Andrew tells the story of his father’s encounter with a mermaid. No really. Well, kind of sort of. President Bri and team plan to rob a third world country of its national treasures.

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No one is all bad. Weird Things Cultural Researcher Matt Finley takes a look at the silver lining in famous fictional monsters.

Spoiler Alert(s), Internet!

Thanks to Ti West’s recent ‘70s/‘80s genre-smooching, suspense-laden “The House of the Devil,” a film that foregoes the kitschy pastiche of early Roth and Zombie in favor of a pure, effortless authenticity that’s as refreshing as it is familiar, we can take long look back at the days when Satanism was America’s threat du jour. We all know the score: the cultists wander around kidnapping all the single ladies, putting a runic ring on it, and impregnating them with the Archfiend’s baby. West seems pretty down on these Satanic OB-GYNs and their sinister fertilizations, but, c’mon girls, you could do worse. Rearing demon spawn does have its perks:

Biological Clock Stopper

Tick. John cheated on you. Tock. Mark was a closeted gay who begged you to tell your friends you broke it off because he was an uncomfortably straight alcoholic. Tick. Julian organized car accidents for the mob. Tock. Stan said the only good kid is a kid that isn’t his, and that also isn’t looking at him or eating a loud food like sourdough pretzels. Meanwhile, your desperation-powered cervix Swatch is quickly counting down to a menopausal zero-hour that’ll find your therapist blown clear into the next tax bracket. So when Satanists kidnap you, tie you to a pentagram, force you to chug the contents of a goat skull blood bong and, of course, impregnate you with the spawn of Satan, I say roll with it. “Satan” is only one letter away from “Stan,” and did you ever look at Stan? Say what you want about Satan – I don’t see Beelzebub passing on the man-boob gene.

Parental Stress Eraser

Nurturant Parent Model or Attachment Parenting? Baby Einstein or Baby Mozart? Moral Nihilism or Epistemological Nihilism? Who cares?! You’re raising Satan’s baby! Go ahead – drop him. Feed him some fiberglass pipe insulation. Now drop him again. On his neck. It doesn’t matter. You could be the Carol Bradyiest mom ever and the kid’s still going to grow up, turn off the sun and change everything encompassed by nouns into purple fire. You might as well just make yourself a cup of tea and leave him to his evil. The worst that could possibly happen is that everyone craps blood out of their mouths instead of puking it out their butts.

Afterlife Reservation Confirmer

Ask yourself – Do I want a thread-bare nosebleed seat in heaven or a reclining courtside seat in hell? That high up in heaven, you have to walk down six flights of steps just to get ice cream. That far down in hell, a waitress brings you nachos. And there are cloth napkins.

Watching the new Wolf Man movie, I couldn’t help but think that maybe it’s a little one sided. Really, though, what can you expect from those liberal Hollywood types? “Ugh! Wolf man! Boo! Hiss! Destroy all wolf men!” Sure, wolf men kill some people and send the local chamber of commerce into a bit of a tizzy, but water slide parks do that, too. Honestly, though, I think our local wolf man is the best thing to happen to this town since they closed down the water slide park. Now I’m not shouting “wolf man for mayor” or anything like that (certainly not here in print), but damned if that hairy virgin murderer hasn’t done his part for our humble village.

Lazy Gypsy Motivator

Before the wolf man came, all the gypsies did was lie around their camp drinking raven’s feather schnapps and selling cursed jewelry that turned pregnant women’s babies into foals. After the wolf man though – when everyone started blaming the gypsies for the wolf man – those shawl-draped reprobates really stepped up! At first, it was just little things, like giving away free horse brushes with the cursed jewelry, but as the wolf attacks persisted and the townsfolk got increasingly grumpy, the gypsies actually started to help out. That one-eyed gypsy with three teeth showed the butcher how to prepare goat meat for soothsaying, and the extra mysterious gypsy (the one without thumbs) taught the town drunk to play a funny little drum. I even heard that the one-eyed gypsy with no teeth called a lightning storm down to set fire to our rival town’s high school. Take that, Ockton Otters! Hawks rule!

Family Bonding Facilitator

Before the wolf man came, evenings were just an excuse for me to hit O’Higgity’s pub, for the kids to hickey their schoolmates comatose out in the woods and for my wife to short out the sewing machine motor with her drunken tears. Now, two nights a month, the streets and the woods become the gruesome playground for a voracious monster that can’t tell skin from blood from bone until he turns human again and has to crap out big chunks of bone. What’s that mean? Family fun night! Now, twice a month, evening is a time for awkward silence and forced conversations about daily banalities; a time for arguing over what movie to watch and losing rock, paper, scissors, and having to sit through “Ghost”; a time for me to know full well the sort of domestic hell storm that will result if I make even one hilarious fart noise during “Ghost,” but not caring and waiting until the big climactic kiss to make the biggest, most hilarious fart noise ever; a time for involuntary sobriety and screaming at each other about who cheated at Uno; a time for reminding ourselves why we stopped spending time together in the first place.

Sheriff Comeuppance

Before the wolf man came, everyone had to put up with the meddling Sheriff and his incessant law enforcement: “You can’t park in a crosswalk!” “Actually, the speed limit does apply to motorcycles!” “You’re under arrest for firing a gun in church!” But then, the wolf man ate the sheriff. After that, the deputy was made acting sheriff, and he was even worse! Everyone knows that no man can enforce the Law of the Lake, but try telling that to acting sheriff Reardon, who somehow got Art Putney sent to jail for beating his wife in the lake. Fortunately, the next month, the wolf man ate him, too. That’s when we started having new moon parties over at O’Higgity’s. Now, every month, the first night after the full moon, everyone gets together at the pub and celebrates the death of the most recent sheriff, who inevitably got elected on an “I’ll stop the wolf man” platform, and who inevitably died failing to stop the wolf man. Except sheriff Porter. He died in a lightning storm while watching his nephew’s football practice in Ockton. Hawks rule!