Babysitting for Mama Petrelli

Well, it seems we finally found out the true origin of Gabriel Gray. Someone that vile and disgusting could only have been the test tube love child of Angela Petrelli and a crazy snow globe collector. How exactly Mrs. Gray and Mrs. Petrelli created him, I really don't care to know. I'm sure it was despicable.

Regardless, Mrs. Petrelli now has a third son, as if the two others weren't enough trouble. We all remember what happened when I tried to bag and tag her eldest.

"Those stupid-looking pajama bottoms make your butt look big."

And Peter has always been nothing but trouble: whining about how we shouldn't kill ants because they too have souls, crying over spilled milk, complaining about being bitten by ants, whimpering over ants having drank all the spilled milk. His cry-baby tantrums are incessant.

But I have to say, the newest addition to the Petrelli Brats is by far the worst. I can put up with the cross-dressing. I can put up with the murdering. I can even put up with the Aqua music he plays constantly. But I can't overlook what he did to my Claire Bear!

That's why I was really upset that Angela tasked me with keeping an eye on her little baby.

"Oh, Bennet, he's just misguided," she insisted. "He never had the chance to suck at my teat of motherly love."


Holding back vomit, I said, "I'll catch these villains, but you have to never say anything like that again."

She agreed and the mission had begun.

Sylar ran out to my car in a lovely pink dress. "Let's, like, do it to it or whatever!" he cheered.

"Yeah, um," I responded, "first we've got to get you out of those clothes."

"Ooh, Mr. Glasses! I'm not that kind of girl! This is only our first mission," he explained.

"And there won't be a second," I assured him.

"Well, if you're going to be like that then, I am that kind of girl!" Sylar turned his back to me. "Care to unzip me?"

I pulled down his zipper. He excitedly spun back around, but before he could finish his puckering, I tossed a suit at him. "Put this on. We're doing this Men in Black style."

"Aw," he whined. "I don't like suits. Can I at least be Will Smith?"

"No."

Moments later we were at the bank. "Stay here and be on your best behavior," I commanded. Sylar mumbled insults under his breath as I made my way into the bank.

I had the situation under control, as you can see.


But before I could judo chop the bad guys into oblivion, Sylar ran inside shouting, "Brains!"

The villains attacked us, one at a time. He telekinetically caught the first with his right hand, then force choked the second with his left hand. The third began to get to his feet when Sylar panicked, "I'm, like, totally out of hands lol!"

Seeing that my padawan was in trouble, I decided to help him out by shooting the other guy myself.

"Not bad, Gabriel," I commented as we gathered up the villains. "You didn't eat a single brain. I'm proud of you."

I walked outside and suddenly the doors slammed shut. Sylar threw Jesse against the wall with his mind powers and began to cut his skull open.

"Don't do it!" I yelled at him.

"But his baldness...it's so appetizing," he replied.

"If you wait, we'll go to Olive Garden," I offered.


Apparently he wasn't in the mood for Italian.

Movie Night With Sylarkins!

OMG guys, hi, I'm back! My gosh, like, soooo much has happened since I talked to y'all last, but first things first, I have a confession to make, and I'm like totally embarrassed to make it. You know all my brain eating? Well, eating brains really doesn't give me powers. I just have to like, look at them, 'n junk. I know, boring right?

Yeah. So, I don't eat brains to gain powers...I eat them because they taste good! I try to diet to keep myself off them, but I can't! I can't stop eating those brains! Brain sandwiches, brain sundaes, brain-ka-bobs! I can't stop! See? I'm even eating one as I type! See?



Anyways, now that that's off my bosom, I can continue my story! So, I like, skull-chopped annoying Claire, right? I would have eaten her brain, but I had just finished eating my spinach and was full.



So, anyways, I got her power. Like, yay! I can't die! I'm as invulnerable as a pane of glass! So now I can do what I've dreamed of doing for my entire life...Reenact my favorite movie deaths!

So, first, I went out to the Deep Blue Sea. In the water with a pool of chum surrounding me, I recited a touching melodramatic speech, like Samuel Jackson, that would lure my predator to me: "Oh my gosh, this water is so cold! My nips are as hard as a block of cheese! They could cut paper! Hurry up, sharky!" Wasn't my speech deep?!

Luckily, sharky listened.



After being digested and regenerated, I formed a mind hemorrhoid on the shark, and jumped through! I ran off to my next movie death scene!

For this death, I had to befriend a young, weiner child.

Yeah that's him. "Hey kid," I asked him, when I found him, "Wanna be my friend?"

"Are you trying to molest me?"

"No! Posing as a Catholic Priest was Plan A! I'm onto Plan B now!"

"And what would that be?" he asked.

"I'll buy you beer! And we can go get like, super drunk at that steel factory down the street!"

"Sweet, I'm in," he said, following me.

After emerging from the convenient store with the beer, I took him to a steel factory. As he sat, drinking his beer, I revealed to him, "John, I'm sorry, but I must destroy myself."

"Dude, my name's not John. Are you sure you're not trying to molest me?"

"I cannot self terminate," I continued, "You must lower me into the steel." I grabbed onto a metal chain hanging over a pit of molten steel, and handed him the controls.





He shrugged, and pressed the button. I started going down! Oh, the drama! If only I had my own Terminator as a boy, maybe I wouldn't have turned out the sick, twisted freak I am today! Good thing I never had a Terminator!

As my body entered the steel, I began to melt. I gave a thumbs up heroically as I reached my death.




OMG, I like, melted away! But then I totally regenerated! I climbed out, and onto the platform that the weiner kid sat on. He was sitting silently.

"I'm not dead, weiner kid! I'm alive! I'm really alive!"

He didn't say anything.

"Weiner kid? Isn't it like, totally sweet that I can't die?"

Then it came to me. I had chopped open weiner kid's skull as I was going down into the steel! And he can't regenerate! Only I can! I forgot! He was dead. Whoops! Oh well. I quickly ate his brain and frolicked away.

Anyways, I had one last movie death to live out! And this was going to be like, super awesome!

I went to Area 51, and found the Ark of the Covenant! I opened it.

Like, hot, sexy ghosts started flying about the room like constipated flying eels. "It's beautiful!" I shouted with a giggle. I tried to skull chop them, but failed. I wanted to eat ghost brains!

Well, the ghosties didn't seem to like my attempted murder of them, so they murdered me! My face totally melted off!



That was fun! But after regenerating and doing that a few more times, I got bored of killing myself. Killing yourself is alright, but killing others, now that's real fun!

Unfortunately, I can't do either right now, because I like, um, got caught, again. I know, sad, right? The good news, though, is that the boss girlie said that I might get to play with Mr. Glasses! Hooray! We can murder people together, and then, I can totally murder...I mean, snuggle with...him!

NOT a Stripper

Do any of you know where this woman is?

No, don't get smart with me, that isn't me. Yes, I keep getting mistaken for her, and yes, her hair admittedly looks something like the elegant strands of sunshine that crown my perfect head, and yes, she beat me to crazy hottie Senator Petrelli whose rugged (and apparently religious?) gorgeousness now haunts my every idle thought...

...but she's not me.

You all think I'm crazy, don't you? Well I'm not! That's not me! I'M NOT CRAZY! DO YOU HEAR ME?! GOD HELP ME I WILL BREAK YOU INTO A MILLION LITTLE TINY SCREAMING PIECES IF YOU KEEP STARING AT ME LIKE-

Whew. Sorry about that; everything has been very stressful lately. I need a chill pill.

But not the type I accidentally gave this guy.


It was the strangest thing. This reporter came up to me in a parking lot with some photos from that accursed lasvegasniki.com and a wad of thousand-dollar bills. My eyes were blinded by the radiant beauty of the money, which almost matched my own, and I stared at it for a full five minutes while uttering random political misdirections like "no comment" and "we're working on that now" and "we should start drilling more, because we have lots of oil."

I think he took that last statement as innuendo, because he started jumping up and down like an ugly, rabid weasel. "Take off your clothes!" he cried, or something like that.

Immediately, I stopped staring at the money ( :( ) and fixed him with an icy glare. I knew he wasn't worthy of my loveliness, so I began to walk away. He would never have my perfectly-shaped butt.

The horrible little weasel man scurried after me. "Strip for me or I'll tell the whole world that you're sleeping with Nathan Petrelli!" he threatened, showing me this new picture.



I stared in horror. There she was again, with Senator Petrelli's face buried in her oversized chest, and even though we look almost nothing alike, I was beginning to realize that the rest of the world was apparently blind to this fact. This photo would ruin my chances of getting Senator Petrelli into my... er, into a respectable position of power. (Wait, that still sounded dirty.)

I grabbed the weasel-man's arm. "You can't release this picture!" I said (prettily, of course).

The mustelid reporter said nothing, because he was clearly stunned by how hot I am when I'm angry. And also because I'd just turned him into ice, which then caused him to explode right in front of me into thousands of little weasel bits.


Thankfully, his blood and gooey internal organ stuff was frozen solid too, which meant he didn't spatter all over me. Thus, his petrified viscera did not mar my perfect countenance, and I was spared from looking like this:

Soiled by weasel blood: a fate worse than death.

As such, I went on my merry, gorgeous way, unblemished by any stain, scar, or imperfection (as usual).

Also, I'd just killed a guy. By turning him into ice.

I know I'm taking a very big risk telling you all this, but I did some research before posting here, and you all either have powers yourselves or are so insane and badly-dressed that no one would believe you if you tried to expose me anyway. I also know that most if not all of you have some connection to the woman whom everyone thinks looks like me - she's even there in the list of people who blog on this site!

Now I need to know where to find her, so I can find out a) whether she's got any powers of her own, b) why people think we look alike, and c) how she bagged Senator Petrelli and how I can do the same, because she's clearly doing something right.

So come on. Help a girl out, would you?

XOXO

Tracy

What's a girl to do now?

So, my Daddy bit the big one. Sylar sauteed his brain and TRIED to make it an extra value meal and get mine on the side but HA, I'm not a girl with an easy brain to pick now, am I?

But see, that's not even the start of my problems. I mean, I'm free now, right? No grounding, no sneaking around to get dates. No holds on my charge card because Daddy thinks I don't need that new Dooney & Bourke bag. Noooo. I can do what I want, when I want. I should be happy, and giddy and frolicking through some FREAKING DAISIES.

But Noooo. Peter freakin' Petrelli always rains on my pretty pink parade. I thought I was over him, and his cologne and his wonky lip and his...Okay. No. Peter is a meanie mean head who jaded me....but he's....Peter. BIG FREAKING SIGH. When I was laid out because Sylar tried to go human can opener on me. I heard Peter, I felt Peter...I smelled Peter! And I saw? Some creeper who looked a lot like that Weasel whatever guy from that teenage detective show.

So, on top of Peter haunting me. I get FIRED. I don't work for the company anymore because the she Satan Angela Petrelli decided she didn't need my services. Does she expect me to work at McDonalds now?!

I need a job. I...have to fill out applications. I have to MINGLE. Ew, ew, ew. GROSS.

So. I need a new place to live, a new job, some new shoes because I kind of fried my fave Louboutins and as she Satan said..a new life.

I don't suppose you can buy a life at Macy's, can you?

Like... Whatever... *sigh*

Y'know how when you get like, your wisdom teeth removed and the doctor gives you an anesthesia and you get all like "whatever" for awhile after you're done (even when the doctor is going all "whoa!" because your gums healed right up)? Yeah well, at least your wisdom teeth doctor wasn't a totally insane brain rapist. My experience was soooo much worse. I like, wish I were dead. I feel so dirty. His fingers exploring, poking and prodding... Did he even wash his hands?!

When he first entered, I went into shock, like I was under those wonky dentist drugs.

"Your brain is so totally cute, Claire! Not nearly as cute as my super cute brain, but seriously. It's cute,"

"Whatever..." I said, my left eyelid drooping. I didn't care.

"Anyway. Have you heard from Peter lately? He hasn't texted me back in like forever! Has he said anything about me? OMG! He totally has, hasn't he?! LOL!"

"Whatever," I said again. I don't think Sylar heard me though, because he was suddenly engrossed in something he found inside my skull.

"OMG! Claire! You totally have to see this! This little wrinkle here is shaped like a pony. Oh! And this one is shaped like your Uncle Peter's Pen-"

"Are you gonna eat it?"

"Of course I'm gonna eat it, silly! I've wanted him ever since I've-"

"I was talking about my brain,"

"Oh,"

...

"Are you?"

"Claire," He said, pressing his hand against his chest, pretending to be shocked. Then he lowered his head so his lips were nearly brushing my ear. "That's disgusting..." And then he licked a dribble of blood as it trickled down my temple.

"Lol!!!111!!!!eleven! I'm jk, jk. You're totally tasty, but you're super sweet brain is like, loaded with sugar and stuff and that turns into carbs and like fat and stuff, and I just like ate so... I gotta watch my figure for your Uncle Petey and Daddys! You understand,"

"Whatever,"

And then he left, with my ability to heal and who knows which cheerleading stunts, and leaving me feeling used and icky all over. I curled into a little ball with Mr. Muggles and waited for 5 hours until Mom and Lysander got home. Mr. Muggles probably chewed off a piece of my ear, but I wouldn't know would I? *sob*

Mom asked if I was raped and I said like "Whatever... No. You don't get it," I then left with my camera to go to Uncle Super Cute Peter's house. He's got tons of black clothes and razors and stuff. Maybe I'll borrow some. Or maybe I'll eat a porcupine or stand in front of a train. I dunno. Like, totally whatever.

The Reintroduction of Peter Petrelli

"Oh my God, I'm so ugly! My beautiful, delicate-as-a-flower appearance has been tainted by this hulking, brutish ogre body!" I exclaimed.

"Pipe down, nancy boy," I responded.

It seems I've developed a split personality. This lummox that I've inhabited is fighting for his body back! But it's mine now! No matter how ugly it may be! I'll go put on some black mascara and put on some tight fitting jeans and black clothing and it'll be serviceable.

"Not if I can help it you won't. We'll turn you into a rough-and-tumble manly man yet," my evil-side jumped in.

"Manly?! NOOOoOOOOoOOocoOOoOOO!" I couldn't take that! Being manly and masculine is like the lowest form of human life! I had to stop my evil personality from doing that! So, I slapped myself with all my might. That would teach me!

I shook my head. "I'm reluctant to do this. It almost feels like I'm hitting a girl. But it must be done," my evil self said as I brought my fist back. I punched me across the face and went sprawling to the ground.

Tears streamed down my face. "Figures a brute like you can't solve things without use of violence," I wailed to evil me.

"You started it!" my evil self responded, but then stopped to think for a moment. "Wait a second. Did I just whine? Your sissiness is being assimilated into my personality! See? I even use the word 'assimilated!' I don't even know what that means!"

"You're damn right! I think I'll go drink some beers, watch some football, and pick up some women in celebration. Er, wait a second. Did I just behave like a man? Your masculinity is being...uh...put into my personality! See? I couldn't even think of a fancy, poetic word to use there!"

"NOOOooOOooOOcoOOoOOOoOOO!" I both shrieked.

After both crying and going into a manly rage at the exact same time, I looked up, and saw all the villains looking down confusedly at me.

"Jesse, are you all right, man?" one of them asked.

The two of me shouted at the same time, "I'm Jesse Petrelli! Help! Hinder!" Hmmm, I don't think that's what either of me wanted to say.

They see me rulin'! They hatin'!

Well, I have to admit, so am I. Yes. It's my first day as Queen of The Company and I'm a-hatin'!

Is that what you kids are saying these days; "hatin"?

But can you blame me? So many morons, so little time. More so, so little staff. Who do I have to mentally manipulate to get some decent help around here? It's not like there's a temp service for people with special abilities. I can barely find someone to fetch me a proper espresso complete with lemon peel, much less hunt down the little hooligans that ran screaming from the Pokey on Level 5 and are now off to run amuck and cause obscene amounts of wild shenanigans.

Good thing my bastard son Gabriel is here to save the day! If anyone can reign in a bunch of murderous lunatics, it would be their King. That homely woman I sent him to live with did a bang up job of scrambling his brain ala the eggs he refuses to eat. Virginia Gray, I slow clap your work. You destroyed his psyche worse than I ever could ever do myself.

In the meantime, Future Peter is officially out of my will. Let's recap the mayhem this little stinker has caused.
* What a leather clad troublemaker; with his hiding himself into some husky lunatic and then loosing him at gas station. Now I have to put his picture on a milk carton. There's no Molly Walker for me to use as a prepubescent GPS now.
* Continually dismissing his emotionally distraught niece's requests for assistance with the many problems with her head.
* Shooting his brother in the chest, failing to kill him, and then attempting it again in a church of all places. (Not that it was such a bad idea, Nathan's mouth is unusually large, like his head,)
* And in general just being der Schweinehund.



I didn't raise him right. Perhaps he too, would have been better off being fed a steady diet tuna sandwiches and stale Ruffles from the gourmet, avocado green kitchen of Virginia Gray.



What's an old woman to do? Firing Elle was therapeutic, but simply not enough to soothe my power mad and eternally crabby soul.




Perhaps I'll find a nice brunette and offer her up to my new found son as a hors d'oeuvre.

She's first to be plated complete with garnish...



"Yumm-o" indeed!

My child claims that brains are disgusting. I beg to differ. Clearly he's never had the sweetbreads at Maxim's de Paris. Perhaps I'll take him there next May for Mother's Day so I can celebrate it properly, unlike this past one. We all know how that turned out, and if not, scroll down. I was robbed! Brats.

Well my Dears, I'm off to raise a little hell of my own. I have so much to do, but nothing to wear except for these Sarah Palin-esque suits. Now that I'm in charge, I'm thinking about installing casual Friday. That way I can wear Gucci loafers to show off my ever prized stolen sock collection.



With the exception of this unfortunate day, I never miss a chance to show off my socks. Love me, love my socks. That is all.

I bid you adieu,
Mrs. Angela Petrelli

Junior Senator form NY in Your Face

My Fellow Bloggers:

I blog before you today a changed man. Hallelujah! I’m back on the straight and narrow and ready to make the world a better place. My hallucinations of bleeding to death are gone. Of course, I may be seeing God, if you can call Linderman god. Is that sacrilegious if it’s true?

Anyway, I digress… Where did I leave off? Oh yes, I was in on the brink of death, seconds away from oblivion; but I was saved by God for a greater purpose. I'm a little conflicted because I know I have a purpose in this world now; but at the same time, my feelings are a little hurt because I found out it was my little Petey who shot me. He did say he was sorry and all, so I guess I forgive him. It’s what God would want me to do. Besides Petey feels I have a second chance to be his hero again, which actually brings me to my other news…

Get this! I’m a congressman again. Yep, that’s me, Junior Senator for NY, Congressman Nathan Petrelli. Hallelujah! …Not only that, but Niki, the girl I got to know in a biblical sense a while back, she is going to be working under me.

I know. I know. The old me would have made several jokes about how she’s going to be under me again, but those days are gone. I’m a new man. I’ll no longer be sexing up the chicks. I’ll be praying for them instead.

Amen!

Shush, Linderman! You can’t talk while I’m speechifying.

Sorry about that folks. Linderman/god likes to jump in and grab a little glory sometimes.... but, In closing, I want to reassure you, my fellow bloggers, that I’m going to be a new and improved hero. I’m going to save the world again, but first, we must pray. Let’s all join virtual hands.

Dear Lord,

Thank you for bringing me back from the dead, and making me a Congressman again. Thank you for giving me a really hot ally, not that I notice that sort of thing anymore…and even though I don’t know why, I have a funny feeling I should thank you for not letting me win the Sylar’s bachelor contest.

Amen and signing off
Congressman Nathan Petrelli

The Very Antithesis to the Valiant Protectors of Society

Over the course of recent events, put into motion by my father's research, I have found myself in a predicament, being referred to by many as a "hero". And yet what does it mean to be called a hero? Does it require valor? Is an acute sense of justice needed? Or can one get by simply with excessively tight undergarments with a fancy monogram stitched into them? It is true that I possess all these, and so much more.

Does that make me a hero?

The short answer would be that it most assuredly provides me with some resemblance of hero status, and while I am indeed flying close to the sun, my wax wings have not yet melted. This could be due to the fact that I long ago had my metaphorical flight-producing appendages of wax upgraded to titanium. This provides for the most efficient means of figurative flight, and, like with wax, while flying non-figuratively, I need not fear unwanted attention from the Transportation Security Administration for having set off their metal detecting devices. However, it may be noteworthy to mention that simply being "muslimy" warrants such attention, and one could argue that a perk such as passing through metal detection becomes irrelevant in light of a body cavity search. But I assure you, you won't find my metaphorical wings in there either.

So, like any hero would, I too possess a power. It may not be the power of actual flight, such as my recently assassinated friend. I possess a far greater power, one of perpetual exposition. It is perhaps the most needed power in this modern era. For without me, where would our so-called heroes be? Who would tell their tales? Who would explain to them the dangers they will be facing, the unusual occurrences they are sure to encounter? Who would shoot the rogue paper salesmen of this cruel and heartless world?

And yet despite my continued persistence, my constant barrage of inquiries, the Justice League refuses to accept my admission into their institution. Even my successful infiltration of their group photo did not convince them of my worthiness.



And yet I continue to seek inclusion in the very group which, through its indifference, has caused me personal anguish beyond description. Is it in our destiny to aspire to greatness, no matter the obstacles? Do we strive to be the drop of milk which manages to splash outside of the cereal bowl, landing dangerously on the tabletop in a vain effort to explore a world outside of a paper carton, only to be destroyed by a quilted, quicker picker-upper? And what, then, becomes of the failed hero, the dried and discarded lactose droplet? Do they retreat peacefully into an inner solace, or does their seclusion merely brood feelings of despair? Is it destiny that pushes the dejected toward a sinister path? Or are we, as a society, responsible for those we turn away, those we force into a life contrary to their original purpose?

Perhaps we are all no more than juicy Italian grapes, awaiting our destiny. While some are sold fresh at market, others undergo traumatic squishing at the hands of a human foot, only to be thrown into darkness and left for years as the once sweet nectar turns into an intoxicating brew of mental poison. It is no wonder that after such treatment, this former fruit sets out on a path of vengeance, causing chaos, havoc and sexual fraternization with excessively obese women.

"Please, don't punch me.
From the greatest of heroes are the greatest of villains made. And while we may all be heroes in our own hearts, do we not all possess the potential to be villains in the hearts of others?