7/7/7 - The Tragic Tale of Fuzzy Wuzzy Wumpiesnookins

7/7/7. Which is a reference to the date. Like 6/6/6, 'cept it's not. But what the hell, it's as good as anything to spin a tale out of.

So if 666 is the Beast's Number (note the caps), what's 777? No, not the line of planes. I refer to something else entirely - something with far more meat to cook and eat. Ok, last rhyme in this post. I promise.

So just what is this mysterious 777? With plenty of better things to do, I decided to investigate. After much investigation (and cookie-eating. mostly cookie-eating.), I arbitrarily came to the conclusion that 777 was a reference to the Beast's little brother: Maximillian Joseph Valentino Arnold Rudolpho Sierra Sheryl Tango Ernesto Foxtrot Antonio Pangajoringliani. Or, as his mother calls him, "Fuzzy Wuzzy Wumpiesnookins". My thoughts exactly. Let's stick with "Max".

Now Max was a sensitive guy from the start, quiet and unassuming. Not like his celebrated older brother in the slightest, it was evident from the start - and Max's lack of tusks, hair, body odor - that he was not destined for the same glory as the rest of his family. As a result, much of his time in high school was spent with his head up a toilet - and in hell, believe you me, that's one hell of a way (horrendous pun intended) to spend your time. Demon crap is nasty stuff. 'Nuff said.

Alas, demon crap swirlies had a very strange effect on young Max. Strange, and tragic. A change came over the quiet, shy, sensitive Brother of the Beast. No longer did he spend large amounts of time dressing and accessorizing in black and cutting his wrists; instead, he started to listen to Gunther Levi, and sang "Sexy Back" all day long. Yes, slowly but surely, young Max was losing his marbles.

The final straw came one Saturday afternoon - 7/7/7 -, as Max walked back home from school. Burly young 667, the scorchingly hot and incredibly hairy next-door Neighbor of the Beast, made a pass at him. His brain melted by the hours he'd spent fantasizing over Gunther and Justin, the sight of the large, porcine ho from next door asking him for a jar of KY was too much for his strained brain (not really a rhyme, so it doesn't count) to handle. His mind blew like Rip Van Winkle after he woke up and got his sock back on.

He erupted. Exploding into an all-singing, all-dancing bonanza, he single-handedly whipped all hell into a stupor with his unhealthily massive knowledge of factory-made pop music. Rumor has it that Satan himself was brought down by a rather shrill(er than usual?) rendition of "Stop" (by the Spice Girls).

The details are a little fuzzy after this, but there are indications that after extensive facial reconstruction surgery across the world, Max has since fled to Acapulco, where he is now enjoying the, ah, charms of several local girls, as well as a jet ski whose owner he appears to have crooned into drowning. His mother is believed to live with him, and local legend maintains that she still calls him "Fuzzy Wuzzy Wumpiesnookins".

The Spice Girls could not be reached for comment.