According to the narrator of “Horrifying Planet,” zebras are “Nature’s Ultimate Prey,” evolved over the course of millennia to be the perfect victims of brutal murder. “With no purpose other than to feed monsters,” the narrator richly intones, “the zebra spends its entire life standing around, awaiting a violent death.” Meanwhile, the American robin is posited as nature’s “Perfect Murder Machine,” which seems silly until the point is made that “worms are capable of regeneration, so robins could satiate themselves on fractions of individual worms, and leave the rest. But it does not. Unequivocal evidence of the robin’s bloodlust.” Not given quite the credit that either robins or zebras get, chimpanzees are described as “Still Dumber Than the Dumbest Human,” in perhaps the series’ funniest episode. Asserting the superiority of humanity over the lowly chimp, the narrator says, “Indeed, not only are humans capable of wiping out chimps with inventions like bulldozers and dynamite, they have even developed a system of ethics that justifies it.”

The narrator’s smooth delivery falters when he is forced to discuss the vile spider, in an episode that is little more than an amalgam of audible cringing, and the tone of the series itself makes an abrupt shift in episode 6, which blends the usual nature show parody with that of an infomercial. With all the incessant negativity of “Horrifying Planet,” one would assume an episode entitled “Deer Are Fine” might be lightening up a bit, but in fact, “fine” in this context merely means “mediocre,” with the narrator advising the more unique relatives of the common deer to “Scale it back, buddy. You’re just going to end up dead like the rest of us, on our horrifying planet.”

The series focuses on six strangers brought together in the seemingly posh house for the sole purpose of having sex with one another. Each of them is a conveniently pegged type: Jay (Boyd Harris) is described as a “bro,” a “trim-seeker” and a “sex lover,” and his personality would not be out of place on “Jersey Shore”; Jay’s obvious female counterpart, Tara (Ashley Lobo), is a “sorority princess,” “proud skank” and “maneater”; Erin (Fiona Robert), an 18-year-old virgin, is “naive,” “clueless” “jailbait,” while Alex (Lea Pascal) is an “alt-punk” “polysexual princess”; Derek (Chris Boykin) is the show’s only gay guy, so he is described as a “sexually promiscuous” “flamboyant fireball,” but the show’s real wild card is Frank (Jesse Dabson), a 45-year-old “big daddy” who won a Tombstone pizza contest to get on the show.

The first few episodes progress as might be expected, with the desperate Alex trying to have sex with anyone and everyone, while Jay admits that “Tara’s pretty slutty, I get it,” though he is more interested in deflowering Erin, who is “totally smokin’. I’m like, ‘I’m tryin’ to have sex with that!’” The gang plays a disastrous game of “Sexy Truth or Sexy Dare” and receives pole dancing instructions in the third episode, “Get on That Pole!” Meanwhile, the males are given some “bro lessons” by Danny Vullmer (Chris Meister), a hacky comedian who makes dated references to Urkel, En Vogue and Roseanne Barr. Things get more and more disturbing after that, as “Erin Bares It All” in the fourth episode with a shocking announcement that changes everything, and the show’s participants begin to revolt against its creators, including the “asexual” and very creepy host (Chris Agos).

In its most recent episodes, “Sex House” has gradually become more like a horror film, which only makes it funnier, beginning with the disgusting “Banana Sex Olympics” in episode 5 and continuing with “Dr. Sex” in episode 6. By the most recent episode, “Sex in a Bottle,” things are looking decidedly grim for the malnourished prisoners of Sex House, and the preview for episode 8 (which goes live today) makes it clear that it’s only going to get worse. New episodes go live every Thursday on The Onion’s YouTube channel.

Fans of the excellent satirical newspaper The Onion should be familiar with the name Stan Kelly. A fictional editorial cartoonist whose reactionary views on current events and the way things used to be in the “good old days” (he supposedly began working for the paper in 1957) are expressed with hacky, obvious writing and a crude, simplistic drawing style. I remember when I first saw his work in the pages of “America’s Finest News Source” years ago, I totally fell for it, believing it to be a real strip The Onion had picked up to display ironically, like when they used to run Cathy Guisewite‘s “Cathy” in Spanish. Eventually, though, I realized how unlikely it was that any newspaper anywhere would seriously run strips celebrating the deaths of beloved celebrities like James Brown, for example, and that Kelly’s political cartoons were a joke from the start.

The Onion recently confirmed this all over again with the new web series “Behind the Pen,” in which “Kelly” describes his artistic process and explains the thought process behind his awful, out-of-touch jokes, as if anyone who can read would have trouble understanding his points. In the first episode, “How Marriage Works,” he explains that he’s doing it “to reach the youngsters” with his message. These hypothetical young people are illustrated by archive photographs of at-risk teens, and even one African child holding an assault rifle. He then proceeds to explain his cartoon, “Holy Matri-Money,” complete with an absurdly unnecessary explication of his “last word,” in which his self-portrait alter-ego delivers the punchline. This is a feature of all Kelly’s cartoons, and each episode correspondingly features a “Last Word” segment.

The second episode, “Collective Wisdom,” features another segment entitled “Tips for Young Artists,” in which Kelly hilariously explains the subtlety of his technique: “If you wanna show somebody’s in love with somebody, you put a little heart next to ‘em.” Each subsequent episode (there are five so far, uploaded within the last two months) is better than the last, with Kelly increasingly going into angry tirades about his own family, especially his darkly comic explanation of his cartoon “Nanny State, Ninny State,” in which he skewers the Big Brother program by saying, “A kid’s heart oughta be calloused, it oughta be weathered.”

Kelly’s voice is wonderfully grizzled and mean-spirited – not unlike another brilliant Onion creation, the politician Joad Cressbeckler, who now has his own segment on the Onion News Network television series on IFC – and “Behind the Pen” shows great promise in continuing to develop this fascinating character. The more unhinged and apoplectic he becomes, the funnier he is and the more his character is revealed, so hopefully the series will continue in this direction, as it already seems to be doing.

Behind The Pen: ‘High’ Ideals

The situation was thus: the fine folks from Harley-Davidson were looking to shine the light on the ’72 Harley, the latest and greatest model from their Dark Custom Line, with an all-expenses-paid trip to Chicago’s Wild Fire Harley-Davidson. Fair enough…except for the fact that I don’t own a motorcycle, it’s been more than ten years since I’ve ridden on a motorcycle, and, given that the ride in question – on the back of my brother-in-law’s bike – was so goddamned terrifying (he turned a corner, my feet dragged on the ground, and I was convinced that both our asses were about to hit the fucking pavement) that I’ve never thought for even so much as a moment about buying a motorcycle.

Ah, but the pitch wasn’t just about motorcycles. Indeed, the phrase used to describe the expedition was “a jam-packed day of ass-kicking and whiskey drinking.” Now, not being much of a scrapper, I can take or leave the former, but when you bring up the latter…? Sir, you have my undivided attention.

And that, my friends, is how I came to get…

Because of the designated start time on Saturday and the terribly unhelpful flight times from my home base from Norfolk (ORF) to Chicago, it was agreed that the most convenient time for me to arrive into O’Hare would actually be on Friday…and after this was agreed upon, I then begged, pleaded, and ultimately annoyed my hosts into getting me on the earliest possible flight, so as to be in Chicago for as long as possible.

Coming down the escalator, I was met by a driver holding up a card with my name on it, which is an experience that every flier should have at least once in their life. In short order, I had been deposited at the front door of The Drake Hotel, a gorgeous establishment right in the heart of the city, and – to my utter amazement – I was able to check in immediately, go right up to my room, drop off my bags, and hit the streets of Chicago.

And, now, a confession: the biggest reason I wanted to get into town as early as possible on Friday is that I wanted to visit the joint offices of two of the greatest publications in modern media: The Onion and The Onion AV Club. I began as a contributing writer with the AV Club last year, but I’d never actually met most of the people for whom and with whom I’d been working, so it was cool to finally meet Keith Phipps, Tasha Robinson, Genevieve Koski, Kyle Ryan, Nathan Rabin, and so many other folks whose work I’d been reading long before I ever actually joined their ranks. I’m still not entirely sure I’m worthy of walking among them, but, hey, if they think I am, then who am I to complain?

Later that evening, knowing that I had nothing on my official agenda until the next morning, I met up with a buddy and experienced the awesomeness of Barrelhouse Flat, an outstanding drinking establishment located at 2624 N. Lincoln Avenue. As it happens, our bartender that evening, Greg Buttera, also happened to be the general manager of the joint, so not only did he treat us right (as we, in turn, did him), but he provided us with an amazing display of dexterity and cocktail knowledge…and I’ll be damned if I can tell you which was more impressive, because he never dropped a drink nor checked a recipe, and I think we determined that he made a couple of dozen different drinks just while we were sitting there. Why, it almost made it worth it that we weren’t able to sit upstairs…although I did least get a chance to take a stroll up there before we left, and, man, it’s just something else.

But why take my word for it? Here’s a shot of the place when it’s not dark, loud, and filled with semi-intoxicated revelers…

Swear to God, if I lived in Chicago, I’d be frequent this place all the damned time. But, alas, I was exhausted after having flown out of Norfolk at 6:30 AM, so after a pair of specially selected beers – I decided to stick with Chicago beers, so I started with a pint of Goose Island Sofie and closed with a can of Half Acre Daisy Cutter – it was back to the hotel for me. After all, with a threatened day of ass kicking and whiskey drinking on the horizon, I figured it probably behooved me to be well rested.

Morning soon broke, and with it went the snowstorm that had blown into town right about the same time I had, but the bitter cold (at least to a Virginian like poor ol’ me) had lingered. Good times. Dressed accordingly, I came downstairs and met my fellow journalists in the lobby of the Drake, and we soon hopped upon a waiting bus and headed off to enjoy a tasty lunch – accompanied by some tasty beverages – at Brauerhouse, located at 1000 N. Rohlwing Road in…Lombard? Wait, what happened to Chicago? Were we really on the bus that long?

Apparently so. But it’s worth it, because the burgers are phenomenal…or, at the very least, mine was. I had the so-called Hickory Leroy, which features bacon, BBQ sauce, chili, and jack cheese. Oh, man, I’m practically drooling just thinking about it. And I also had a deliciously creative beverage – sorry, make that two of them – while I was there as well: a Black Banana, which is a blend of Banana Bread Beer and Double Chocolate Stout. Great, great stuff. Unfortunately, the process of studying the menu, taking our orders, making and delivering our food, and figuring and paying our checks took so freaking long that we effectively started our day already an hour late, which bodes poorly for the rest of the rigorously scheduled day we have ahead of us. D’oh…

Thankfully, it’s only a short bus ride from Brauerhouse to our next location: Wild Fire Harley-Davidson. Everyone at the place seems pleased to see us, which is precisely what you’d expect, given that they want us to write something nice about them and their product. But it’s more than that. Not only do the people who work here love the product that they’re selling, but they quite clearly live that love of Harley-Davidson well outside the walls of Wild Fire.

Not only do we scope out the whole joint, getting the chance to check out the various new models of motorcycle as well as the latest Harley-Davidson leather and gear from their Black Label line, but we also get a taste of the so-called Motorcycle Boot Camp. Thankfully, it’s just a taste, which means that only a couple of us get to savor the experience of changing the oil and primary fluid on a Harley-Davidson Sportster…and I, thankfully for all of us, am not one of the chosen few. Similarly, I opt out of giving the Jumpstart Dyno a ride. Even though it’s stationary and almost certainly not going anywhere, it’s still far too close for comfort, at least as far as I’m concerned.

As you can probably guess, I didn’t exactly leave Wild Fire with a burning desire to rush out and buy myself a bike…not least of all because I can’t afford it. I did, however, walk away impressed with the wide variety of individuals who work for the dealership and their knowledge of their product. Also, if I wasn’t scared to get on a motorcycle, I’d definitely get me one of those Sportsters…and you’d better believe I’d spend the extra few bucks to get one with flames on it. Scary or not, that thing is pretty bad ass, ya gotta admit…

Unlike the Harleys, if all too much like the burgers at Brauerhause, our next stop was one which would have ordinarily inspired me to shout (and paraphrase Ralph Wiggum) exuberantly, “Oh, boy! This is where I’m a Viking!” I just can’t thank 8 to 8 Cigars enough for giving us the hook-up on a sweet stogie while also providing us with the opportunity to taste several different types of scotch, including some pretty damned old stuff…which, probably by coincidence, tasted far worse than anything else that was presented to us to taste.

I hadn’t had a cigar in ages, so I felt a little flummoxed at first as I fumbled with the provided cutter and attempted to chop off the end of the cigar without doing any dramatic damage to the tobacco at hand. In addition, the first several puffs left me convinced that I’d been right to keep my wife happy and avoid smoking cigars at all cost…but then – and it’s probably coincidence that this happened right around the time I considered that my wife was more than a few states away at that moment – I suddenly got whatever the casual cigar smoker considers to be his second wind. I was puffing away like the chimney on a steam engine, listening to our hostess as she discusses the finer points of whiskey, the differences between the different types, and then noting in which order we would be tasting ours. For my part (and I’m pretty sure I’m the only one who felt this way), I think my favorite was the wheat whiskey from Lion’s Pride. That stuff was goooooood. In fact, I’m trying to get a bottle to review for the site. I’ll keep you posted…

You wouldn’t be able to tell it from the above picture, but I’d never had a straight razor shave before I put my face (and my jugular vein) in the hands of the fine gentleman you see before you. I just figured, “The man’s a professional, a second-generation barber, and he knows what he’s doing.” Of course, he might be a bit too funny for my tastes. I’m pretty sure he didn’t need to preface the shaving under my chin by saying, “Here comes the ‘Godfather’ moment…”

Joe’s Barber Shop, located on West Fullerton in Chicago, is the very definition of an old-school establishment, not only in their method of shaving but also in the lather, creams, and other assorted materials necessary for a good shave and haircut. Sure, it’ll cost you a bit more than two bits nowadays, but it’s worth the cost for the quality that goes into it.

When we got to the shop, Joe Caccavella, Sr. was done for the night and preparing to head home, but he’d stuck around to say “hey” to all of these assembled journalists and thank us for stopping by. That’s his son, Joe, Jr., who’s giving me the shave in the above picture.

When they asked for volunteers, I was the first one to raise my hand. I mean, why not, right? Everyone should have a straight-razor shave once in their life, and I’m glad I can say that I’ve experienced it. I wasn’t willing to give up my goatee, but I still got as much of the full treatment as I could, which meant the hot towels on my face and, at the end of the process, some fierce aftershave. A few chairs over, one of my journalistic comrades got his entire head shaved. Hey, if it’s free, why not get as much out of it as possible, right? Good for him, that’s what I say.

I admit that I’d never heard of the restaurant Three Aces before I learned that it was going to be the site of our dinner, but it’s funny how accepting you can be of a restaurant when you learn that its slogan is, “The Italian countryside meets the American farmhouse…in Keith Richard’s basement bar.” I don’t really know what the hell that means…but, by God, I like the sound of it!

Our food was ordered family style, with all of us sharing amongst ourselves and trying to taste a little bit of everything, so I can’t necessarily swear that I’m remembering everything that I tried, but I can, at least, confirm that way more than the majority of what I tasted was top notch.

First off, the arancini (braised oxtail, celery leaf, and parmesan) was the perfect starter, followed by ricotta gnocchi (confit rabbit, mushrooms, pecorino, celeriac cream sauce) and mussels and Brussels (shredded Brussels sprouts, bacon, shallots, garlic, fresno chiles, and assorted herbs). Of the “Barn” portion of the menu, I can’t say as the beef tongue hash did a lot for me, but I blame that on the hollandaise. Never been a fan. The so-called Slagel Farms steak, however, was fantastic, and I could’ve eaten a full order of the ribollita – a Tuscan stew consisting of white beans, milk-braised pork shoulder, parsley pistou, and shaved parmesan – if I didn’t think the richness would’ve given me a heart attack on the spot. Can’t tell you which of the pizzettas I tried beyond the carbonara (parmesan cream sauce, parsley, homemade bacon, black pepper, and egg yolk), but, holy shit, that was crazy delicious.

Okay, here’s the problem with getting old: you have a huge meal, a couple of beers, and your instant default setting becomes, “I want to go home, watch TV, and go to bed.” What you do not particularly want to do is go see a band play. Sorry. I’m 41. That’s just how I roll now.

But in this case, I did go see a band play. This was partially because I didn’t really have much choice in the matter (tired or not, I just couldn’t see myself hopping off the bus, into a cab, and back to the hotel on my own) and partially because the band in question – Pegboy – are pretty legendary in Chicago. Really, though, it was mostly because I figured, “Hey, free concert, free beer…I’m old, but I’m not dead yet.”

The Flat Iron is a pretty nice beer joint on North Milwaukee Avenue. More importantly that night, however, was the fact that it was the site of the 5th Annual Half Fast “Burning Love” Party, where Harley-Davidson unveiled the latest addition to their Dark Custom line.

I gotta tell ya, I was too tired, too full, and…well, I wasn’t too drunk, at least, but the end result was still that I never actually got around to checking out the motorcycle they’d brought in. But my guess is that we might’ve seen it at the dealership earlier in the day, anyway. In fact, yeah, let’s just go ahead and presume that I did, shall we? And it was awesome. Pegboy was pretty good, too. But, fuck, am I tired…

…and I’m still tired come the next morning. And cold. And ready to go home. And very, very glad that there’s a vehicle parked outside the Drake to take me to the airport without all the hassle of a taxi, subway, bus, or anything else. You wanna talk about a guy’s-guy event? That’s what this was. It was, just as the press leading up to it had described, a real back-to-basics kind of day. Eating, boozing, smoking, rocking out, riding motorcycles, and – lest we forget – a goddamned straight-razor shave. Was there any ass-kicking? No. But was it kick-ass? You better believe it.