MooMoo-Chan

Born at a young age (coincidentally, he was also Bjorn at a young age, but the scars of his childhood name change are too deep to be brought up here) in Bogataw, Wisc., MooMoo was raised in the idyllic lifestyle customary of a young tapeworm his age. After graduating from the prestigious Pudding University in Argentina, where he spent a great deal of his time battling Nazis and discovering the secret behind the Heavenly Shining Beacon of Hope, an ancient Incan artifact that held not only the secret to immortality but the secret to making a really fantastic egg sammich, he opened a 'Really Bad Food' franchise that earned him a steady income. Disheartened by newfound immortality, MooMoo found the proponderance of sword-weilding businessmen trying to cut his head off a bother. Seeking refuge, MooMoo moved to the small south pacific island of France, to escape from things, and relax in his big, fluffy chair with a bowl of chocolate softserve topped with nacho cheese Doritos. Unfortunately, MooMoo had to leave shortly thereafter when the Americans began bombing it with accusations of terminal rudeness. Not that he was afraid of the bombs, mind you. He was immortal, really. Honest*. Little did MooMoo know that this was only the beginning of his problems.

It was years later, and MooMoo, a middle-aged business mogul, thought he had it all. 'It all' consisting of a rock and a small piece of string to tie around it. After a brief stint battling the evil Dr. Scarab as a member of the super-feature family the Bionic Six, he had settled down to start a communications business called Frank. Unbeknowst to him, a certain masochist by the name of Nodden had chosen HIS administrative building to run into until his nose bled. Eventually, the Nodden family sued MooMoo for making his building of a substance hard enough to damage their not-so-beloved son, and MooMoo was left of the street, with nothing to accompany him but his lingering addiction to pez, his inherent fear of Ghaleon punching puppets, and his invisible Kevin Bacon doll. All was lost, until a familiar limo pulled up on the street in fromt of him. The tinted window rolled down, and MooMoo was confronted by an old friend, a friend that had been there through thick and thin throughout his childhood. A friend who would always lend a helping hand.

So it was that Captain Caveman gave MooMoo a job at his local Spatula City franchise, under the managerial supervision of BIIIIRDMan and Shaft (he's one bad mutha). And he got a race car.

Xeta Psilon

Ah! I'll disguise myself with paint! Because, what we know, to be a perfectly harmless panda will appear to them to be a horrifying grizzly bear, mwahahaha! And then I'll get a race car.

Once a long time ago in a prefecture far far away something happened. On an unrelated note, I snapped into existance as the result of a science experiment gone horribly wrong, including two rubber bands, a salmon, and a good hot cup of tea. Without going into particulars, for the sake of national security, a lot of stuff has happened since then and now. Most of it didn't make too much sense at the time, but was overshadowed by even weirder stuff. Thus, we can say time was proportional to weirdiocity. To put it simply, this bio is much weirder than my last. For exact expressions related to this mathematical hypothesis, please ring Mr. Griffeths. He and his charming wife Edna will be happy to answer any of your questions about Finland, and who knows: they may even show you some of their unrivalled collection of Scandinavian credit cards.

And then one day I was pondering the inate meaning of all things, when I was suddenly ordained. Ordained as to what you might ask? Search me, I've been trying to crack that one for years. But the bonus complementary chips you get from the "ordained society" make it all worthwhile. They're greasy and barbeque flavored, obvious prerequesets. This may come as a shock, but (ZAP!).

This is Jack Hedly of WEOD News. We'd now like to apologize for the humorous nature of that previous sequence. We'll now return you to a BORING FACTUAL NARRATIVE OF MAX'S LIFE (all ready in progress)...

So then I said to the man behind the register at McFloogy's sausage shack "Okay Buster! All I want is a Hot-n-Spicy-n-hot union Jack pepperland wondermint sandwich." But he said "Sorry sir, but your registration number doesn't match that sandwich". "Damn the registration number", I said "All that is is an index of when I called to provide the necessary query information to the people at Cosmopolitan..." At which point a rickity old man behind me gasped: "No wait, I filled out that census - it was Vogue magazine!" "Okay," I said "Anyway, it has no corollation to sandwich value number 7 the extra spicy-hot Meatwich. I don't want an Extra Spicy-Hot Meatwich, it's a rip-off. They don't increase the spice content, they just decrease the meat content, thus increasing the spice to meat ratio!"...

And then I made this site. I still have the racecar, and research into the nature of poop-chuck'n monkeys is now being conducted on a national level (thank goodness). Good day!