrink is open for a session. I seriously need to unload.

Until next time,

Sylvia Fowler

Spectacles, Testicles, Wallet, Watch Out!

October 2, 2013

Dear Diary,

Well it has just been a whirlwind couple of weeks. I bet you thought I would never check in again. I don’t even know where to start!

Another therapist has bitten the dust, but for the first time it wasn’t my fault. Not even laterally. Not even me pretending it wasn’t my fault only to admit by the end of the entry that it was, indeed, my fault. Nope. No way.

Bart killed him.

You read that right. Bart killed Dr. Jackson. The man was on his way to recovering nicely when Bart ended Jackson’s life. I wondered at first if it wasn’t accidental, but Bart confessed later on to pulling a gun and blowing the man’s brains out of the back of his head. And why? Because Dr. Jackson spoke ill of me.

Ah, I guess it was laterally my fault after all.

The point is, the moment Dr. Jackson regained consciousness he began shooting off his mouth about me and my company and my work. And of course being the loyal minion Bart is, well, he couldn’t abide by such lip. So, he blasted those lips off. And thank heavens he did. Imagine the nerve of some people. I mean, I said I was sorry for almost cutting him in half. You’d think that would be enough for a professional. But no. He had to get personal about it. I understand the word bitch came up many, many times. Bart is a good minion. I should reward him.

Note to self: Get Annie to get Bart a prezzie.

Oh! I almost forgot to tell you, diary. I have a new assistant. Her name is Annie and she came to me highly recommended from the temp agency Temporary Insanity. For a temp, she is quite the find. Loyal, hard working, takes direction well. In fact, she has lightened my load quite a bit. I don’t have to worry about the little things anymore. No more fretting over silly forms or budgets or schedules. I can turn my mind to higher troubles.

Like how to finally get my claws into Sterling.

Annie has a few ideas about that too, and I must admit, one or two of them may turn out to work. Of course, I will take the credit if they do. Thus is the life of having a villainess as a boss lady. She gets the satisfaction of a job well done and I get the kudos for a brilliant idea. It’s a win-win for both of us. Well, for me, at least. And that is all that matters, right?

October promises to be a busy month again. Just like always. As if life as a villainess wasn’t complicated enough, every bad guy from here to eternity insists on you coming to his Halloween party. It’s like the moment a fellow evil mind hears you own a vagina, suddenly you become nothing but the token female. I mean, I know plenty of other villains that own vaginas, but they don’t have their inboxes flooded by a half a billion party invites begging them to fill out the ranks, as it were. Granted, their vaginas are usually kept in jars or sewn onto some monstrosity. Perhaps that is the difference? Who knows?

Speaking of vajayjays, I have some bad news. Dr. Astic is back from Peru, and while I am glad he is safe and sound, he isn’t quite the same. To be blunt, he’s lost his manhood. That’s right. The Peruians … Perusians … Peruites? What in the hell are they called? I’ll start again.

Those bastards down in Peru turned his own machine against him and changed his gender. Normally, the subject explodes after a few hours of changing. But my Astic, being the clever man he is—or rather was—managed to stabilize his genetics and keep from blowing up. I am just torn up about it. As you know, dear diary, I wasn’t exactly in love with the man. He was just a fiend with benefits. But now those benefits have changed in origin. He is essentially the same Astic, just … well, bitchier.

Yes. I said it. Now that he is a woman he has lost his masculine evilness and just seems like a bit of a bitch. God, it’s like admitting to liking easy listening after a lifetime of hard rocking, isn’t it? It always perturbs me when men say that I’m not really an evil genius. I’m just as evil as they are, damn it! Strong men are always thought of as hardcore or heavy handed or intense. But strong women? We are just bitches. Oh, she must be on her period. She must’ve missed a shoe sale. She must just need a man. Sure, I need a man … to dip in my vat of acid!

Yet now that I am on the other side, well, it’s true! Dr. Astic isn’t evil anymore. Just fussy, like a whiney baby. And that man is in dire need of a pedicure. Seriously. If he is going to start wearing open toed shoes, he needs to get those bear claws clipped before he starts spearing minions left and right. Mostly right. Really. That big toe looks like a freaking steak knife.

And I won’t even get into the whole sex thing. I mean, I am not apposed to the frisky fling with a lady friend every once in awhile, but my mainstay is male attention. I love men. A strap on can only do so much. A lady like me needs a genuine love muscle rocking her vaginal world. And now my fiend with benefits is gone. Poof! Vanished into thin air like so much melting cocksicle in the warm afternoon sun.

Note to self: Get Annie to make me another batch of cocksicles. Momma needs cool, cool lovin’.

The whole thing has me in the dumps. I can’t even bring myself to green light an invasion project, much less direct a staff meeting. I’ve let Annie run the place on her own for the last few days. Thank evilness she has been here for me. I mean, I always have Bart, but this is one time I need the comfort of a fellow gal. And I mean a gal with the original factory parts. I suppose I will have to pull myself together soon, lest I miss out on all of those parties.

Oh, now there is an idea. I was just bitching about the parties being full of nothing but gropey men. So many man filled social events and so little women. And by little women I mean the female attendance will be fewer than the male. I did not mean midgets would be attended. Ugh. See? I can’t even think straight. I should go before I say something else stupid.

Yes, yes, Caligula pointed out that it is far too late for that. Har. Har. I tell you what, sometimes I think I should come up with a testicle growing ray just so I can lop his off again.

Wait up. A testicle growing ray? Now then, that has promise as well.

Note to self: Get Bart to draft just such a ray.

Until we meet again,

Sylvia

Horn of Plenty

September 11, 2013

Dear Diary,

I have been particularly pissy these last few weeks. I hadn’t really noticed it, but Bart was brave enough to bring it to my attention when he happened upon me beating my new therapist, Dr. Jackson, within an inch of his life. You see, the doctor called me greedy. I may be many things but I will not put up with being thought of as a greedy person. I only want what is rightfully mine, control of the world, and I told him as much. Interestingly enough, I just explained the very same thing to Dr. Freeman just the week before. And by explain, I mean I enlightened him with a katana, and I clarified it right into his throat, down his esophagus, all the way through his stomach, lower intestines and out through his balls.

In this case, however, Bart pointed out that the good doctor had in fact called me needy, not greedy. Which, to be fair to the poor man, I am. While Bart dragged the doctor off to the medic to see what could be done about saving his life—and his eye, which I popped out and played a fair amount of ping pong with before Bart found us—I began to ponder what has had me so upset in the first place. I think I know what it is.

I’m horny.

There. I said it. I am sexually frustrated and if I don’t get some action soon, I think my girly parts might seize up like an engine far past the need of an oil change. Sure, I’ve got my battery operated boyfriend, BOB, but that little guy can only do so much for me. Robots just don’t understand erogenous zones, no matter how many times you point them out. Not that men are much better, but they are slightly more trainable when rewarded with a mind blowing orgasm. And then there is that weird robot voice of BOB’s. Ugh! Not to mention the emotionless commands.

“Press one if that is satisfactory, two if you would like it harder and three for in the ass.”

I think Bart was trying to be efficient by using existing voice software, but I swear it’s like fucking a talking ATM. I don’t want to make a withdrawal, asshole, I want you to make a deposit! A good, strong, long, hard deposit!

Note to self: Audition new voices for BOB. Surely someone in the compound sounds better.

I suppose I should explain the source of my frustration. My fiend with benefits, Dr. Astic, is still in Peru. I know! It’s been almost a month now since they have taken him hostage. I sent him down there to wreak havoc, but all he did was make them more efficient. Turns out, the moment he applied the gender switching ray, the upper echelon of the Peruvian military was able to concentrate on something other than their peckers for five minutes, and in a moment of clarity they organized a counter attack and capture my poor Astic. Which, by the way, I told Astic would happen if you took away a bunch of peniseseses. Peni. Penies. What is the plural for men’s junk? Penises? Point being, while the whole thing has been an interesting social experiment that explains a ton about gender identity and its relation to politics versus efficiency, I would rather have my lover back than say I told you so. I can say I told you so much, much later.

With my vagina.

In other news, my minions botched yet another attempt to capture Captain Sterling. I caught word that he was planning to attend a gala luncheon at the School for Blind Children. Trust that pompous ass to show up and act like he’s the star. As if he cured the little buggers or something. I mean, they may have gotten an education but they are still blind. Anywho, I sent my squad in with a clear objective, but apparently one of them got distracted by a roast beef sandwich. Honestly. A roast beef sandwich. It isn’t like I don’t feed these people. Why should a sandwich distract a highly trained … ah … wait … Caligula just pointed out something I didn’t consider.

Note to self: Make sure the ration budget reflects the additional recruits from last month.

Oops. I guess that was my bad after all. Caligula says I shouldn’t have to worry about such trivial details, but if I don’t, who will? Bart is the only person I trust and I already have his attention split between ten different projects. And I can’t make another Bart without spending half my fortune on it. So, I have to keep up with such petty managerial aspects until I can find someone trustworthy enough to shove it off onto.

Oh, now there is an idea.

I need a personal assistant, and Fowler Incorporated could use a good business manager. Both of these things were supposed to be Bart’s jobs, but I made the mistake of giving him far too much technical knowledge. I need him to create things of wonder for me, not worry about whether or not the troops are eating enough or if I am out of those premade frozen daiquiris again. No, I can hire another hand for that. But who? I think it might be time to ring a few temp agencies. Try some folks out for size, as it were. And if they don’t work out, I can always feed them to the troops. What? You try feeding a few thousand minions on a budget. Just because I am rich doesn’t mean I’m not frugal. How do you think I got so rich?

I mean besides killing my parents and cashing in their insurance policies.

Note to self: Have Bart find the number for that villain temp agency, Temporary Insanity.

I guess this brings another entry to a close. I need to go visit Dr. Jackson in intensive care so I can formally apologize for almost killing him. I hear he is hanging onto his life by a thread, but he lost the eye. He literally lost it. Bart had Jackson hang onto his own eye, and on the way to the medical unit, the doc dropped it and it bounced away. The minions have been searching frantically for it, but I suspect if they find it they will just eat the damned thing. No matter. Bart can fit Jackson with a better eye. I for one am impressed that the doc survived the thrashing I gave him. Perhaps I have finally found a therapist that can match my sadism.

I wonder if he’s married.

Until next time,

Sylvia

Cake and Failure

August 28, 2013

Dear Diary,

Contrary to what the movies suggest, you can not shove an automatic weapon through the cavity of full grown man and expect it to keep on shooting. It gets clogs up with wet bits and eventually jams. Now I have to completely change my plan of attack on the Retro Dome. Which sucks because I thought zombie shields sounded like a genuinely good idea.

I am not going to take the blame for this one. This failure lies entirely on Shelly’s shoulders. Shelly is the head of Fowler Inc’s biology labs. Or at least she was. I haven’t decided if she still has a job, that German moron. Like most of my staff, she’s just one disappointment after another. This whole “using zombies as living shields” thing is just the icing on a big, fat, failure cake. Wait. Cake might be a bad metaphor.

I love cake.

I hate failure.

Note to self: Get the kitchen to send up a cake. I want cake. Now.

Caligula seems to think the chief of biology is a position better held by a man. I disagree. I don’t see how having a schlong makes someone better equipped to hold any particular position. Except maybe a male porn star. I mean, you can make a strap-on only look so real. Though, as long as you aren’t looking directly at it, you can’t really tell the difference, can you? If you wrap your hand around it, or your mouth, sure you can tell.

Trust me on this.

I don’t think of myself as a feminist, but I do believe Caligula is biased in favor of men because he is a male. I don’t say man, because he hasn’t been a real ‘man’ cat for years, if you get my drift. My point is that men and women have been equally disappointing to me. I hold no special hatred for men just because every single one I hire has been a complete and total screw up. Save for Bart, of course. Bart is the exception to every rule, including genetic manipulation, cloning, stem cell research, bio engineering, chemical warfare … the list just goes on and on.

Future villains and villainesses beware: Growing your own minion in a vat is a costly venture. You probably won’t have enough resources to invest in more than one. So, make sure you get it right the first time. It isn’t like mixing a big batch of ice cream and churning it until it’s done. It takes loads of science and high end technology and just a bit of luck. Lucky me, Bart came out just right.

Note to self: Get them to send up some ice cream with the cake.

Again, my point is that while most of the men under my employment have been failures, so have the women. I am an equal opportunity employer. I have hired an equal amount of men and women in my line of work. I have also fired an equal amount as well … from a cannon into the heart of the volcano that heats my underground lair. What can I say? I consider myself a fair boss lady. Do right by me and I reward you with another day of life. Cross me and, well, you get the idea.

Anywho, the zombie shields are a no go. To make matters worse, I can’t get the stink of dead out of my hair. It even got under my nails. And why is it I cant stop sniffing my hands? Geesh. I know they are going to stink, but I keep on smelling them. It’s like when you pick at your belly button, and you know that finger is going to smell like ass, but you bring it to your nose anyways. Then you actually flinch at the horrible scent, as if you somehow hoped it would smell like roses. Or is that just me?  Please say that isn’t just me, because I do the same thing when I scratch my ass.

Who knew zombies would deteriorate so easily? Mine took just a half dozen bullets to the stomach and all but exploded in my arms. I guess the reason is pretty obvious. They are walking corpses, for Pete’s sake. Yet, like a world class moron, I expected a tougher zombie. When I strapped her into her own zombie feeding tank, Shelly pointed out I didn’t ask for super tough zombies, just regular zombies. I had to go back and read the order form, and I hate to say she is right. I didn’t specify super tough zombies. So, maybe it isn’t all her fault. But it was her idea, and while it was original I can’t ignore the total failure of it. Thank evil we were just running a drill and not on a real mission.

Speaking of being a fair boss lady, I hate to reward originality with infection, but damn it! I can’t just let her go unpunished. Besides, it’s probably too late to rescue her from her own creations. I can hear the zombies shuffling into the feeding hall right now. Ah well, perhaps I can hit her with the intellect enhancer ray and have myself a zombie chief of biology.

Oh, I rather like the sound of that.

Note to self: Get them to send some porn with the ice cream and cake.

Until we meet again,

Sylvia