Dr. Brandon

Little is known about this mysterious figure.  It is believed that he was raised in the Andes Mountains by a group of sheep herders.  This may have helped develop his fondness for chili con carne.  As a boy, he suffered tragedy with the loss of his pet flying squirrel, Scooby, in a horrible paintball incident.  This caused Dr. Brandon to retreat from society and stay secluded.  He resurfaced again in the mid-90′s to start a worldwide organization known  as “Erotic Spandex Unlimited”, but only failure followed.  He was sighted again in Tokyo in 2002 selling World Trade Center action figures.  It is believed that he met the fellow members of The Order of the Fez while attending Gwen Stefani’s “Stop Animal Rape Now” fundraising event.  Only time will tell if he finds his place on this earth.

Dr. Dave

Unlike Dr. Demento, Dr. Dre, and Dr. Pepper, Dr. Dave is actually a licensed medical doctor.  As a practicing children’s psychologist by day and a caustic, right-wing blogger by night, Dr. Dave enjoys being a member of The Order of the Fez and using their website as a way to “blow off steam”.  As a recent divorcee, he marks his free time contemplating the meaning of life, wondering out loud on public transportation why people are so stupid, and searching for the answer to that age old question: “Who has the nicest rack?  Betty White or Rue McClanahan?”  Dr. Dave recently relocated to the San Francisco Bay area where he lives modestly with his pet ferret, Weasel, and his tabby cat, Road Kill.

Dr. Rob

Dr. Rob is supposed to do a biography, but he is tired and doesn’t give a fuck, so here are just some words that describe him:

Short, rotund, delectable, appealing to older black ladies, not balding, a fan of cotton candy, gassy at the moment, and free of hepatitis.

He is also a fan of referring to himself in the third person.

Dr. Gabriel

As far back as I can remember, I always wanted to be a gangster…er, uh, I mean a Japanese man working as a maintenance guy in a shit hole of an apartment complex and then teach a stupid Italian/Mexican blend of a kid some Karate, after he paints my house and fence…no, that’s not it either.  Those are plotlines and movie quotes…my REAL life has been much more interesting.  Being the illegitimate son of a famous writer (name withheld because she abandoned me at a young age and doesn’t claim me) was a tough life to lead.  My mother having her belly filled with the hearty seed of a black man (yes I am half negroid), was understandably upset.  Not because my father was black you insensitive racist a-hole, but because she figured I’d only be able to read or write about half as well as her “real kids”.  My mother was a cruel racist, but only when she was sober…obviously my father met her during a 4 day booze filled bender…mojitos and cognac were her poison.  Pops tells me all the time of when my mother would provoke him and taunt him while they were at the top of the stairs so that he would hit her, “like a real man” and also push her down the stairs thereby leading to my demise.  She would try to drink me out of her body, which I think is the cause for my lazy eye, mini hand, and terrible night tremors.   Pops did the best he could, raising me in the mean streets of 70′s Harlem was not easy.  Afros were all the rage and my mixed hair would not poof out correctly, nor would it flat iron out to long silky locks, so I just wore a Yankees hat most of the time.  I don’t like them, mind you, but it was one more way to avoid getting my ass kicked.  I quickly learned to defend myself with the help of my Mexican mentor, senor Juanito.  He taught me how to shank, shimmy, and salsa dance my way outta the hood.  That was all well and good, but what I really loved in the middle of the night was a nice wet dream involving jumper cables, two midget horses, a nose bleed and Flip Wilson, but besides that I loved to write.  Of course I was terrible at first and am still pretty awful, but I will not stop until I become Dr. Gabriel, Pulitzer prize winning author…or until my momma loves me.  This blog is the only hope I have for earning the affection that was so wantonly thrown on others.  Will you love me now, momma?  Are you proud of me?  I doubt it.