Swift blessings upon your skulls, brothers and sisters.

I am Brother Bludgeon. Frequent ranting reviewer hoping to branch out into actual writing in the foreseeable future.

Fake Bio:
I was born in a log cabin in the Arctic Circle, where I was promptly abandoned by my mother, who had chosen to devote her life to the health and welfare of arctic mammals. Well, to the health and welfare of one arctic mammal. Okay, she was eaten by a polar bear a few seconds after I was born. I don't blame the old she-bear much. Raised me like her own cub. Of course, without the masses of blubber and thick coat of transparent insulating fur, I was pretty miserable. Every morning, mother bear would take me out onto the ice to catch breakfast, a seal or something. She'd smash one of her paws against the ice until it shattered, then proceded to reach for whatever happened to be down there, and anything she caught, we'd eat. Later on, she started teaching me to do it herself. First, she'd give the ice a good smack, then she'd just stare at me, expectantly. Eventually I caught on. Broke every bone in both hands, though I'd long since lost all feeling from the neck down, so I didn't really mind.

I lived like this for the first dozen years or so before I was discovered by a group of Eskimo missionaries, preaching the good word of Tekkeitsertok, master of caribou. Now, I'd been eating food with a 400 percent saturated fat content and that diet had been combined with a mixture of hibernation and breaking through two and a half feet of solid ice with my bare fists. At age twelve, I weighed about 390lbs. of fat and muscle. And fat. They killed my furry mother, and there was much feasting and rejoicing. When we returned to their village, I was welcomed like family. I learned seven of the 18 words for ice and even got a tribal name. Years later, I found out the name meant "turd frozen to a moose's ass fur," but at the time it really made me feel special. One day, the village elders came and told me they'd saved up to send me to college in Missouri. I was only thirteen at the time and had never really been to any kind of school, but I was so happy. It wasn't the best sendoff, as I recall. It wasn't so much that they were paying to send me to college as it was that they'd sold me to a hopelessly lost traveling circus for twenty-five american dollars and the bearded lady. They call it "freak swapping," and it started in the late 1800's as a way to keep sideshows fresh. There are rules, of course. It has to be a mutually beneficial swap. I mean, you can't trade Mike the Dog-faced Boy for Larry the Dog-faced Boy, that's just pointless. But, I digress. I was on my way to the good ole contiguous United States.

Long story short, after I buried the ringmaster, fifteen clowns, and the shy but beautiful tightrope walker who taught me what it was to love, I tried to get myself a job in the big city. In this case, the big city was Branson, Missouri: Las Vegas' Creepy Second Cousin. My first gig was running security detail for Wayne Newton. It goes without saying, I had never before nor have not since seen so many old women's panties. I'm proud to say, during my stint as his bodyguard, not a single undergarment ever came close to hitting Mr Las Vegas. Sadly, the bullet was another story. My next job was chasing pigeons off of airport runways. Don't think they ever paid me, but I got to eat whatever I caught, so I made do. It wasn't too long before I found myself in a bit of a rut. Day in and day out, everything always the same. Chase, scream, wave my arms around, chase, do a dog impression, pounce, suddenly remember the difference between pigeons and airplanes, run away, chase, pounce, eat, pass out from my own smell, and start over the next day. I hitched a ride in the landing gear of a 747 and made my way to New York City. That, brothers and sisters, is where I thought I had finally found my true calling: super heroism.

That's right, you may remember me as the spectacular Bludgeon Man. It's slightly more likely that you remember me as the guy who beat several muggers to death in Central Park. Well, they were either muggers or joggers. Honest mix-up, am I right? Well, I got out on a plea bargain and a dramatic jailbreak, but those fifteen mintues in irons changed my life. That den of regret and misery called out to me, begging for answers and absolutions beyond my powers to give. I wandered the city, alone, confused, and with no natural rhythm. Seriously, put on music, I'll just stand there and look nervous. I can't even robot. Anyone can robot! I mean, I probably could, if I practiced, but then... I'd be able to do the robot and what the hell kind of good would that do me? A few days later, I looked up and realized I'd walked to some obscure island in the middle of the South China Sea Convenience Store parking lot. As if destiny were reaching down and shaking my by the scruff of my neck, I was standing in front of the most beautifully decorated cardboard building I've ever laid eyes on. I placed my hand on the door and genly pushed. The ornately carved doors held fast, but that was okay. A passing car splashed some water on it and the whole thing sagged and fell down, revealing the Head Abbot of the Order of Compulsive Monks. I took my oaths that very day, and the rest, as they say, is equally long and ridiculous.

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As for my real life, hell, I have another Internet life you folks are never going to know about. No real info to speak of here.