Unfortunately, Being Rude Isn't A Crime

Of course a trip to Qaqortoq, Greenland was in order. None of us had ever been ... and I would be willing to bet not a single one of our readers has been either, let alone heard of the place. 

Well, we looked around, asked the usual questions of the locals, did our due diligence ... and came up dry. You'll remember Clark pointed out RudeMan is "very good at disguising himself and travelling great distances" and we verified that right quick.

In fact, our research came up with zippo. Nothing. We didn't have a lead on the guy to save our lives. 

Then we got to thinking: What with Jeff noting RudeMan carries a pretty loyal contingent of followers who get off on carrying out various forms of rudeness - not to mention millions of others around the globe who do so naturally - it dawned on us we'd set ourselves an impossible task; not only was RudeMan true to his own nature, sneaky and virtually uncaptureable, his hordes would carry on his agenda even if was snagged.

Plus, the fact he hasn't - at least as far was we know - done anything illegal as of yet, it would be hard to pin anything on the cad.

So you see, there are things not even The Unbelievables can overcome, RudeMan being one of them.

That doesn't mean we won't keep our noses to the grindstone for this guy. In fact, on departure from Qaqortoq we left him a little note to get his goat. It looks a little something like this:

Welcome To Qaqortoq

First thing I did when I saw this little animated gif below was to hit Google Maps.

I immediately recognised the southern tip of Greenland. A few mouse clicks later, I had landed on the picture (now blurred by Google) of RudeMan in the picturesque harbour town of Qaqortoq, Greenland.

There he is, that little snot.

Qaqortoq is clearly one of his many and varied hangouts, and it's easy to see why - it's remote yet very pretty, so he clearly appreciates a fine view despite being terribly, terribly rude to all and sundry.

Hello, ladies!

A little digging around further on Google Maps turns up many instances of people doing rude things, so in spite of what was said on Monday, it's clear that RudeMan has an army of loyal followers ready to be rude whenever and wherever - and it's also clear that RudeMan and his tribe get a rise out of doing rude things for the cameras - especially the Google ones. Here's a selection of photos to prove it - and believe me when I say that these merely scratch the surface.

Mooning seems popular.

As does flipping the bird.

A couple of adventurous souls went further...

All in the name of mayhem. You'll catch your death!

And then there ae the truly inexplicable acts of vandalism, designed to confuse and perplex.

Oh, and more mooning.

As you can see, this is a global problem. He's not working alone, and has hundreds of naughty scamps working for him everywhere in order to annoy, confuse and infuriate. Let's see what can be done about it on Friday, shall we?

Can't explain this one,

The search for RudeMan

For some time now, there's been a bad guy out there for whom we've been looking. He's a bad, bad egg and he's done awfully terrible things. Fortunately... and unfortunately... none of them have merited an actual pursuit of a criminal investigation or charges. That means while he hasn't actually harmed anyone, he's out there, running wild and causing discomfort and annoyance (in lieu of actual criminal mayhem) all over the globe.
He's known for:

• Picking up items in the grocery store, deciding he doesn't want them, then just leaving them on whatever shelves are nearby.
• Playing his music at unreasonably loud volume.
• Getting off an elevator and just standing there so nobody else can get off or on.
• Not covering up when he coughs or sneezes.
• Dialing a wrong number and being abusive to the innocent person who happens to pick up.
• Not rewinding rented VHS tapes (I said we've been looking for him for a while).
• Driving in a lane that is clearly marked as "RIGHT TURN ONLY", going all the way up to the light and then trying to merge into the thru lane.

You might be thinking "lots of people do those kinds of things" and you'd be thinking wrong. Believe it or not, our investigation has revealed that it's actually one very busy guy who is very good at disguising himself and travelling great distances. Since the cops can't, and won't, pursue him, it falls on us to try to do so. He's hard to pin down. As such, we don't know his true identity and have taken to calling him RudeMan. But it appears that our Unbelievasatellite has tracked him down in whatever country this is...

Yeah, that's him all right,

He needs to be stopped. The guys will offer more reasons why and hopefully some plans on how to do that later this week. Stay tuned (please)!

Indispensable Ulf

Let's just get one thing straight - I was never in any doubt that Ulf was the perfect pooch pal for us unbelieva-chaps - I merely underestimated his abilities, which, let's face it, is easy to do when the only hounds you're used to are your average, everyday, run-of-the-mill, common-or-garden variety dogs. Ulf is one in a million. But to all appearances, he's just a regular dog, although you never can tell what breed. His mastery of disguise is legendary.

So as I was saying, I had yet to see his other abilities put to the test in the field, so to speak. I mean, sure, we set him up one of those dog-show style assault courses, and he aced it. More than that, he set a world record time without even having to be shown what to do. Unlike this feller here...




But I was to find out that there are many strings to Ulf's bow. For example...

He's rescued people in all sorts of dire emergencies. Here he is pulling some poor unfortunates from an icy grave...

Fearlessly diving in first to pull Michael Phelps out of a mucky lake while we three look on in admiration. Old Phelpsy had been on the wacky baccy again.

Searching through the rubble in some foreign land fully equipped to deal with unexploded bombs and landmines etc.

Helpfully guiding a lost dolphin back to her family group.

Demonstrating the art of digging for avalanche victims in the Pyrenees...

and teaching new Search & Rescue recruits how to jump out of helicopters into the icy Alaskan waters beneath in order to save people. 

He's a bomb disposal expert, too. Here he is showing one of those Army robots how it should be done.

On the weekends he trots off down to the airport to help sniff out contraband. He can tell the difference between Colombian marching powder and Lamb Jalfrezi at 100 paces.

Plus, he's extremely useful around here too.

Covering shifts for Kip the Mail Boy when he's on his hols...

Always takes his turns answering the phone...

and he's becoming a pretty decent cook.

The ladies love him. Good boy, Ulf!

Yes, I think it's fair to say that Ulf truly is The Unbelievables' best friend!

Ciao!

Ulf joins the team

Ulf's ability to disguise himself like some kind of chameleon who is also a dog was something that impressed us immediately.

Sometimes, like us, Ulf is black. Don't let it throw you.

But you can never be too cautious when bringing in a potential new team member, be they human, canine or other, so we subjected him to some thorough tests in the lab that yielded some very surprising results. Turns out, there is actually a good reason for Ulf's ability to change his appearance; he's a mathematically impossible combination of a variety of dog breeds:

50% Collie
50% Setter (Irish)
50% Boxer
50% Doberman Pinscher
50% Pointer
99.7% Labrador Retriever

We tasked Kip the Mail Boy with challenging these results in a field study with Ulf, the conclusion of which we caught on video:


Ha ha ha!
Kip is so stupid.

As far as I was concerned, at that exact moment, Ulf was one of us. Jeff needed just a little more convincing, however...

Origin Stories: Ulf The Unbelievadog

Ulf The Unbelievadog

Early on in The Unbelievables career - shortly after the world was made aware of our daring adventures, benefits to the international community at and obvious do-goodery - we discovered a small glitch with our popularity ...

"Damn," Clark huffed one afternoon. "I'm exhausted."

"Me, too," Jeff agreed. "We need to do something to take some of the load off our shoulders."

I chimed in. "Agreed. Shuttling here and there and everywhere to help out with stuff while vanquishing ne'er-do-wells is taking its toll. Let's put our heads together and come up with something."

"Hmmmmmmmmmmmm" Clark thought out loud. "How about some outside help? You know ... lackeys or sidekicks or something to ease the burden?"

"That would take lots of time and training. And we're spread thin as it is," I countered.

Jeff jumped up out of his seat. "I've got it! An animal compatriot! Sure, there's training involved but there wouldn't be any back talk! An animal sidekick would work on the cheap with little drama or need for vacations and stuff like that!"

"Brilliant!" Clark agreed. 

"Like what?" I asked.

"A squirrel!" Jeff exclaimed.

"No." I said.

"How about a cat?" Clark suggested.

"Cats are worthless, interested in only themselves. And they don't listen. Plus they don't give a rat's ass about anything but ... well, rats. And mice."

"A dolphin!" Jeff offered.

I gave him a look. "Good only for sea-faring stuff."

"A fox?" Clark asked.

"I don't think so ..."

Jeff pointed a finger in the air: "Hello! Cockroach!"

Both Clark and I looked at him with frowns.

"Bunny rabbit?" Jeff asked sheepishly.*

"I got it. A dog," I concluded. "Trainable, loyal, adaptable, always willing to perform. A dog would be perfect!"

Clark and Jeff agreed.

So it was off to the local shelter to see what there was to see.

There were gads of dogs and cats up for adoption. All three of us went in different directions on the hunt. It was Jeff who found what we were looking for, however.

"He's perfect. An Irish Wolfhound!" But that's not what I saw. I saw a German Shepherd. Clark? Saw a Boxer. We were confused. We called over a shelter attendant to tell us about the dog we found. 

"Oh ... that's an Alaskan Malamute," the helpful employee told us. All three of us looked at each other confused.

Jeff pulled us in close. "You know what? This dog is perfect for us. We're masters of disguise and, obviously, so is this dog. Imagine the confusion on our enemies' faces when they think one kind of dog is coming for them when it will be something entirely different! It's as if this pooch was made just for The Unbelievables!"

There was no denying it. We filled out the paperwork the shelter foisted on us and got all the particulars on him. Healthy, all his shots, likable and easily trainable. And he wasn't even a year old yet. Perfect age.

When we got him home (after a run to a pet store to lavish our new friend with bedding, treats, toys and more) we got down to business.

"What should we call him?" Clark asked. 

"Scruffy!" Jeff blurted.

"Jasper!" Clark countered.

"Caper!" I suggested.

Our new dog just looked at us. "Ulf" he barked.

Clark stated the obvious: "This is going to be tough ..."

"Rulf" the dog replied. 

"How are we going to come up with anything any of us are going to agree with?"

"Schlulf" the dog gruffed.

"I know: Each one of us gets a say in some aspect of his name ... within reason, of course. Maybe that will narrow it down for us. Me? His name has to be monosyllabic. Easier to call that way."

"Ulf!" the dog shot out.

"Okay ... my stipulation is it has to be simple to spell," Jeff told us.

"Wulf!" our furry newcomer barked.

"It's got to sound German," Clark mandated.

"....rrrrrrUlf ... !!!" the canine called.

We looked at each other enlightened. You could practically see the light bulbs glowing over our heads: "ULF!" we exclaimed in unison.

From that day forward there wasn't any question. It was Ulf The Unbelievadog, without a doubt.

From the Unbelieva-Files: Ulf The Unbelievadog

leading unwitting international fashion criminal Mac Ramey

to the hoosegow.

Clark and Jeff will clue you in to more of Ulf's origin story later in the week.

*Coincidentally, each and every one of these animals eventually became a valued agent in The Unbelievables' extensive network.

St. Pat's - Like Christmas (with more booze and slightly less crying)

"Hello yerselves, ye Unbelievalads!"

The guys are right; St. Paddy's Day is often the inspiration for our most raging ragers. This year is no exception. We can't share ALL the raucous details with you but we did catch some highlights on video and after some heavy editing (for the sake of those with delicate sensibilities), we can share them with you

(NOTE: You are reading this entry in real time because this all happened last night; as is the case with almost everything we do, we start early and go late. Hello ladies!).

Please click below to enjoy some of the Unbelievably unhinged debauchery from this year's celebration of everything green, Irish and green, starring me, Jeff and Michael and featuring Kip the Mail Boy and Ulf the Unbelievadog!



(NOTE to criminals, mastermind class or otherwise: Please don't do anything illegal until Monday. Thanks.)

St. Pat's - Like Christmas (Including Annoying Family Members, By All Means)

"Yes, in terms of partying, St. Pat's at the UnbelievaBase is second only to Christmas ..."

And Jeff is spot on in so saying!

Faith and begorrah! You haven't the slightest idea! The festive mood is thick in the air around the Unbelieva-Base this week! So thick we (meaning: I) have started early by testing and fine tuning my traditional Gaelic costume.

You know how a picture's worth a thousand words? Well ... feast your eyes with a little preview of me "getting my Irish on" and be amazed:

Come Friday, there will be absolutely NO trousers on this guy! (But fear not! The festive St. Patrick's socks will probably be present.)

Take it away, Clark!

St. Pat's - Like Christmas Without The Annoying Family Members

I apologise profusely for the lateness of this post. In my defence (and I think it's a good one), I was limbering up with the guys in preparation for that oh-so-special day on the Unbelieva-Calendar. Yes folks, this year St. Patrick's Day falls on a Friday. So what, you say? Well, if it falls on a Sunday, Monday, Tuesday or Wednesday, it's just one night of debauchery and drinking heavily. But on a Thursday, Friday or Saturday, it means an entire weekend of debauchery and drinking heavily! So in order for us to get into shape for the upcoming pseudo-Irish shenanigans, we spent Saturday night and all of Sunday getting debauched and (regretfully) whammoed.

Yes, in terms of partying, St. Pat's in the UnbelievaBase is second only to Christmas in terms of consuming mass quantities of alcohol.

I'll let the guys tell you some of our secrets to making sure your St. Paddy's Day weekend is as wild and outrageous as you want it to be, and still allow you to arrive at work bright-eyed and bushy-tailed on Monday morning.

Not quite what I meant.

That's better.

St. Pat's is of course well known in the good ole U. S. of A. as the one day of the year when consumption of all things green goes through the roof. By which I don't mean cabbage and green beans, etc., but green alcoholic beverages. Beer gets colored green, sales of Midori skyrocket and Apple Martinis flow like the wide, wide Missouri. So here's my contribution to our mini-guide to St. Patrick's, a fabulous Melon Whiskey Sour.

1 part Jim Beam Jacob's Ghost White Whiskey
2 parts Melon Midori
2 parts sweet and sour mix
(optional) 1 part ginger ale- this will make it a little less strong
about 6 frozen honeydew melon balls (made with a melon baller)

Put the melon balls in the freezer for about an hour. 

Shake with ice.


Before pouring, I put one big square ice cube at the bottom of each glass, followed by 3 frozen melon balls, then pour cocktail and enjoy. 

Something Pizza And Beer This Way Comes

When last we left, Jeff had been warned by Kip from the other room: "Uh, red alert, guys! We have a visitor ..."

Clark came bounding down the hall from the direction of the Villains Room, a tad flushed and sweaty. "Pizza's here!"

I traded glances with Jeff. I was on my way for my telephone shift but it looked like I wasn't going to get to it. No big deal as it turned out because the more we hurried up and waited for that Zigfried guy to show up the more pointless his rambling, barely threatening telephone calls seemed to be.

"Screw it. Let's eat," I relented. "Zigmond (or whoever) will show when he shows ... if ever he does."

Following Clark's lead into the formal dining area, Kip had already taken in the delivery and laid out the spread. Clark really outdid himself this time around, too. There wasn't just pizza: There was pizza and all the side fixings as well - several pie varieties, chicken wings and onion rings with their accompanying dipping sauces and more. Now, as a general rule, I'm not really partial to pizza. But it's an underlying craving every once in a while, sort of like when you're hankering for a McDonald's Big Mac deep down inside, despite the fact you know there are much better burgers out there in the world. This is exactly how I feel about pizza. I get cravings for it here and there. Today? While I wasn't at all thinking about pizza the thought of it - accompanied by the nice selection before us - was thoroughly working its magic on me.

Of course there was a nice collection of iced cold malt beverages with which to wash down the pies. Jeff grabbed a trio, popped their tops and hand us one each. (A few Unbelieva-Babes even joined us.)

"A toast! To Zigfield ... or Zagfled ... or whatever his name is. May he come out of that tunnel (wherever it may be) and finally meet up with us (whenever that occasion might arise) so we can put a face with a name (whatever name he's going by at the time.) Until then ... SKOAL! Bon appetit!"

The meal was fine, the conversation and camaraderie equal to the meal and we never heard from Zapftig (or whoever he is) the remainder of the day.

For all we know he may still be trying to negotiate that tunnel ...

The question remained: How could someone so deft at infiltrating and causing such a ruckus* at The Academy Awards be so giving with threats to us while not seeing those threats through?

We might never know who true identity of The Zigster ... or whatever his name is. 

*As it turned out there was a logical, though sorry, explanation to the Oscar's final award flub as detailed by the news which resulted in the firing of a couple PricewaterhouseCoopers employees for their untimely screw-up with the winning envelope for Best Picture, which pretty much negated anything we'd learned of Zugmott (we think) and any of his claims.

Something Ziggy this Way Comes

I took the second shift. When I took over from Clark, he had that same look upon his face that he usually has just prior to defenestrating Henri Petit. I drew him to one side and recommended that he go and take out his aggression in the Villains room, which is like a gym full of dummies with the faces of some of our greatest adversaries on them. Except in Clark's case, he changes them all to Henri Petit. 

Artie the UnbelievaCat conducts an UnbelievaFu™ Unbelievinar™ at the local Radisson, and gives several members of Sum41 an ass-whuppin'.

Clark growled at me under his breath "...that guy.. is so...annoying!!! He keeps telling us he's coming to kick our butts and just never shows up! I mean,  what is WRONG with that dude!!!?" and with that, he stalked off to kick some dummy butt.

Recently declassified photo of Clark warming up for the Villains Room.

I had never seen Clark like this. Zigfiried (or Zigfried or Zigried) had really gotten to him. True, the guy was beginning to irk me somewhat also. But, resigned to my post, I manned the phone.

I didn't have long to wait. In a matter of seconds it began to ring again.

I snatched up the phone. "Hello!?!"

The familiar snarky voice snapped back, "Ah, good morning, Unbelieva-fools! I am on my way, you idiots! I am coming to give you the butt-kicking of your --"

"HOLD ON just one second, Ziggy! All you do is keep threatening and nothing to show for it! You just keep saying you're on your way, well where are you then? Huh? You don't know, because you're not coming at all, are you? You're a one-man  flop, aren't you? you've got no goons, no henchmen, no-one to help. You keep saying you've got to go through a tunnel, well I know for DAMN sure there aren't any tunnels for literally MILES around! So tell us then, Zigster! Where the hell are you, eh?"

" Ah, well, you see, I'm, uh, very close by, quite near, just a little ways away, down the road apiece, not too far..."

"Horse pucky!" I cried. "C'mon, talk to me.... if you can worm your way in to anywhere and disrupt a big ceremony like you did the Oscars, how come you can't come over here and fight?"

Just then, Kip shouted at me from the next room. "Uh, red alert, guys! We have a visitor..."