You may have noticed Michael, webmaster of Rail!, to be an aspiring punk/rock super star. What with the music he does on the site, the pregnant groupies, and his odd habit of injecting fruit punch “kool aid” into his scrotum. Submerging your testicles in sugar water isn't enough to be considered punk, it takes a little more. It all started a long time ago:

The year was a number, one I don’t recall. In a dark lab at the top of a record company sky scraper, the first ever robot was created. An eight-foot tinmen with clamp hands and a record launching chest cavity, the function: evil. A robot was placed outside every radio station as a “gift” to DJs. But when they pulled off the wrapper, they soon found their severed head looking out of the box.

The record producers set upon a massive shift in DJ power, replacing the corpses with the pathetic individuals you hear now, mostly retired astronauts. It isn’t like you get a lot of job skills from floating upside down and drinking Tang. Besides, they needed some source of income while they nursed their new born alien children. Sadly, it turned out it wasn't the millions of miles between the earth and the moon that made their speech sound so poor. They all naturally lacked charm due to the human-robot breeding program NASA experimented with to make the astronauts. But who’d complain, these were American heroes. Whatever their names are.

One man wasn’t about to take this, he needed the radio. Largely because cassette players weren’t invented yet. That man was Santa Claus. Sure, he only had to drive the sleigh once a year. But he had to drive all night long. And not just a night, but through all the time zones, that’s like a night and a half. The dude needed some tunes otherwise he’d end up staring at deer butt all day. And boy, you do not want to get a gift from a guy who’s been up all night looking at deer ass. So he found the best little boy on his list and gave him the presents of rocking balls and kicking faces. That man was Elvis.

Elvis went straight to the record company, with kung fu chops and judo kicks he broke every robot, door, bone, and secretary’s bra in his path.

Fighting up each floor, Elvis defeated the challenges on them one by one. If a form needed filling out, he’d cover it in black ink. If some middle management nobody, forgotten about by the rest of the company, needed to be talked to, Elvis would read magazines on the couch outside his door until he was ready to meet him. If a robot got in his way, he punched it in the gears so hard oil sprayed all over his face and he had to wipe it off with interns.

One challenge existed that not even the “King” was ready for. Pudding. He had made his way to the cafeteria during dessert. Unable to stop himself, he ate butterscotch flavored gel until he was so fat that not even roadies would find him sexy. With his mission a failure, he let out a scream sending his rock powers throughout the world so other champions may free him from the tastiness of pudding.

Many champions would attempt to face the record companies, but they’d all fall to pudding or pudding like substitutes, like reality TV shows. This went on for a couple of years until the punks were born. The punks were kind of like rockers, only they were really upset about something. Who knows what. But man, it pissed them off. Since pudding just happened to be something, they developed a natural resistance to it.

At every show, they’d say someone sucks because they supported something. Janitors, politicians, girls named Jenny spelling their name with an “i” instead of a “y,” that guy over there eating the corndog wearing the he-man shirt, the drummer. One day, they pointed the finger at polar bears. That pretty much screwed over the punk movement.

A polar bear is a pretty angry bear to begin with, but when you cross one. It’s like nailing together two angry bears, making some sort of really pissed off octo-bear. So the polar bears gathered in the bitter cold wasteland of Georgia and summoned Satan (they are evil after all). Apparently the summoning song was so memorizing that those nearby were drawn to it and to this day attempt to recreate it as “Goth Music.” The cloaks and stuff Goths wear were originally to stay warm in the sunless state of Georgia. The dyed hair was actually just ice. The horrible music, that’s what happens when someone with no musical talent attempts to mimic the divine based on the reference of “that dude.”

When Satan arrived, he agreed to destroy punk rock, because he’s evil. And Mr. T, but that’s another story. At this point, Satan opened one of his several mouths and whispered a song into ears of the fans of punk music. Their hope quickly faded, it was as if millions of punk rockers went to see their favorite band and they all cried out when they couldn’t afford the cover because they left their wallet on another chain.

The punk musicians, being a bunch of irresponsible types didn’t have cars. So the corrupted fans offered them rides. Of course the musicians demanded to know if they supported something, because no way would they get into a car with anyone like that. All those who heard the song of the devil replied, “Everything in life is meaningless, get in the car and I’ll tell you about it.” The punks got in, but little did he know what was in the CD player. The devil’s disk. The song of the hooved demon. Bright Eyes.

The punks who survived the car ride were never the same.

So, who knows what Mike’s deal is? Maybe he’s one of those types who listens to old punk CDs or something. I don’t actually know the guy, he just beats me when articles are due. But I’d wager he supports something. That or had a mullet at some time. Something about mullets makes you immune to the devil. I can’t explain it. No one can.

For more by this author, click here to go to Tacolord.com.