Rotten Tomatoes Score: 20 out of 100

IMDB Score: 4.9 out of 10

“Bad Moon” is the latest in a series of films I’ve seen that seem to prove a theory I’ve long suspected: If you go to another country, you’re going to get attacked by a werewolf.

A werwewolf teaches the kid from "Dennis the Menace" that Mr. Wilson was a light-weight when it comes to corporal punishment.

From England to Paris to Canada and now South America, werewolves have offices set up in tourist locations across the world, waiting to chomp down on hapless Americans looking for some photo opportunities.

In “Bad Moon,” Michael Pare plays Ted, a werewolf attack survivor who moves in with his sister Janet (played by Mariel Hemingway) and her son Brett (Mason “Dennis the Menace” Gamble), after returning from an exceptionally exciting trip to the Amazon.

As Ted struggles with his newfound lycanthropy, only Janet’s dog Thor suspects something may be wrong with dear Uncle Ted.

Using his super-canine powers, Thor is able to sniff out the wolf in the fold but, in yet another case of human-pet misunderstanding, is sent to the pound for being a “bad dog” when he decides to nibble on the shapeshifter’s arm.

There are just as many pets-sent-to-the-pound-because-their-attempts-to-save-their-owners-from-supernatural-attacks-are-misconstrued-as-roudy-conduct movies as there are American-tourists-get-attacked-by-international-werewolf movies —which, is to say, there are a handful.

Like “Cat’s Eye” before it, “Bad Moon” has reinforced my almost blind trust in my pet’s intuition. From trolls to werewolves, our pets are just trying to look out for our safety.

If my dog starts to bark at a person, be they stranger or beloved family member, I will instantly assume that I am dealing with a werewolf in disguise. Why waste time with logic and common sense? Movies have taught me that these crutches are just time-wasting plot devices set up to build tension before the eventual moonlit showdown between man and man-beast.

If I could just go through life assuming every one of life’s setbacks was a horror movie plot waiting to happen, I’d save a lot of time and grief in the end.

This is just one of the many life lessons I learned while watching “Bad Moon.”

The 1996 film also taught me that morphing technology, although useful in Michael Jackson music videos or in Ron Howard’s “Willow,” makes for a terrible werewolf transformation sequence.

Seriously, I never would have thought I’d yearn for the days of time-lapse and yak hair.

I also learned that if one needs to measure the circumference of a tree trunk, perhaps there are better times to do this then in the middle of the night — when werewolves might be waiting to pounce at you from on top a tree.

Horror movies are a great teaching tool. Even the cheesiest, lowest budget schlockfest is a great source of wisdom when it comes to what choices not to make if you want to live a long, bloody corpse free life.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that kids don’t need to necessarily go to college as much as they need to watch bad horror movies.

I’m going to be a great parent.

For a good part of my life, I’ve been drawn to advice columns.

Today's guest columnist: A.J. Jacobs

Being somebody who is constantly plagued with doubt, reading “Dear Abby” or “Dear Prudence” has been a wonderful way to learn what is socially acceptable and what is the type of weird behavior that gets you talked about behind your back.

Unfortunately, the advice columns run in the newspaper rarely answer the type of burning questions that keep me up at night. That’s where my friends come in. I’ve been blessed with friends and family that are wonderful fountains of information and advice. Some of the advice has even been solicited.

Sometimes, though, I need help that my friends just aren’t able to provide. Whether because of my friends’ character flaws, limitations in knowledge or just because they’re tired of me asking them for advice all the time, I am forced to look elsewhere for guidance. Luckily, that’s why God gave us Famous People.

A.J. Jacobs, for example, is a cornucopia of knowledge — brimming with trivia and interesting factoids instead of fall-related accoutrement. In books such as “The Know-It-All: One Man’s Humble Quest to Become the Smartest Person in the World” and “The Year of Living Biblically: One Man’s Humble Quest to Follow the Bible as Literally as Possible,” Jacobs takes readers on a free-wheeling tour of the underbelly of wisdom — giving a lively guided tour of trivial stuff you never even realized you didn’t know.

A living-breathing Encyclopedia Brown, Jacobs gained his knowledge by  reading the  entire Encyclopedia Britannica cover-to-cover over the course of one year. In addition, in pursuit of a better understanding of faith and religion, Jacobs spent an entire year living life according to the every rule in the Bible — from the biggies like the ten commandments to the minute ever-present rules and suggestions listed on every page.

It’s no surprise, then, that I’d want to read an advice column written by A.J. Jacobs. Unfortunately, Jacobs rather extensive criminal background he gained while working as a child pickpocket under the tutelage of master-thief Fagin prevents him from getting a job as an advice columnist at any respectable newspaper. That didn’t stop me from rustling up some of my own questions to solicit his responses for:

Dear A.J.,

I feel like I’ve become really pigeonholed. Everywhere I go, I get the same thing: “Oh, look there goes Man’s Best Friend.” Well, bark that! Nobody ever asked me if I wanted to be best friends with Man.

Nobody ever asks me anything. It’s always “go fetch” or “roll over.” I never get a “Would you mind bringing me back that stick I foolishly threw out of arm’s reach?”

I’ve put some serious thought into it and I feel that there are cooler kids out there than Man. The problem is Man and I have been through a lot together. We’ve been pals for a long, long time. I’m afraid if I told Man I didn’t want to be friends with him anymore, I’d break his heart.

As much as I’m tired of being Man’s toady, I don’t want to hurt his feelings. How can I move beyond being second fiddle to Man and become my own canine? Is there an easy way to tell Man I don’t want to be his best friend any more?

— Barking Mad in Burbank

Dear Barking,

The easiest way to tell Man about your conundrum is to speak his language. And this is now possible, thanks to a group of intrepid Japanese scientists. They’ve invented Bowlingual, a dog-translation device that fits around your neck, analyzes the tone of your bark, and transmits the corresponding emotion to a device that your owner carries.

You’ll be fully conversant in no time, like Koko the Gorilla, who, after years of training in American Sign Language, was able to have such fascinating conversations as “cup, cup, ball, water bucket.”

— A.J. Jacobs

Dear A.J.,

While hiding from the cops, my friend has been crashing at my place for the last month. I’m not one to judge a person so I don’t care too much about what he did or how he escaped from death row, but I do mind the fact that he refuses to do the dishes.

If he expects me to cover for him and keep him safe until the heat dies down, I expect him to help me keep a clean abode. Would it be uncool of me to threaten ratting him out to the fuzz in order to clean up? I don’t want to seem like a bad guy in the whole situation, but I sure don’t appreciate finding half-eaten leftovers in the dirty sink when I come home from work.

I also don’t want to be shanked.

— Clean in College Station

Dear Clean,

I was following your question up until the last word, “shanked.” Now, I know from the Encyclopedia Britannica that the Red-Shanked Douc is a species of Old World monkey, and that a beef shank is a cut of beef from the extremities of a cow. I couldn’t figure out why your down-on-his-luck friend would hit you with a pile of meat or sic a monkey on you, so I consulted a research tool that rivals the EB’s gravitas – UrbanDictionary.com.  According to the site, “shanking” refers to stabbing someone with a homemade knife, sometimes made from the metal part (the shank) of a prisoner’s boot.  Aha.  Although the EB enriched my life for the year I spent reading it, it’s got painfully little street cred. It didn’t even have an entry on crunk, which is already like ten years old. — A.J. Jacobs

A.J. Jacobs wrote this column in 2006. It originally ran in The Battalion, Texas A&M’s student newspaper.

An author, editor and journalist, A.J. Jacobs has a long resume of impressive writings to his name. His latest book, “The Guinea Pig Diaries: My Life as an Experiment” collects several essays Jacobs has written about radical lifestyle experiments. The book is availble in stores September 8. Visit A.J. on the web at www.ajjacobs.com.

Please, for the love of all that is holy, stop sending me Mafia Wars requests.

By the amount of requests I receive every day on Facebook to join my friends’ virtual “Mafia Wars” campaigns, I’m acquainted with quite a few budding criminals. To my pals waging online block wars with their pixilated tommy guns, I offer a suggestion: between virtual missions, don’t forget to take a break from video gaming.

Before anybody accuses me of promoting outside excursions, I want to define my definition of “taking a break.” I’m not calling for a walk through the park or any interaction with “real girls”; I’m just advising you to put down your controller before you develop finger calluses so thick your hands look like a hobbit’s foot. How do I recommend you take your non-bathroom related breaks?

Pop in a movie and bone up on your criminal knowledge.

Besides actually robbing a local liquor store or listening to a 50 Cent album, how else are you supposed to improve your thug skillz? There are no 12-sided dice that will increase your criminal mastery like it developed your usage of arcane magic.

If there’s one thing I’ve gleamed from life, it’s that anything worth learning can be learned from movies — and that includes petty crime. For example, you can rate the trustworthiness of your heist partners by their level of attractiveness. If you’re working with criminals that look like Brad Pitt or George Clooney, you’re bound to be part of a caper that will be as daring as it is delightful.

If your fellow thief looks like Steve Buscemi, he’s going to take the diamonds and shoot you in the gut.

Another helpful tip is to treat the hostage selection process like you’re picking your future wife — because chances are that during the getaway to Mexico, you and your hostage will fall in love. Wouldn’t you rather have a romance blossom with a hostage that looks like Kim Basinger then one that looks like Kathy Bates?

So in between sending me all those undesired Mafia Wars requests, don’t forget to pick up a few crime movies that can help you become a better virtual delinquent. But don’t take too long picking your movies; those digital cars aren’t going to steal themselves.

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For a good part of my life, I’ve been drawn to advice columns.

Being somebody who is constantly plagued with doubt, reading “Dear Abby” or “Dear Prudence” has been a wonderful way to learn what is socially acceptable and what is the type of weird behavior that gets you talked about behind your back.

Unfortunately, the advice columns run in the newspaper rarely answer the type of burning questions that keep me up at night. That’s where my friends come in. I’ve been blessed with friends and family that are wonderful fountains of information and advice. Some of the advice has even been solicited.

Sometimes, though, I need help that my friends just aren’t able to provide. Whether because of my friends’ character flaws, limitations in knowledge or just because they’re tired of me asking them for advice all the time, I am forced to look elsewhere for guidance. Luckily, that’s why God gave us Famous People.

Doug TenNapel, for example, strikes me as a man of principal and insight. Between creating the video game Earthworm Jim and writing such incredible comic books as Earthboy Jacobus and Creature Tech, TenNapel’s character shines through every aspect of his work. His comic books are hands down the single best ambassadors of  faith I have experienced in the printed form. Full of hope and optimism, his books never fail to bring a smile to my face.

It’s no surprise, then, that I would want to read an advice column written by him. Unfortunately, Doug’s rather extensive criminal background he gained while participating in back alley naked mole rat trafficking prevents him from getting a job as an advice columnist at any respectable newspaper. That didn’t stop me from rustling up some of my own questions to solicit his responses for:

Dear Doug,

In my hurry to reach the fallout shelter before the bomb hit, it seems that I have forgotten a clean source of water. How can I sterilize my urine for consumption? Do I have any other options when it comes to hydration?

— Waterless in Walton

Dear Waterless,

There is no such thing as a zero sum game. Even if you drink your own pee, at some point, the moisture will escape your body, and you will thirst to death in that closed system. You’re going to die in the shelter, so why choose something as miserable as thirsting to death? I can think of two preferred ways to die … one is to paint the inside of the shelter with your own stool so that when rescue workers finally find you, they get a nasty mess to clean up. Serves them right for arriving too late. The other way is to pull a Michael Hutchence.

— Doug TenNapel

Dear Doug,

It appears that the family next door has become zombies. Because they are a nice enough family, I’m willing to forgive a few of their minor transgressions such as their habit of forgetting to clean the decaying corpses of victims from their front stoop, but lately something has been bothering me. They have left their Christmas lights up since last December, and quite frankly, it looks really tacky. Am I such a scrooge to expect them to take down their seasonal decorations after the season is over?

— Grinch in Davis-Gary

Grinch,

You’ve already told me everything I need to know. They’re a nice enough family. You seem to have a little hang-up because they are the evil undead.  Might I suggest you stop projecting your narrow, linear, Western, Puritanical, Republican meta-narrative onto those from different cultures? Who are we to judge our neighbor if they want to eat innocent children? I would also like to point out that Texas A&M has an inordinately low percentage of zombies in attendance (and they are all art majors). This is the typical kind of discrimination the undead have to face every day. Let them have their colored lights. Excuse me I just farted.

— Doug TenNapel

Doug TenNapel wrote this column in 2006. It originally ran in The Battalion, Texas A&M’s student newspaper.

The creator of Earthworm Jim, TenNapel found initial fame in developing video games such as The Neverhood. Since then, TenNapel has continued to find success in a variety of mediums. From authoring a series of children’s books to producing the ABC series Push, Nevada, TenNapel has dabbled in several aspects of entertainment. Several of his graphic novels have film adaptations in development. His first comic book, G.E.A.R. was adapted into a popular Nickelodeon animated series named Catscratch. To learn more TenNapel or to learn where you can purchase his highly recommended graphic novels, visit him on the web at www.tennapel.com.

Read more advice columns

For a good part of my life, I’ve been drawn to advice columns.

Being somebody who is constantly plagued with doubt, reading “Dear Abby” or “Dear Prudence” has been a wonderful way to learn what is socially acceptable and what is the type of weird behavior that gets you talked about behind your back.

Unfortunately, the advice columns run in the newspaper rarely answer the type of burning questions that keep me up at night. That’s where my friends come in. I’ve been blessed with friends and family that are wonderful fountains of information and advice. Some of the advice has even been solicited.

My friend Andrew, for example, has been a runny faucet of wisdom since I met him five years ago. Andrew’s generous supply of advice is not just limited to my personal life either — the guy can (and will) go on for hours unchecked about every single aspect of life. He has an opinion about literally everything. Unlike most of the people I know, though, Andrew’s opinions are more often then not both insightful and interesting. Whether I have a question about a personal problem I’m wrestling with or just want to hear a dissertation about the the state of the national public transportation system, I know I can always turn to Andrew.

It’s no surprise, then, that I would want to read an advice column written by him. Unfortunately, Andrew’s rather extensive criminal background he gained while pretending to be a Nigerian prince in internet scams prevents him from getting a job as an advice columnist at any respectable newspaper. That didn’t stop me from rustling up some of my own questions to solicit his responses for:

Dear Andrew,

I was riding the subway to work the other day and I suddenly came face to face with an etiquette question I’m afraid I did not know the answer to.

As I was sitting on the bench and reading my newspaper, a homeless man approached me and demanded I pass him the Turkey King of Sudan.

Since I did not have any Turkey Kings, from Sudan or otherwise, I figured this man was obviously crazed and should be dealt with deftly.

I politely informed him that I did not possess any Turkey Kings of Sudan and sent him on his way to continue his search.

Well, much to my surprise, as the train arrived at my stop and I sat down my paper and stood up from the bench, I found that, sitting at my feet, was a Turkey King of Sudan.

I did not know what the proper protocol for this type of situation was. Should I have admitted my mistake, tracked down the homeless man and offered him the Turkey King as a form of apology?

I hate to deprive a man of the item he is looking for but I also have an equal dislike of being stabbed by crazy homeless people. What is the proper solution for this type of problem?

— Proven Wrong in Philadelphia

Proven,

First, I have a question: How was the Turkey King? I’ve always wished to see one!

As for your situation, my advice would have been to leave the Turkey King as you found it. After all, you weren’t knowingly in possession of said King. If you leave it be, the man may still find it.

If you happen to encounter the same man again, you can always politely inform him that while you did not have a Turkey King of Sudan the last time he asked, you did see one on the train, and that since the rest of the universe is unable to see figments of his imagination, it is most likely still there.

— Andrew

Dear Andrew,

I am getting fed up with my carpool buddies. Every morning, I make the extra effort to drive out of my way to their neighborhoods, pick them up from their houses and take them to work with me. I’m a staunch believer in doing what I can to protect the environment and if it means having to be inconvenienced a bit so that I can cut down on some car emissions, I have no problem doing it.

Is it too much to ask, though, that the guys I take to work with me get dressed before they get in the car?

Every morning it’s the same routine. I pick these guys up and their still dressed in their pajamas. I then have to spend the next 20 minutes driving to work while three guys strip down to their underwear and dress themselves in the backseat of my car. Last week, one of them even started taking a sponge bath in the passenger seat. That is totally distracting, totally inappropriate and totally unhygienic.

How can I convince my co-workers that I have no problem sharing my car for a trip to the office but I draw the line at using it as a communal changing room?

— Driven Mad in Des Moines

Driven,

I can’t tell you how much I sympathize with your efforts to save the environment. Why, just last week I was feverishly working to demolish the Houston Freeway system and replace it with a maglev train network. Not only did no one offer to help, but my hands were severely blistered by the jackhammer I was operating, and I was nearly run over a dozen or so times before I was arrested. People can be truly unbelievable.

Here’s my advice. Next time, as your friends are beginning to strip down, take a detour to the nearest drive-thru. With any luck you’ll be ordering your breakfast before they’re able to react, and they’ll most likely see the benefits of arriving at the carpool fully dressed when the server is mocking their “diminutive stature.” If not, just be sure and order extra syrup packets, and squirt a little in their direction any time you see skin in your rear view. There are few things less pleasant than sitting in a starched shirt all day with syrup on your chest. I’m sure they’ll get the message.

-Andrew

Dear Andrew,

I am writing you to solicit some legal advice. Throughout the last couple years I have sat silently but enough is enough. I am seriously considering suing the Obama political campaign for copyright infringement.

I may just be a little engine that thought he could, but I think I could very well have been pushed past the breaking point with this blatant rip-off of my catchphrase.

For years, I have lived by a very simple motto: “I-think-I-can.” It’s become something of a mantra for my entire life. Now, everywhere I look I see the new president talking about “Yes we can” do this or that.

If he keeps it up, “I-think-I-can-sue-his-ass.”

Do you think I have a case?

— Chugging away in Conneticut

Chugging,

I can appreciate feeling that you’ve had an idea spirited away by the powers that be. In this case, however, I urge you to consider not suing the president. After all, even Rush Limbaugh has recognized him to be “the messi-uh,” and it’s probably not worth facing eternal damnation just to have your catchphrase back for the short blip of your remaining years here on this Earth.

— Andrew

Andrew lives and works in Houston, Texas.  When not working as a professional urban land developer, Andrew enjoys spending time with his wife Pam and working on his blog NeoHouston, an online journal dedicated to current events and ideas about the city of Houston.

Read more advice columns

For a good part of my life, I’ve been drawn to advice columns.

Being somebody who is constantly plagued with doubt, reading “Dear Abby” or “Dear Prudence” has been a wonderful way to learn what is socially acceptable and what is the type of weird behavior that gets you talked about behind your back.

Unfortunately, the advice columns run in the newspaper rarely answer the type of burning questions that keep me up at night. That’s where my friends come in. I’ve been blessed with friends and family that are wonderful fountains of information and advice. Some of the advice has even been solicited.

My sister Amy, for example, has been there my entire life to guide me through any problem I may be experiencing. With her scathing wit, freakishly large reservoir of trivial knowledge and her ability to empathize with most anybody, she has been a guiding resource in my life.

It’s no surprise, then, that I would want to read an advice column written by her. Unfortunately, Amy’s rather extensive criminal background as a horse rustler in the state of Montana prevents her from getting a job as an advice columnist at any respectable newspaper. That didn’t stop me from rustling up some of my own questions to solicit her responses for:

Dear Amy,

I am starting to get the impression that my cat does not respect me.

Every day I feed him his favorite food (lasagna), fill him in on all the humorous anecdotes that occur during my dates with his veterinarian and, most importantly, provide him with constant companionship.

Despite all of this, it seems the only things my cat has to offer me are pithy putdowns and a constant sarcastic smirk across his smug little furry face.

I’m getting sick and tired of being my pet’s personal jester. I’m a human being! I have a larger brain then that fleabag! I own him! Why, then, does he seem to think he’s so much better then me? Sure I have a tendency to get into wacky and zany misadventures that often end with me in some various form of pain. Is that any excuse, though, to loose my cat’s respect?

How can I reassert my dominance over my pet and show him that I am the alpha male of this relationship? I swear I’m one sarcastic eye roll from taking him to the vet for the final time.

— Unappreciated in Muncie

Dear Unappreciated in Muncie,

I think that you are investing way too much time on the wrong type of pussy. Spend more time with his veterinarian, and then he’ll have to work for your affection. You are the alpha, get his lazy ass up and tell him that he needs to play fetch with the dog. Let him cause misery on someone who will be willing to take the abuse and come back for more; and I don’t mean you. You need to show him that you are the alpha. If he questions it, compare and see who has the bigger balls. If you lose that contest, than it’s time for your cat to take a trip to the vet. There is a surgical procedure that will secure your ability to win the challenge from now on.

Good luck, and grow a pair!

Amy

Dear Amy,

I’m starting to get the impression that my owner is suffering from severe depression.

I’m just a cat who loves lasagna but even I can spot the signs of severe clinical melancholy. Last week, I walked in on him with a gun in his mouth mumbling something about what a sad, lonely parody of a life he led. He then proceeded to stare listlessly at a picture of the farmhouse he grew up in as a child and mutter soft apologies to his brother, Doc Boy.

Even though I’m a cat who is physically incapable of conversing with humans, he insists on having conversations with me. I mean, I’m a cat! I can only respond with a purr and, quite frankly, it’s hard to muster a purr when your owner is acting like a complete spaz.

It’s not like he can chat with his girlfriend. Every woman he asks out has turned down the poor guy down — often in highly humorous and cartoonishly comic ways.

I’m really worried about the guy and when I get worried I have a tendency to overeat — even resorting to stealing the hamburger off of my owner’s plate; which, of course, makes him sad. It’s a vicious cycle and I need your help to break it.

How can I cheer my owner up — I’ve tried giving him sympathetic eye rolls but it doesn’t seem to be working.

— Worried in Muncie

Dear Worried in Muncie,

Are you really worried? Or are you some sick and twisted f**k who likes to toy with people? So all you can do is purr, I call “Bullshit!” How are you writing this letter? You may have everyone else convinced that you are a just the poor concerned pet of a depressed man, but I see through your cover. By the way, you are not the only purring companion available to your owner. Have you ever realized that you could be replaced? I hope for your benefit that there aren’t any other pets in the house. If there are, you should make sure that they are on your side. I suggest you seek some professional medical attention and start learning how to do some tricks. The next time he tries talking to you, you better do a really cool backflip or meow out, “I love you.” Otherwise you might be facing a life on the street where a big hairy Persian is tricking you out for a cheap price. Remember, you have a nice home and don’t want to lose it to any cuter kitten that happens to come along.

Good luck,

Amy

Dear Amy,

Me Odie. Me like ball. You throw ball? You throw ball, me like you. Lick.

— Me in Muncie

Dear Odie,

I like you because you are nice and simple. You are straight forward and know how to convey what you want. I suggest you bring a ball to anyone you see and wait for them to throw it. The fatter the person, the better — think of yourself as their personal trainer. You are getting to play ball and they are getting a little execise too. I know that I probably lost your attention right after you heard your name so I will end with this:

Who’s a good boy? You are! Go get the ball. Good boy!

Amy

Amy is a lifelong proud resident of the state of Texas. When not picking on her little brother, she enjoys movies, live music concerts and beating everybody on Guitar Hero. She is currently working on her first comic strip based on the adventures of her chihuahua, Chula.

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Don’t be fooled by toothy smiles, vampire boys are only after one thing.

Just when you thought it was safe to take off that turtleneck sweater and put away your garlic, Twilight, Stephanie Meyer’s blockbuster young adults’ novel, has taken the nation’s tweens by storm.

It’s not just a book, either. The film version stars Kristen Stewart and Robert Pattinson as two teenaged lovers torn apart by the fact that one of them is really a distant relative of Count Chocula.

While Twilight might have a legion of screaming teenaged girls behind it, it is not the only choice when it comes to teenage vampire films.

Let the Right One In, a Swedish film based on a novel of the same name, may not have a cast of unreasonably beautiful people, but it still manages to be a tender story about a 12-year-old boy’s relationship with a vampire girl.

When mysterious deaths begin to plague his community, Oskar begins to suspect that the new girl in town whom he has developed a crush on may in fact be a vampire.

There seems to be a problem among today’s youth in detecting vampires in their midst. With Buffy the Vampire Slayer having been off the air for five years now, who are our children turning to for advice in spotting bloodsuckers?

It seems it is my civic duty to provide a list of warning signs that will help prevent a little necking at Make out Point from becoming a fang-ful memory.

• Does your boyfriend have an obsessive love for counting, marking each number with a crazed laugh of “ah, ah, ah, ah, ah”? He may be a vampire — or a math teacher. Either way, you should get out of that relationship.
• Did your loved one suddenly go from speaking in a country twang to talking in a stereotypical Romanian accent? Have they developed a new wardrobe consisting of medallions, capes and silver-tipped canes? Unless they are auditioning for the role of an eastern European pimp, they have become the undead and should be dumped.
• Does your girlfriend flinch whenever you mention blowing your paycheck on steaks at the grocery store? Does she shy away from giving you a smooch after you’ve just wolfed down a double-order of garlic breadsticks? Does she become agitated and embarrassed when you insist on doing your Bela Lugosi impersonation at parties? If the answers are yes, you may very well be dating a bloodsucking harpy from hell — or a vampire.
• Have you spotted a mysterious doctor peaking over his menu at you and your significant other during your dinner date? While walking past his table to use the restroom, did you spot him carving a point onto a wooden stick? When dancing with your date, did the doctor try to cut in — only to trip on his feet, fall towards your date, stab them with a wooden stake, and cause them to spontaneously combust into a cloud of dust? If you answered yes to any of these questions, you could have very well been on a date with a vampire.
• Does your boyfriend take coffin’ drops? Drink decoffinated coffee? Live in a Bat-chelor pad? Invite you to meet his parents during Fangsgiving break? Own a bloodhound? Play Casketball? You may have a grave problem.

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