I am relatively new to the world of Daria fan fiction, but I have a fairly acute knowledge of whatís "out there" in terms of topical fiction. Iím aware, for example, that there are a small number of stories devoted to the possibility that Daria is a real person, Lawndale is a real place, and the MTV show is, in effect, "based" on them. Itís a cute theory, and makes for an intriguing read, but Iíve never given it much credence. So I was especially surprised when I received an e-mail yesterday from one Charles Ruttheimer III. The address: ""

I read the letter with a kind of reserved amusement. Here was a greeting from someone claiming to be the "real" Upchuck. Evidentially, he reads fan fiction during his inestimable hours surfing the net, and he stumbled across my only recently-released story "Science Fare." He went on to say that he was pleased with my accurate depiction of him as ... how did he put it ... "a savvy visionary genius with an irresistible penchant for the ladies." He went on to note that the "closet incident" involving Sandi was much more involved and most definitely more enjoyable to all parties involved. Oh ... and would I please publish his memoirs, as contracts with MTV and Viacom made it impossible for him to do so himself?

This is the point where I laugh it off as some fanboyís idea of a joke. But there were phone numbers: his and several others. "What the hell," I thought, and picked up the phone and dialed the first number.

Guess who picked up?

The next e-mail was a largish document, followed by a brief letter that was evidentially penned by Mr. OíNeill. To my surprise, I found myself shrugging off the disbelief and buckling down to the task at hand. Writerís instinct, I suppose. In the ensuing pages, you will find first the letter from Mr. OíNeill, followed by the self-described masterwork "I, Upchuck." I have cleaned it up a bit when necessary, and interspersed editorial comment when appropriate (my thoughts are isolated by brackets and set in boldface at a reduced font.)

In the final analysis, Iím really just as confused as you probably are. Have I been the victim of some vast practical joke? If so, it was incredibly well executed. The voice-acting and characterizations were dead-on during my brief phone conversations. I tried calling back later that night. The numbers were disconnected. Thus, I can only go on what I know. What I know is that it is next to impossible to validate any of this. Upchuck has revealed himself as a notorious one to elaborate. Whoís to say how much of his tale is his own invention, and how much is the truth? We can imagine certainly, but beyond that ... well, how much beyond that can any of us honestly claim to be capable of?

So here I present to you "I, Upchuck": the memoirs of a fledgling celebrity, in his own words.




From the desk of


I am both pleased and honored to announce the completion of a magnificent personal triumph from none other than our own very special student, Charles Ruttheimer III. Poignant and compelling, his latest work "I, Upchuck" takes a vivid and very personal journey to the depth of one young manís soul. This went above and beyond the assignment which called for a personal response to Robert Gravesí "I, Claudius." Magnificent!

I have invited Charles to read his opus in front of the student body at the next assembly, with only a few ... minor alterations for the sake of time and clarity. I hope you all appreciate the limb Charles is going out on baring his naked soul to his harshest audience. Are not peers the cruelest critics? This appears to be the overwhelming opinion. I say not! Prove them wrong! Charlesí bravery and honesty is to be commended. I hope you can keep any bitterness or negative emotions you may experience in check, and rather follow his courageous example.

While Daria Morgendorfferís paper "I, Antidisestablishmentarianism" also deserves special recognition, she has declined the opportunity to read it before the class. Be sure to give Daria a hearty "bravo!" of support and encouragement! Bravo, Daria! Bravo!

Oh, and Kevin? See me after class about "IQB." The concept is terrific, but the delivery needs a little adjustment.

Have a great day, everyone!



a masterpiece by


transcribed by


CALL ME UPCHUCK. It is not the name I was born with, but it belongs to me nonetheless. I was born Charles Ruttheimer III, and a more enlightened persona; a more dynamic specimen of masculine charisma you will not find in these United States! I mean that sincerely and truly. The blessing (and cross to bear) of the famed Ruttheimer gene is that each subsequent generation is a refinement on the original. Centuries of cultivated breeding have made it so. Trust me. The lucky lady who I choose to bear my child (oh! what a hard decision it will be!) will not be able to help but notice an improvement in the looks and temperament of Charles Ruttheimer IV.

Ah the burden of being me! No one who has never been a sex symbol can ever know the angst and trauma I have experienced over the course of my life! Well perhaps Mike Myers. But no one truly understands.

No one save Daria Morgendorffer.

But that is a story for another time. What's that? You insist? Oh very well! If you must be reminded of my now-infamous exploits! 'Twas not so long ago I obtained an evening with this young specimen of perfect womanhood. I confess to saying a great many things that evening. I confess ... to sharing myself (oh, what a naughty choice of words! What do you think? Of course! I was a perfect gentleman, too!) But my point, of course, is that I had hopes that my lovely Daria would come to be more receptive to her natural attraction to me. She tried to mask it, mooning to herself as if she were pining for another man. But Charles Ruttheimer III knows the hearts of his women! Misunderstandings are quickly forgotten, although there was that unfortunate incident with the pepper spray ... [This paragraph appears to validate the basic events in Rey Foxís acclaimed fiction "My Dinner With Upchuck." ed.]

But where was I? Oh yes. The fair Daria. She knows my soul. Deeply. Intimately. Don't let her fool you! She'd deny it, of course! [Point of fact: she did. ed.] But I am not ashamed. She doesn't have to protect me. Bear this in mind as I recount to you the events of last Tuesday, when I saved her life.

But I digress. You aren't reading this to hear about my many female connections (of course, I'm afraid they must crop up from time to time as I recall my extensive past ... my affairs are much to numerous to avoid entirely.) You are reading this to hear the tragic, powerful, moving and modest tale ... of Upchuck.

As I said, I was born Charles Ruttheimer III. My early and formative years were spent mostly at my father's seaside mansion, with its corresponding yacht. I was quite the ladies man from the moment I arrived from the hospital. The nurses, I'm ashamed to say, actually fought over me. I'm told they broke out into violent argument the moment I arrived. But my father, after a rigorous screening process, evidentially could not find a qualified candidate, for within a week the nurses were gone, and the job ended up in the lap of my father's nubile young secretary. She didn't seem to mind the extra responsibility, despite the fact that it required her to move from her apartment to the lonely mansion, with a room right next to my father's. The workload must have been tremendous, what with my mother's frequent absences to her country club. The dear must have been really attached to me. [Undoubtedly. ed.]

My father, as was his father before him, is a business man of some repute. Quite a lot of repute, in fact. So much repute that I hesitate to reveal too much, lest certain three-lettered government agencies take an interest. Suffice it to say that it was from my father that I learned the awesome responsibilities of danger and intrigue. This is what gives me such an astoundingly resonant empathy with James Bond and Aeon Flux.

[Here Charles expounds for several paragraphs on the numerous pros and cons of each actor to play the role of Bond. He includes himself as a "control." I have omitted this passage for the sake of clarity, and will only say that his estimation of Roger Moore was slightly less than that postulated by Rey Fox. ed.]

From my mother, I inherited my legendary feistiness! At least according to my father. "Charles," he once said as I described to him my many pursuits over a glass of fine wine. "You're just like your mother!" And I have no reason not to believe him. When she returns from her latest European vacation, I shall be sure to ask her, and that will make things solid. [Mrs. Ruttheimer(?) was unavailable for comment, so it is impossible to ascertain the validity of her whereabouts. ed.]

I am an only child. Several years after my birth, my mother learned that she was unable to bear any more children. She learned this from her doctors, and was so distraught by the news that she stayed several days in the surgical wing of the hospital. I don't know why it was the surgical wing. The rest of the wings must have been full, for the blessing of my heritage is that no one in my family has ever required surgery of any kind, and I'm sure I would have been told otherwise if it were any different. So anyway, my mother was inexplicably stricken barren. It seems I was born just in time!

My carefree and spirited childhood! What happy years those were! My lack of siblings only contributed to my strong sense of solidarity. My father, quick to understand the necessary elements in childrearing, namely fostering the development of a razor-sharp wit and quick sense of humor, was brilliant in his methods. Every day I would sit in front of the television for hours on end, enjoying the stylish wit of that paragon of humor: Monty Python. By the time I entered grade-school I had a sense of humor and refinement like no other! I was the envy of my peers, which explains their behavior towards me.

[Here Charles goes into a detailed analysis of his favorite Monty Python sketches, among them "Dead Parrot" and "Cheese Shop." I apologize for the omission, but the detraction was a bit much. If you desire more Python information see . ed.]

Ah! Would that you could have seen me in the early grades! I was an irresistible young buck, combining all the best qualities of Sean Connery and John Cleese! I am reminded of that famous nursery-rhyme, so telling when applied to my playground escapades:

Georgie Porgie, pudding and pie

Kissed the girls and told them why.

And when the girls came out to play,

Georgie Porgie showed them the way! Feisty!

It goes something like that, anyway. The details are unimportant. [See for the important details. ed.] The important thing is that it was an inspiration, and crucial to my development.

I never wanted for anything. Father was a generous man: he would scold me about my frequent attempts to get my allowance raised, then cleverly leave his wallet lying around where I could find it -- chock full of unused credit cards! Bless the man! It was his magnanimous nature that allowed me to begin my collection of fast-food premiums from an early age, giving me that extra edge in the collectibles market later in life. This in turn allows me to spend my earnings on things like dinner for the ladies, and replacement telephoto lenses (they all wind up broken eventually, usually at the hands of bashful admirers. But theyíre worth it. Rrrrrrrrow!)

It was during my teenage years that I began to formulate my life's philosophy. How could I avoid it? My exposure to the masterful works of such artistic visionaries as Hugh Hefner and Larry Flynt could not help but impact my existence. I knew from an early age that the life of Charles Ruttheimer III would be a celebration of beauty in all its forms! My dream was to attain a state of perfect fusion of physical beauty and mental feistiness. To my surprise and delight, I fulfilled that dream almost immediately. To my dismay, I could not find an equal.

That, therefore, became my new dream: to seek out the one who could match my accomplishment step by step; who idealized female beauty, and whose feistiness was on par with my own. I'm an optimist at heart. I believe that every young lady has this potential within her. And so I test them, and continue to test them, giving them opportunity after opportunity to reach their peak.

I don't expect their gratitude. How can I blame them? They don't know what it is to find yourself alone in the world, without an equal. But one day one of them will look up and they will see the proffered hand of Charles, and one day one of them will be feisty enough to take it! I live for that day!

And that day is soon coming. The events of the past week have solidified that in my mind. It began, as it only could have, in Lawndale.

A word about Lawndale. The move there was hardly disruptive (although I miss the mansion -- or Casa de Charles as my associates knew it.) A business move of course. Some elements of my father's career require a lower profile than our fabulous playboy existence could afford. I must confess I appreciate the anonymity. I left my mark on scads of young ladies at my previous residence, and let's just say that many of them would love to know where I am now. It gives me more time for ... local pursuits. [Again, I am reticent to take anything at face value that is spoken about Charlesí life before Lawndale, as it is even uncertain as to how long he has resided there. ed.]

And there is no shortage of candidates for my search for the perfect woman here in Lawndale! Before me stands a plethora ... a veritable smorgasbord of eager and willing young women. But I'm concentrating my efforts on the best of the best: those with the most potential. There's Jane Lane, for instance: a smoldering sexpot, deeply impassioned, ready to boil over if I can just stoke the furnace the right way. [Note: I received a phone call from Ms. Lane, demanding that this document be read back to her over the phone. She hung up at this point. I am obliged and embarrassed to disclose that this may be partly due to the fact that my tone seemed to agree with Charles' statement. ed.] Then there are the Morgendorffer sisters: young Quinn, the firebrand, and her sister the temptress. (Oh what a fortunate gift of fate was the arrival of these two to our fair city! Had I but known they existed, I'd have made it a point to spend more time in Highland when father went on his Texan business trips.) These are the lucky few nearest to obtaining the ultimate Ruttheimer stamp of approval! [Quinn seemed more than happy to speak with me, though she carefully steered the conversation away from Charles. I wound up on hold, but I think it is safe to say Quinn hardly feels herself "lucky" in this respect. ed.] The others deserve their chance, of course. I am fair-minded in all my pursuits.

The adventure of a lifetime began last Monday. It was during the voluptuous Mrs. Bennet's class. I was walking back to my seat from sharpening my pencil. It was a long journey, seeing as I had to stop several times to assure the ladies that it was genuine clumsiness that caused me to drop the utensil beneath their desks. I had just finished making my apologies to Jodie Landon when I overheard my fair Daria and the delightful Ms. Lane engaged in conversation. My sense of hearing is astoundingly good, having been refined at countless closed doors, and I gathered that they were discussing the upcoming field trip of the science class to the Lawndale Nature Preserve.

I put on my sexiest grin, which experience has taught me is so potent that no woman can look directly at it for an extended period of time. Here was an opportunity to spend some quality time with two of my favorite girls. I suggested as much, reminding the luscious pair that the classes would be divided into groups of four. They suggested a rather uncomfortable-sounding division on my part, but I knew what they were thinking. They felt threatened at the prospect of time alone with me. Possibly jealous that if I were to accompany them, I would be forced to divide my attentions between them. A valid point. But I was up to the challenge.

Indeed, things worked out better than I could possibly have hoped, thanks in part to the actions of Mrs. Barch (one of the few women, I should note, whose feistiness is strong enough to be ... somewhat off-putting. Somewhat.) In dividing her students into groups of four, she insisted that the genders not mix. I realize what she was trying to do: to separate work from pleasure. But with Charles Ruttheimer III, there can be no such distinction. So it was a happy quirk of fate that there was one extra male member of the class, and a shortage of females. I ended up placed in a group with Jane, Daria and the undeniably feisty Brittany Taylor. Brittany wanted her boorish beau Kevin, of course, who had ended up in a group with several of his sports-minded companions. She went so far as to quietly suggest that I trade places with him. But Kevinís compadres would have none of that! How noble of them to allow me to remain where my special talents are best used.

Upon reaching the preserve, which was founded by Elias Field in 1903 (a political maneuver rather than any genuine concerns about the state of the environment, and was subsequently bequeathed to his daughter and in turn to their descendents so that the position of curator is now held by Elliot Field II) things got off to a shaky start.

The preserve is vast. It covers several miles of naturally-simulated habitat, and is occupied by an incredible variety of species, though not, we were assured, any of the objectionable kind such as created disturbances or posed any threats to our estimable persons.

The groups were sent off in separate directions with a compass and a map with the assignment of obtaining several different species of flora. Unfortunately, Brittany became separated from the rest of us. I'm told that Kevin was also found to be missing a short time later. Fortunately, the pair were able to find their way back to the buses, where they were discovered by Mrs. Barch and Mr. O'Neill when they too became separated and returned to the parking lot. A day of accidents, that. [I questioned Ms. Taylor on this matter, but she was too confused to contribute anything useful. She was, however, one of the few kind enough not to hang up on me immediately. ed.]

Still, things might have come off smoothly. Unfortunately, Brittany had been holding the compass, and our little trio found ourselves without point of reference but for our map and my innate sense of direction.

It seems the map was defective.

Daria insisted that she was capable of finding the way back. But I knew better. For while Daria Morgendorffer (brilliant as she is) has always abhorred all forms of organized activities, I was a Boy Scout! The envy of all the scouts in my den (well, it wasnít my fault the scout leaders liked me best! I canít help it if people in positions of authority find me more than accommodating!) Anyway, this was all before my personal revelation that coordinated groups such as Boy Scouts and Soccer are merely a sadistic front for government brainwashing and social programming. But I digress ... the point is, I was a boy scout. I learned many useful things, such as what common household elements (golf balls, batteries, the like) are wont to explode when cast into the campfire. [Curiously enough, I share this facet of Charlesí scouting experience, and can personally vouch for its accuracy. ed.]

Naturally, you donít go through scouting without absorbing something about the Earthís natural directional guides (magnetic fields and such things.) And since Dariaís view of the sun was obscured by the foliage, they followed me.

So, as I say, the map was defective. Honestly, the incompetence of public officials is intolerable! Some higher-up had actually blundered to the extreme degree that it threw me off. Within an hour we were hopelessly lost. Alone in the woods, with naught but the distant prospect of a menage a trois to comfort us.

[I spoke briefly with Ms. Morgendorffer on this matter. While she refused to either confirm or deny the events as described here, it is highly implausible that she and Ms. Lane were genuinely lost. It is possible there was some other reason unknown to Charles that they did not desire to return to the bus on time. Or perhaps it merely began as a deliberate excuse for nonparticipation and turned into a genuine crisis. Whatever the complete story, Charles was either not privy to it, or chose to exclude details. One can only speculate. ed.]

Not surprisingly, the girls rejected my many noble attempts at offering solace. They are strong-willed, feisty creatures who celebrate their independence and disdain reliance. As am I! My desire increased tenfold in that moment. And I think they knew it, since they graciously gave me a wider berth so that I could deal with my passions in a more gentlemanly fashion.

[I have omitted here a series of paragraphs in which Charles stresses the importance of "gentlemanly fashion" and the necessary merits of sexual expression. I apologize for including this much. ed.]

Soon after, while I was answering the call of nature, the girls became separated and almost got lost. Fortunately for them, I found them once more. I was surprised at the calm manner in which they treated the crisis. These two are very good at masking their gratitude. [I can also vouch for this! I doubt either Ms. Lane or Ms. Morgendorffer will be requesting me as their biographer anytime soon. If either of you ladies are reading, may I nominate Jon Kilner and C.E. Forman, respectively? ed.]

Darkness fell swiftly over our little band. Resolving to make the best of a potentially life-changing situation, I staked out a small clearing and gathered an armful of sticks and assorted foliage. I had shaped them into a campfire, and was about to demonstrate my knowledge of combustion via rubbing two sticks together very quickly when my darling Jane produced a lighter and hastened the process. Feisty!

For some reason, the girls elected not to sleep. This was fine by me, of course. The anxiety was catching, and quite intense. Jane produced a number of chocolate bars from her backpack, and was graciously willing to pass one my way, requiring nothing more than the promise of my honor.

We spoke to pass the time. Trading ghost stories was one of the highlights of my camping experience, and I was more than pleased to regale the pair with some of my feistiest tales! [Charles goes on to recite a few of them. If you have not yet heard the tale of the sentient implants, trust me: you donít want to. ed.]

Eventually the conversation, as all things must, turned to me. I described, in vivid detail, the entire history of the Ruttheimer legacy, dating all the way back to Cleopatraís favorite love slave. Itís said he so affected her that she reserved a special incantation for him; a spell that would live on through his descendants. The potency of that spell is still apparent today.

My fair ladies listened in rapt attention as I described the history I have just recounted to you. Nary a word broke the silence. When I had concluded, the lovely Ms. Lane was the first to speak.

"Why do you bother, Upchuck?"

I was honestly taken aback. "Why what do you mean?" I returned.

Jane tore open her fourth chocolate bar, sumptuously licking the remnants of the third from her full red lips. "The whole Ďultrasuaveí act," she said distastefully.

"Itís not an act," I assured her sincerely. "Itís a way of life."

"Yeah, but the only thing itís gotten you is the name ĎUpchuck.í Whatís so special about that?"

If the dear girl expected me to bristle, she expected wrong. "You can ask Daria about that," I smiled, winking in her direction. Jane was piqued.

"He thinks heís Godís gift to women," Daria explained in that oh-so-dry tone I find so achingly compelling.

"I donít think," I gently corrected. "I know. And whatís more, so do you. Weíre exactly the same, all of us." Janeís response to this statement, while unladylike, was boldly feisty. I decided to explain myself directly.

"Weíre exactly the same," I repeated. "You say ĎUpchuck,í I say ĎChuckster.í Weíre all two people. But the three of us, see, weíre the only honest ones. Everyone else is a liar."

My ladies are not stupid. They know the score. They knew what I was talking about. But since neither of them seemed comfortable airing it, I continued.

"Iím Charles Ruttheimer III," I said proudly. "I donít pretend to be anything else. So people can see me. I donít put on an act for anyone. You see the Chuckster and you know exactly where you stand!"

"So youíre a point of reference now?" Daria asked with alluring sarcasm.

"Exactly! But Lawndale gets it all backwards, see? They see me and they donít understand the honesty. Theyíve spent too much time worrying about the kind of person they appear to be instead of the kind of person they are. Take Brittany. Brittany Taylor means attractive and popular. Feisty, true, but letís be frank. What she is really is ĎBimbo.í Thatís on the inside. With us itís the other way around. They donít understand Charles Ruttheimer III because to them heís inside-out, so they give him their own name: ĎUpchuck.í A validation of their fragile psyches.

"And youíre the same way, Daria. You donít care about the image other people have of you. You only care about what you are. They donít understand you either. They gave you a name too. Brain." I looked at Jane. "I wonít repeat what they call you."

"Where are you going with this?" asked Daria. She seemed confident, but I detected insecurity. I forged ahead into the breach!

"Iíd marry you, Daria." I was completely sincere.

"WHAT?" so was she. Jane just looked amused.

"I said Iíd marry you! Youíre the only one in the whole damn school whoís as uncompromising as I am."

"But ... but Upchuck, youíre the definition of Ďcompromised!í You donít have principles. Youíll take any girl you can get!"

I shrugged. "Iím in a high school, toots, not a seminary. Like I said: Iím honest. And Iím honestly attracted to beauty in all its many forms. But as long as itís come up, Iíd rather have you. You are an ideal. I donít know why you deny it."

Daria was silent for a rather long time. I suspect no man has spoken to her with such passion as I am capable of, so Iím sure it was overwhelming. It was Jane who asked the next question.

"If youíre so damn honest, then why do you keep going on and on about your countless conquests when we all know you couldnít make it to first base with anyone in a fifty-mile radius?"

I shrugged. "First off, my dear, you can call it an indulgence. Itís an ideal, after all. Iíve loved every girl in Lawndale in that sense. Second, call it my one concession to the masses. A little something to help them comprehend my raunchy image. They all know who I am; well that just helps them know who I want to be, and thatís the honest truth.

"Besides," I grinned. "It gives them freedom. Take a ride on the Chuckmobile, and youíll get off unburned. No one would believe you, see? Itís the boy who cried wolf all over again." I rubbed my hands together gleefuly. "A wild night with the Chuckster comes free of any unpleasant social stigma. And no charge, I might add." I patted the ground next to me in an enticing fashion. Jane made gagging noises, but I know she was tempted. I was telling the truth. I was offering freedom.

"Upchuck," Daria said at last, "as much as Iím loathe to admit it, we do share certain philosophies. But thatís nothing to build a relationship on. There needs to be something more. Common interest ... mutual respect ... attraction."

I merely winked, channeling Humphrey Bogart. "All three covered at this end, toots." She rolled her eyes. "Someday youíll come around."

But Daria didnít respond.

She was pointing to the bear that had just reared itís ugly head and was towering above Jane.

It was a ferocious beast, exactly the breed we were assured did not exist in the Lawndale Nature Preserve: eyes glowering, teeth protruding from its rancid maw, dripping saliva. Itís pelt was hoary and black, and itís claws were long and cruel. The stench was terrible. It was out for chocolate, and Jane was covered in it.

My gut instinct was to run. In all honesty, self-preservation is my forte. And Iím honest. I truly am. To prove it, Iíll confess that if Iíd had anything at all to drink in the past several hours, Iíd have probably wet myself. Charles Ruttheimer III saw that monster and Charles Ruttheimer III wanted me to run.

But how could I? Yes, to these two ladies, reduced in scope to fragility upon the arrival of the towering mammal, I was Upchuck ... not worthy of a backward glance. But here I was, alone in the woods, and even if I ran, my best chances for happiness would be messily devoured. So I did the only rational thing.

I turned to Daria and kissed her full on the lips.

This had the desired effect of causing her to instinctively reach for her pepper spray, which I promptly wrested from her hand as I pulled back from the heady and glamorous rush. Like I said, I didnít go through Boy Scouts without learning a trick or two. One thing I learned was that no living creature can abide pepper spray. A second thing was that large hungry bears only get madder when exposed to nasty-tasting things, like pepper spray.

A third is that what really blows up a campfire is compressed air.

So I threw the pepper spray into the campfire.

Jane and Daria realized what I had done. They dove for cover behind the underbrush, covering their ears. The bear wavered in place for a moment before a pillar of fire exploded from the ground like Satanís finger. That was enough to convince him to depart. No chocolate bar was worth the wrath of Charles Ruttheimer III!

When the shock died off, I saw Daria and Jane looking at me with wide eyes. I winked, giving them a thumbs-up. "Thank you, Upchuck," said Daria slowly. "That was quick thinking."

It was love, I know it!

So itís only a matter of time, you see? We were rescued thirty minutes later, as our unorthodox bear-repellant had been visible from the Ranger Station. We were later informed that the bear had been taken into custody and relocated to hunting grounds near Highland. And what of Daria and Jane? They decided to pretend it never happened after I suggested a few ways in which they might express their gratitude.

Itís lonely here tonight, as I while away the hours typing in a darkened room. There is no music to lighten the mood; no color to infuse the scene with beauty or grace. Only the cold emptiness of eternity resides here; my vibrant presence the sole spot of hope in a vast universe.

Alone today ...

... but tomorrow?

I know the score. I know what darkness lies in the hearts of women! Just remember, ladies: itís Charles Ruttheimer III whom you deny; Charles Ruttheimer III whoís presence makes you weak and whoís masculinity threatens you. Itís Charles Ruttheimer III who you snicker at and disdain and spurn and, quaking, fear. But it was I, Upchuck who saved your bacon when the chips were down.