Hey, I just signed up for a bowling league! Isn't that the coolest? It's going to be Booker T, Booker T's Wife Sharmell, me, and The Undertaker's Wife Sara Who Is Married To The Undertaker. We're calling our team "The Guttersluts"! My idea.

I'm drilling holes in my favorite skull so I can use it as a bowling ball. If you're thinking, "Hey, Big Evil! Why don't you just stick your fingers in the eye sockets?", then you've obviously never bowled with a human skull before. I hope the alley has a foosball table. Booker T keeps saying I'd be a natural because I'm such a punk-ass foo'.

I'm really getting into sports lately. I think I might even try my hand at softball again. Been hearing good things about some play called the "sacrifice fly."

How evil are you?

Damn, it just hasn't been my week. I was about to perform your standard animal sacrifice, right, nothing too fancy. But the goat gets loose somehow! So I start chasing it all around the house, but Sara's constant shrieks are distracting me and making my stabs go awry. The damn thing eventually scoots through the doggie door and makes a break for it, so I pursue it out into The Yard, my fly bathrobe flapping in the breeze. The sprinkler happened to be on because I am a firm believer in impeccable lawn care, which made the grass awful slippery. So just as I'm about to grab the little bastard, wham, down I go. The worst part is that my robe fell clean off, right in front of the real estate agent and her clients who were viewing the house across the street. So I improvised and gave them a big thumbs-up. I think they were suitably impressed. That bitch better cut me in on her commission.

Kane's been hanging around a lot ever since the divorce. We're up to our old brotherly hijinks now that he's a free man again. He dropped by last night, and the antics were quite zany, believe you me. We broke into the RAW dormitory and went on a panty raid. They didn't call me "The Underwear Taker" in college for nothin'. After that, we went cow tipping, which is when you leave a cow a 15% gratuity as a reward for fine service. It's fun!

The only bad part was that Kane got really, really drunk. He called up his ex-girlfriend Katie and started crying and shit. It was totally embarrassing. I had to take matters into my own hands and stab the phone cord before he made even more of an ass of himself. I guess you could say the line went DEAD!

LMAO.

I finally just came out and told Hassan that it's never going to work. I mean, he spits on the ground, I spit in an urn. We're two different people.

I don't think he took it very well. His eyes got all huge and he started yelling. It was a little scary. I'd file a restraining order, but the police won't come over to my house anymore. I swear, you hang two or three officers and suddenly you're branded for life.

Hassan keeps leaving messages on my answering machine in which he's all "C'mon, baby, don't be like that, I didn't mean it." Then he threatens to cut off my head. This was sort of charming at first, but now I'm starting to think that stabs are in order.

Now it looks like he had Daivari rent a plane to spell out "I'M SORRY =(" in skywriting, but the little goof accidentally crashed it into a building. Haha, those guys.

I think Muhammad Hassan realized that he went too far this time, because he keeps trying to apologize. He's been standing outside my window in the rain all day, holding up a boombox as it blares his entrance music. Too little, too late, buddy.

I just closed the blinds on him. Hmph.

I can't stop thinking about yesterday. That is SO not the way I would have gone about things. I mean, seriously, ski masks? I kept telling those guys that Leggs Pantyhose breathe much better, but oh no, nobody listens to the Deadman. I've only stabbed hundreds of thousands of people, murdered my parents, hanged the Bossman, embalmed the living, killed Paul Bearer for no reason, and devoured the souls of newborn babes. Yeah, sure, what the fuck would I know about terrorism?

Amateurs.

Ow, my head. Unholy shit. You ever have one of those days? One of those days where you get attacked by five terrorists in ski masks?

Those guys are persistent, too. I was out watering the petunias in The Yard this morning, when BOOM, guess who pops out of the rose bushes? They throttled me with the garden hose and ran off. When I finally came to, I decided to go to the butcher's shop, because meat is the cure for what ails ya. Those motherfuckers came flying out of the freezer to choke me out with sausage links. Then it was off to work, and I probably don't have to tell you what happened on Smackdown. As if that wasn't enough, Sara dragged me to the hospital after the show because her fat sister was squeezing out another piglet. Long story short: strangled with the umbilical cord.

Man, some days you just wanna stay in your coffin and pull the covers over your head.

So I went down to Wal-Mart a couple days ago and bought one of those extra-large fireworks packages because there's a reason for the season. But it turned out to be more than I could use, and now there's all this extra shit lying around. I guess I shot one too many bottle rockets out of the urn, because Sara got pissed off and told me to get rid of everything before she gave it all to charity or something. I'll be God Damned if that's going to happen. Ain't gonna be no orphans getting their grubby mitts on Big Evil's sparklers.

I threw those Snap Pop things at Sara until she kicked me out of the house, but I don't know what I'm gonna do with the rest of this crap. I guess I can use the smoke bombs in my entrance. I tried lighting some of those little charcoal snake pellets in the driveway, but they only served to remind me of the tragic story of Professor Badass. I had to take a moment.

Yo. Sorry I haven't written in a couple months. Technical difficulties. Kane e-mailed me one of his "You Might Be A Redneck If..." compilation lists, and it was so funny that I couldn't help but perform a spit take. Blood all over the keyboard. Satan, is that stuff sticky. Every time I tried to type "UNDEAD" it would come out "UNDEEEEEEEED" like I was frigging Funaki or somebody. Neither punching nor stabbing seemed to fix the thing, so I was clearly out of ideas. I eventually had to Taker it down to Circuit City for repairs. I don't know what the Hell they did, but it's working pretty good now. Probably spritzed it with Holy Water or something. Man, who knows. Technology today.

This song would be a lot better if you replaced the word "Bad" with the word "Dead."

I watched RAW because I like to see Kane fail at things. I think he won, though. I don't know. I got mad and threw a shoe at the television. It was one of Sara's fruity girl slippers, so it didn't do much collateral damage.

Who knew Viscera was such a playa? All he ever did during Ministry Mixers was sit quietly in the back, eating Doritos and playing Dungeons and Dragons with Gangrel and Mideon. Had he gotten his shit together back then, he could have invited all kinds of hot babes to our get-togethers. Having pillow fights and rubbing lotion on each other and doing all those things that women do... Mmm. Oh yeah. That's what Big Evil likes.

But now it's too late because I'm MARRIED. I hate Sara so much. I'm gonna go throw a shoe at her.

I sent my dirty sister-in-law a Cabbage Patch Kid for Mother's Day. It came with a birth certificate and everything, so I crossed out "BIRTH" and wrote "DEATH". Then I named it "I'M DEAD LOL SNITSKY KILLED ME" and gave it X's for eyes. I think she's really going to appreciate that.

Which "Saved By The Bell" Character Are You?

WTF???

As most of you have already figured out, I was totally lying to Booker T the other day. Nobody tells the Deadman what to do except The Greater Power. And Booker's power can be described as "little," at best.

Booker was having a family reunion yesterday afternoon, so I snuck over there and threw a flaming bag of garbage onto his lawn. It either landed on his wife or on the fertilizer heap. I couldn't tell without my glasses. I was all "YES YES YES!" but Booker was like "NO NO NO!" Then he and his big, cross-eyed brother came over and started making threats upon my person! I was called a "fruit booty!" Honestly! Can you believe it???

I was just about to run and hide, as is my instinct when I see two or more black people coming towards me. But, luckily, that was right when Kane pulled up in the soccer-mom SUV Lita made him buy. He got my back, and before you know it, Houston Heat and the Brothers of Destruction were squaring off in the kiddie pool. And let me tell you, it was the worst match ever.

I lulled Booker into a false sense of security by letting him kick my ass for twenty minutes. I was just about to rise up like I do and surprise him when his fat old mama came waddling out of the house. She was all "Booka T! Stop that wresslin' in the kiddie pool mess and get in this kitchen for some Chef Boyardee Big Beefaroni! Yo' li'l friends can come, too!"

Well, shit, you don't have to tell me twice. So we all settled our differences over a bowl of delicious canned pasta. I guess Booker's not so bad. He let me and Kane play with his army men. G.I. Bro: Real African-American Hero. Then we went back outside and played on the Slip 'N Slide with Cousin Warren until the wee hours of the morning.