Sicko Cells Have Sex In Cockroach Guts

As a man of the cloth I am a guardian of all things righteous, pure and good. Amen.

Not only that--I can smell a rat when I see one. Amen.

And such a rat--so to speak, is the ciliate cell. Name sound familiar? It should. We're distant relatives of these sicko creatures. Our family trees split apart only a billion years ago--a mere blink of God's eye. Amen.

These "cats" as the hipsters (who probably revere them) would say, are truly perverted. How's this for starters from a New York Times column by prestigious evolutionary biologist Olivia Johnson:

"Ciliates live in all kinds of places, from the guts of cockroaches to the waters around Antarctica, and they have a range of lifestyles..."

Lifestyles. Need I say more? Propriety stops me. But Ms. Johnson, apparently, lacks that gene. She goes on (and at this point, children should leave the room):

"Ciliate sex is peculiar in several ways. For one thing, reproduction and sex do not happen together. When a ciliate reproduces, it does so asexually, typically by splitting in half and growing a complete new individual from each piece. So: where there was one individual, there are now two..."

The perversion deepens...

"In ciliate sex, two individuals arrive, and two individuals leave: no eggs are fertilized, no offspring are produced. But by the time the two individuals go their separate ways, a massive change will have come over both of them: they will both have acquired a new genetic identity."

And in the article's "money shot," Ms. Johnson reveals:

As if that wasn’t enough strangeness, here’s one other peculiar detail. Many ciliates have more than two sexes (or “mating types”) and some — Stylonychia mytilus, for example — have as many as 100.

I could go on. But, unlike the cockroach, I haven't the stomach. Should this be your sort of "thing," you can peruse the entire work of pornography--er--scholarship, here.

Rest In Peace,

Precept Tabernacle Perfect

Supreme Oracle, Advisor To World Leaders and Sole Proprietor of the Holy Umbrella of World Awareness, LLC, a center of prophecy, sound advice and bond trading found in several undisclosed locations in Lagos, Nigeria. During what is a hopefully a brief period of exile, The Prefect is a Visiting Professor at Edgar Allan Poe Community College.

This is the inaugural Ask Doc Paranormal Opinion Post, an irregular series by renowned pundits and statesmen.

I Just Discovered I'm Already Dead

Note From Doc Paranormal: This is the final installment in a four-part e-mail from Lydia, a history teacher in Butte, Montana. For those of you just discovering this chilling tale, the first three parts are titled "Cemetery Sleuth Finds Her Own Grave, "Saga of The Grave Sniffer and "I Pried Open My Own Coffin." My heartfelt thanks to Lydia for sharing her emotional story.

“I knew you’d come,” said the pretty little girl in braids. “I’ve been waiting forever, it seems.”

“Who are you?” I gasped, feeling awestruck but also terrified in the gathering gloom. “I’ve seen you before, but only in my dreams.” There was something about the child that seemed familiar. It could have been her high Slavic cheekbones or her rosy coloring. I recalled the old photographs of my Polish grandparents smiling for the camera. I’d never met them; they’d died when my mother was very young.

“You’ll know when you lift the top off your coffin,” the girl giggled shyly, as she continued swinging her legs over the open grave.

Not wanting to waste a minute more, I turned back to the task at hand. I grasped the wooden top of the old coffin and pulled mightily. With an upward yank, the top fell away with a kind of ancient groan. The wood splintered and crumbled in my hands, and I could see black beetles scurrying in panic inside.

My breath now came in little gasps as my eyes began to adjust to the interior darkness of the pine box. Amazingly, there were no human remains. I reached down and lifted the tattered black velvet dress that lay inside. The fabric was falling apart, but the intricate lacework around the collar and belt was still intact. Without a doubt, I knew it was the same Sunday-best garment that Little Borscht was wearing!

To my shock and dismay, glinting in one corner was a gift from my own mother—my very first bottle of Chanel No. 5. She’d given it to me during my hospital stay at the age of nine. The lovely scent saturated the entire grave site. In another corner, my childhood diary lay open. I picked it up and saw the pages were falling apart and splotchy brown in spots. Here’s what I read: Dear Diary, I am so, so, so sick!!! Mama says I have to go to doctor today. Maybe go to hospital!!!” It was the final entry in my childhood diary. At the bottom of the pine box were dusty and dried rose petals, my favorite flower. My father had given me a bouquet of roses just before my surgery. I adored them.

I glanced up to speak to Little Borscht. She was gone. In a flash, I realized what had really happened to me: I’d died at the tender age of nine! And this was my final resting place. All those years I’d been strangely driven to visit old cemeteries. In fact, I was looking for my own grave—only I never really knew it. Little Borscht had been my spirit guide.








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What It Means To Dream Of Valentine's Day

Here's what it means to dream of Valentine's Day:

Women: You enjoy candy, candle light, sex, fine dining, sex, eating chocolate cake in the nude, dressing your loved one up as a Chippendale's dancer, eating a second slice of cake in the nude, champagne in crystal or plastic, see-through black lace Snuggies and running to the refrigerator in the nude to see if there's any chocolate cake left.

Men: You hate Vermont Teddy Bears, the commercialization of Christmas, and yes, Valentine's Day. You wonder why two loving, caring, adoring, horny people can't just get naked.

Rest In Peace!
Dawnlee Hope, Jr.
Undergraduate Student
Dream Interpretation Curriculum
Edgar Allan Poe Community College

Romanian Werewolf Bus Tours Denies Traveler Deaths

As long-time Ask Doc Paranormal fans know, Romanian Werewolf Bus Tours enables wealthy sightseers to observe werewolves in their native Transylvanian habitat. However, the service has recently been plagued by rumors of horrific traveler deaths--from the very werewolves they paid thousands to ogle while motoring through the wild Romanian mountains.

In an attempt to "set the record straight" I received an e-mail this morning from Romanian Werewolf Bus Tours founder and CEO Andrei Duprei. Here is the full text:

Dear Mr. Doctor Paranormal:

As you are no doubt aware, I am extremely grateful for the publicity you have given my business through your much-admired blog. It has not been easy rising from my humble origins hawking vampire kitsch to gullible tourists outside an ersatz "Dracula's Castle," particularly since I was five years old at the time. But thanks to your web site, this father of eight can now proclaim himself Romania's fast-rising entrepreneur.

However, this lofty status is being threatened by vicious rumors swirling in cyberspace. I am here to set the record straight in order get my bookings up and not file for bankruptcy.

Vicious Rumor #1:
People have been maimed and worse on Romanian Werewolf Bus Tours. Wrong!! Absolutely no tourist has been killed or even injured during one of our tours. Our buses travel the remote roads of Romanian, but these are sightseeing trips only. At no time is any passenger allowed to leave the bus except for rest stops. On these occasions, the tourists are required not to stray more than 20 meters from the bus and to use the buddy system when moving about.

Vicious Rumor #2:
We offer our treasured guests no protection from wild werewolves. Wrong!! At strategic locations throughout the route we place observers with night vision goggles to ascertain the movements of werewolves in the dense forests. This helps alert our tour guides to which side of the bus the creatures may appear on. Plus, several of the observers are ex-military men with sniper training who can "take out" an oddly-acting werewolf that may have been previously injured or is suffering from distemper--thus becoming a potential danger to our guests or the local people, who appreciate this culling service as well as the tourist dollars we impart.

As an added, last-ditch caution, an RPG tube is available under lock and key beneath each bus should our skilled tour guides sense an imminent attack.

Vicious Rumor #3:
We like killing werewolves. Wrong!! It is not our mission to destroy these monstrosities as they are an asset to our rural economy and a valuable portion of Romanian folklore.

As a final note, Mr. Doctor Paranormal, I would like to tell interested parties that our tours are available during all phases of the moon. The idea that werewolves are only active during the full moon is a fallacy that is not true. Travelers can enjoy a Romanian Werewolf Bus Tour at any time of the year.

And, as an indication of my gratitude for printing this article, I would like to offer readers of Ask Doc Paranormal a 10% discount through March 1st.

Sincerely,
Andrei Duprei
Founder and CEO
Romanian Werewolf Bus Tours
Adjunct Professor at Large: Europe
Edgar Allan Poe Community College

I Pried Open My Own Coffin

Note from Doc Paranormal: This is part three of a disturbing e-mail from Lydia, a retired high school history teacher in Butte, Montana. Part one is the post "Cemetery Sleuth Finds Her Own Grave." Part two is the post "Saga Of The Grave Sniffer."

This episode begins just after Lydia digs up what may be her own grave. The closed coffin awaits her...

I sat back on my heels deep in the open grave, my heart pounding so hard I could barely catch my breath. Next to me was the moldy wooden container that held the earthly remains of the first Little Borscht. Obviously, the years had taken their toll on the pine box. It had nearly disintegrated, splotched with mud and decay, the wood splintered and rotten. Earthworms and insects stirred nearby, seemingly aroused by the daylight violating their dark, forbidding lair. Regardless of my fear and revulsion at the task ahead, I accepted what had to be done—it was the key to my very own earthly existence. Others might never understand, but that didn’t matter now.

Although the alluring fragrance of Chanel No. 5 was still floating in the air, it had diminished somewhat in the breeze swirling several feet above my head. The day continued to darken and a gentle rain began to fall. I’d never felt so alone before or so determined to discover the truth.

So, with trembling hands, I reached out to lift the top of the ancient box. Suddenly, a dog began to bark and an elderly male voice rang out above me: “Ma’m, can I help you get out of there? Did you fall? Are you okay?”

“I’m just fine; just doing a little clean-up work is all,” I said. I looked up and saw no one.

“Uh, well, I was out walking the dog and heard something, so I came on by. This old cemetery is pretty awful neglected, but for some reason, that grave gets attention.”

“What do you mean?” I still couldn’t see the old man. But I was six feet down. Perhaps he was concealed by the lip of the grave.

“Well, I seen a young lady—really just a kid—here a bunch of times. She sits quietly, always dressed in black like she’s grieving. Come to think of it, never do see her arrive or leave.” He paused for a few seconds. “Well, gotta take the pup back home for his chow. Be careful, now. You don’t want to be stuck in this godforsaken place in the dark.”

I stood fully erect to bid my visitor goodbye. There was nobody in sight. I whirled around in a circle and saw nothing. But I could still hear a dog barking as if it was only a few feet away. I was alone once again. Or was I?

Frantically, I bent down and clawed at the lid of the coffin. It was tougher to open than I’d expected. I yanked harder, but the lid wouldn’t budge.

“Good evening,” said a lilting voice. I looked up: a young girl in braids, wearing a black dress, was sitting above me, her little legs swinging over the edge of the grave. She was sweet-faced, with apple-shaped cheeks and large blue eyes—the same girl I’d seen in my fevered vision during my childhood hospital stay.

“Hello, Lydia,” she said.

“G-good evening, Little Borscht,” I stammered. “I’ve been hoping you’d come…”

To Be Continued…

World's 1st Paranormal Bowl Held In Las Vegas

Unfortunately for those of you hoping the event would eclipse the Super Bowl, only three people attended.

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Russia Defeats Ukraine In "Mental Boxing" Tournament

While Russian military might is a mere shell of its former self, the nation's paranormal research effort remains formidable. Shocking evidence of this can be found in results of a so-called "mental boxing" tournament recently conducted between Russia and arch-rival Ukraine.

Seven bouts were conducted. Each bout consisted of one soldier from each side placed in locked rooms approximately 100 meters apart. The soldiers had extensive training in combat telekinesis (aggressively moving physical objects with mind power).

The men were visible to spectators and referees, who would signal the soldiers to "punch" one another.

In the first preliminary match, two minutes of inactivity were suddenly interrupted when the Ukrainian soldier recoiled as if he'd been struck by an invisible punch. His nose began to bleed and he was too dazed to continue. The Russian won by a TKO.

The Russian team swept all but one of the remaining matches, including a brutal main event that sent the Ukrainian contender to an area hospital for internal bleeding incurred after dozens of crushing mental hits to his torso.

Ask Doc Paranormal