By BRODIE H. BROCKIE, RJ WHITE, DUNCAN FLASTER, BEN PFLASTER, JUSTIN VIDOVIC, and GUTBLOOM

Shower drain often clogged with thick, matted fur and occasionally severed fingers.

The neighbor's poodle delivers a litter of puppies that you could almost swear all have your eyes.

Constantly startled by appearance of some sort of man-wolf creature in mirrors and other reflective surfaces around the house.

Casual acquaintance with ominous gypsy women.

You find yourself compelled to avoid bars that serve Silver Bullet.

You find yourself waking up in strange surroundings, disheveled, wearing tattered clothes, and uncertain how you got there. (NOTE: Also a sign that you might be Margot Kidder.)

It's not part of your basic cable package, you don't remember ordering it, but all of a sudden you're getting The Werewolf Channel.

You notice your stool has a lot more cat chunks in it than it used to.

You're ju..raghh. arggahh ARGHAHAH! AAAOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

You wake up in bed, and you look over and someone ate your fiancÚ's head off. Again.

You feel a sudden urge to whiz on your mailbox.

You can smell women who are ovulating half a block away.

When cars drive by your yard you can't stop looking at the wheels.

You find yourself saying "I'd like to stick my nose in her ass" around the water cooler.

Someone is talking about werewolves and you have an urge to say "we prefer to be called 'lycanthropes'".

You buy a bacon, egg and cheese sandwich for breakfast and bury it in the back yard.

You start noticing the sick and the lame.

Your wife scolds you for drinking from the toilet bowl.

You find yourself starring in an awful movie with James Spader and Michelle Pfeiffer.

Your breath smells like chicken blood.

An unexplained urge to listen to the hits of Warren Zevon.

An unexplained urge to "surf" on your friend Styles' "Wolfmobile".

Neighborhood vampire constantly asking you to be on softball team to fill out the rotation.

You've lost all interest in being a seventh level vegan, and now know where to get the best steak tar tare in town.

A friendly, Music Man-esque alien named Centauri recruits you to join the Intergalactic Werewolf Corps.

You're late for work everyday because you absolutely have to stop your car, get out, and pee on every fire hydrant you pass.

You wake up on a dark street with a crowd around you. Your girlfriend is leaning over you, crying, and you're naked. And your chest hurts, and you look and you've been shot in the chest, there's blood and you're scared and you look at your girlfriend in bewildered questioning confusion and then you die.

That thing you keep chasing and can't catch? That's your tail, jackass.