about mr. dan kelly

Mr. Kelly is a writer. He lives in Chicago, IL. Previously Mr. Kelly resided in Oak Forest, a southwest suburb of the Windy City notable for its impressive offering of various car services.

Mr. Kelly brings smiles, laughter, and tears of joy to millions of children whenever he leaves the house without his pants.

Mr. Kelly breathes heavily as the hounds bay in the distance; hounds eager to find and emasculate him with one snap of their sharp filed fangs. Run, Mr. Kelly, run, and remember what brought you to this Louisianan swamp, evading the man with the dark sunglasses and noticeable limp. Remember the ruby eyes of the silver skull topping his walking stick, gazing balefully into your soul during the midnight interrogations. Was she worth it, Mr. Kelly? Was she worth your hour of fun? Perhaps you and Satan can chuckle about it over whiskey in Hell tonight, Mr. Kelly. The whiskey is very Hell.

When Mr. Kelly takes the stage, he sings in a voice strangely displaced in one so young. Raw, throaty, and filled with a dark coloratura, the voice sings as Mr. Kelly recalls the tiny village where he was born—before the rich man bought him from his family, garbed him in the trappings of a chanteuse, and bade him to sing, sing, SING, as if his life depended upon it, because, in a way... it does. A single tear traces the sinewy line of Mr. Kelly's left cheek. No one notices, too enraptured are they by Mr. Kelly "The Wounded Black Sparrow of Montmartre ."

Friends... Mr. Kelly thought life was just a big party—drinkin' and carousin' and carryin' on with his Jezebels! Well, now he's dead, and sure as heckfire he's learned that Hell is no party at all! "'Ha ha ha!' he laughed at last week's services. "I want to go to Hell because that's where all my friends are going! We'll booze it up with Satan and have a HELL of a time!" Then he tells me, he says, bold as brass, "I want to go to Hell because that's where all the great minds are. And I can booze it up with Voltaire and Wilde; get into fights with Jackson Pollock and Caravaggio; and have sex with Mae West!" Well, he's not having sex with anyone now folks! Lessen it's the devil buggerin' him with a hoo-hoo the size of the Eiffel Tower!

Mr. Kelly is at work on a life-size model of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, but has yet to apply for the necessary city permits. When the neighbors stop by to complain about the noise, Mr. Kelly merely informs them that Mr. Kelly moved out years ago, following this with serpent-like strikes at their eyes.

Mr. Kelly requires the bile of the living in order to perpetuate his undead existence, which doesn't make him a vampire but rather something considerably less sexy.

Mr. Kelly is so well-endowed, he can act in three pornographic films at one time.

Mr. Kelly dares you to come up here and say that. Oh shit, Mr. Kelly didn't actually expect you to come up here.

In 1996, Mr. Kelly selflessly donated a kidney to a young orphan born without one, re-establishing thousands of individuals' faith in humanity. This went over so well, Mr. Kelly has dispensed 14 kidneys thus far.

Mr. Kelly can play Handel's Messiah with his armpit.

Mr. Kelly has a secret compound where he hunts the most dangerous game... PSYCHOPATHIC FLYING RADIOACTIVE ALLIGATOR ROBOTS!

Mr. Kelly's bones are made of an advanced polymer at a cost to U.S. taxpayers in excess of $300 million. $300 million! To what end, sir. To what end? Mr. Chairman, the American people demand an answer. No, I will not sit down, sir. The people of my state have given me a sacred trust, and as God as my witness, I will filibuster till they cart off my cold dead frame or you begin to see reason! (Applause from the gallery.)

Mr. Kelly wants you to step aside so he can show you how to fucking grill a steak properly. Jesus!

Mr. Kelly was just messing around. He didn't expect the freaking thing to get stuck up there.

Mr. Kelly doesn't think he's better than you, it's just frustrating for him that he's so much smarter than you.

Mr. Kelly has better things to do than stand here with you, haggling over the price of rhubarb. There's a big wide world out there, sir! Don't you see? Didn't you have a dream once, sir? Didn't you? A dream to pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and show those fancy folks up on the hill what you're made of? Well, maybe running this crummy store is good enough for you, Mr. Browers, but it's not for me. Win or lose, I'm going to lick this world. You'll see. You'll see... What, sir? Why... why, Mr. Browers. This is the penknife Mrs. Browers gave you before she... before she... (Pause as Mr. Kelly looks the old man in the eye, his lower lip trembling. Suddenly, he clasps the old man to him.) I'll make you proud, Mr. Browers. I won't forget this. Never! Never ever!

Mr. Kelly finds himself once again professing English Lit before a classroom of young ladies (all between the ages of 16 and 19 and a half) at Our Lady's School for Wayward Girls, as they unmindfully cross and uncross their knee-stockinged legs beneath their plaid pleated skirts... tossing their long, luxurious hair this way and that... the whole of them licking lollipops and popsicles while a disturbing carnal knowledge burns from their eyes into Mr. Kelly's brain... Uh, could you excuse Mr. Kelly, ladies? He needs to conduct class while sitting behind his desk again.

Mr. Kelly would like to point out that the above gag is an homage to a Monty Python joke. So, relax and don't send me an anonymous e-mail calling me a pervert, nitwit.

Mr. Kelly's books are read and beloved by kids of all ages, from insensate zygotes to chilling millennia-old children who remain ageless and in perfect beauty, even as the rest of us succumb to rot and disease. Mr. Kelly's 34th book, the Bible is well-known as the inspiration for the Christian religion and the reverse kleptomania of the Gideon family. Mr. Kelly is at work on a sequel called the Qu'ran.

Mr. Kelly thinks it's time for a song! C'mon, you gloomy gusses! Happy days are here again!/Oh, happy days are here again! What? Ah, screw you all. Jesus, just trying to have a little fun around here... Fine. Watch your fucking game shows. Man...

Mr. Kelly cries if the playground equipment is moving too fast.

Mr. Kelly considers the black elixir in the test tube he holds in his hand; the elixir distilled from the testosterone of a thousand mandrills, gibbons, and silverback gorillas. Then, in his vainglorious pride, he first sips, then quaffs the noxious fluid. Aggh! Mr. Kelly grabs his throat! What... has... Mr... Kelly.... done? Urggh! Arrrggh! Snort! Mr. Kelly feel... STRONGER! Mr. Kelly feel... FASTER! Arrggh! Argggh! Mr. Kelly's back hair... THICKER! Argggh! Oo-oo-oo! Grunt! Grunt! Snort! Arggggh! Mr. Kelly thump mighty ape chest then slap at ground! Arrgggh! Oo-oo-ah-ah-ah-ah!!! Mr. Kelly unstoppable APE-MAN-BEAST IN LAB COAT NOW!!! Bah ha ha ha! Argggh! Kree-gahhh! Mr. Kelly find woman! Eat many bananas!! Kill any man try take woman or bananas! Ha ha ha! Arggh! Bundolo! Argggh! Oo-oo-ah-ah-ah!! Mr. Kelly fly to Washington!! Seize reins of power with mighty APE-STRENGTH!!! Ha ha ha! NONE CAN STOP UNSTOPPABLE APE-MAN-BEAST-MR.-KELLY!!! Ah-ha-ha-ha!!! Oo-oo-ah-ah-ah-ah!!!!

Mr. Kelly wonders if you know that when you prick him, does he not bleed?

Mr. Kelly was the Mothman and Deep Throat. He can't live with the lie anymore. Sorry for all the trouble.

Mr. Kelly wonders if you know that when you bleed him, are you not a prick?

Mr. Kelly is the the father of 73 children by 49 women, all of whom are his "Brides of Flesh." Mr. Kelly has more than 320 "Brides of Spirit," including a fleet of succubi with whom he copulates before biting their heads off at the point of orgasm.

Mr. Kelly titters shamefully whenever he sees himself naked in the mirror.

Mr. Kelly interviewed with The Onion for an entertainment editor position in 1998, but he did not get it. Mr. Kelly does not hold this against the editors of The Onion, especially since Mr. Kelly remembers spending half the interview in a soft haze, leaving his body at one point when they asked him what he thought of the work of Hal Hartley and other directors Mr. Kelly finds terribly overrated (Mr. Kelly does not subscribe to the auteur theory). Mr. Kelly also remembers that he was at his most fat-fuckiest at this point, bursting from his ink-black two-piece suit like a corpulent Southern lawyer.

Misser Kelly would like anuvver shcotch and shoda.

Mr. Kelly wants you damn kids to stop tormenting his poor cat. Oh, you think Mr. Kelly is funny, do you? Hey! When I was a boy I never made that gesture at my elders! Come here right now, young man! Hey! Hey! Stop throwing eggs at Mr. Kelly! Why you little... Ow! Just wait till I... Ow! I've got yolk in my eye now! Ow! Ow! Stop it! Stop it! Sob! Wuh-wuh-wuhhh! Shut up! I am NOT crying! Wuh-wuh-wuh! My. Huh. Mother's. Huh. Going. Huh. To. Huh. Be. Huh. So. Huh. Mad. Huh. At. Huh. Me. Huh. For. Huh. Ruining. Huh. My. Huh. New. Huh. Pants. Wuh-wuhhhhhhh!

Mr. Kelly lost his head in the Revolutionary War, and is still seen searching the battleground for it by the light of the new moon. Some say he hunts the living on his fierce, panting black steed "Mephisto," accompanied by a pack of rabid wolves as he rides down his victims and severs their cabezas with one swipe of his bloodied machete. Having no eyes, he invariably strikes off the wrong parts in his blindness, at times replacing his lost head with a foot or hand, pouring gasoline on the fires of his unholy rage.

Mr. Kelly is of Irish-American heritage, his lineage being directly traced to the Fomorian giants, whose visages were so gruesome, viewers had to roll a natural "20," else be turned to steaming colcannon with fear.

Mr. Kelly has been marked for death by the Freemasons, but that's okay because he's just marked them for death right back.

Mr. Kelly has battled der verdammt evil genius The Arian Skull to a standstill, but remains locked in mortal combat with noted French Dadaist, Tristan Tzara, despite Mr. Tzara's death having occurred over 40 years ago.

Mr. Kelly is a good loser, except if you cheat him at pool. Then he will call you a son of a bitch to your face and possibly run you through with a pool cue. This is not a joke. Mr. Kelly takes his pool playing very seriously.

Mr. Kelly once swallowed a penny. He searches for it to this day.

Mr. Kelly once met the Buddha on the road and killed him. He met Jesus and Muhammed, peace be upon him, later on in the day, and while The Prophet, (pbuh), hooked Mr. Kelly with one of his rings during an impeccable slice technique, and while the Nazarene performed a glorious spinning roundhouse kick into Mr. Kelly's kidneys, Mr. Kelly did manage to split open the Son of God's lip and bust a couple of Muhammed's (pbuh) floating ribs. Afterwards, they made up, shook hands, and went out for cheeseburgers at Chili's, where they talked about that nancyboy Krishna and what they were going to do to him if they ever saw his blue ass again. After the tenth whiskey, Jesus said, "Fuck this shit. Let's go to that pussyfart's house right now." Muhammed (pbuh) told Mr. Kelly and Jesus he had a couple of Louisville Sluggers in the back seat of his Gran Torino for just such an occasion. They started with Krishna's knees and then individually improvised, playfully pointing out the funny whistling sound Krishna's nose made, which was bifurcated during a Christ fungo.

Mr. Kelly is a man of admirable mien and girth, and has performed a series of isometric exercises that rendered his stomach muscles with the tensile strength of suspension bridge cable. Blows to the abdomen with a sledgehammer merely cause Mr. Kelly to cackle evilly, awarding death to all present within the year.

Mr. Kelly... Ah, fuck it. I don't feel like it this time.

Mr. Kelly has attained a negative fifth degree pink belt in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu. Dead eight-year-old girls can kick his ass.

Please, don't call me Mr. Kelly. Mr. Kelly is my father's name... At least I think that man is my father. Wait, who is that guy? Hey you! Get the hell out of here!

Mr. Kelly is seen here in this picture with several known prostitutes dressed as Canadian Mounties who are spreading blue cheese across his body as if he were a man-sized soda cracker. I ask you, fellow citizens, do you want this type of man teaching your children?

Mr. Kelly has spanked the monkey on occasion. Once during college, in an experimental phase of his life, he spanked the gorilla.

Religion and spiritualism hold a special fascination for Mr. Kelly, whose diet requires regular Roman Catholic communion and three Ouija Boards a day. Mr. Kelly is capable of calling up Baalzebub, Furau, and many other Potentates of Hell through use of a 1-800 number. God has yet to return any of Mr. Kelly's calls, but they do have a luncheon date scheduled shortly before the last seal is broken.

Mr. Kelly can eat a billiard ball as if it were a hardboiled egg. Mr. Kelly can sink four hardboiled eggs as if they were billiard balls.

Mr. Kelly is often seen wandering through the forest preserves of Illinois, his four-headed axe slung over his shoulder, accompanied by Travis, his mighty blue cat. He and Michael, his somewhat creme-colored wife, are happily married, though they have been locked in spiritual warfare since the dawn of the universe.

Mr. Kelly ate of the fruit of the Tree of Stupidity and saw that he was clothed.

Mr. Kelly enjoys cheese.