- I Am The Lord Thy Blog, Who Hath Brought Thee Forth From The Land Of Lame Free Hosts And The Rigors Of Hand Coding. Thou Shalt Updateth No Other Sites Before Me.
- Thou Shalt Not Take The Name Of Thy Blog In Vain.
- Thou Shalt Not Steal. Thou Shalt Not Bow Down Thyself To The Evils Of Cut And Paste Design.
- Remember Thy Blogiversary Day And Keepeth It Holy.
- Honor Thy A-List And Thy Z-List: That Thine Own Stats May Groweth.
- Thou Shalt Leaveth Comments.
- Thou Shalt Not Flame.
- Thou Shalt Not Covet Thy Neighbor’s Site Design, Nor Shall Thou Covet Thy Neighbors Color Scheme, Nor Thy Neighbors Site Statistics, Nor Comments, Nor Sense Of Humor, Nor Anything That Is Thy Neighbors.
- Thou Shalt Be’th Original. Thou Shalt Not Write Of Thy Pet More Than Once A Fortnight.
- Thou Shalt Not Becometh A Web-Cam Whore.
- Thou Shalt Shamelessly Plug Thy Blog To All The Peoples Of The Earth, And In So Doing Shall Spread The Word Of The Lord Thy Blog.
- Thou Shalt Updateth, And Thou Shalt Updateth Often.
The Web Log Writers
April Fools
The following phone call takes place during my freshman year of college.
“Mother GeekMan’s office, Mom speaking.”
[timid voice] “Mom?”
“Hi GeekMan! How are you? How’s college treating my baby?”
“Mom, I’ve got… I’ve got some bad news.”
“What’s wrong? Are you ok?”
“Mom, I don’t want you to get mad. Just listen to me for a minute, ok?”
“…”
“Mom?”
[in an angry tone] “OK, I won’t get mad. What did you do?”
“Well… Uh, you know my roommate is a little… crazy, right?”
“Yes.”
“Well, last night I went to dinner with some of my friends and while I was out my roommate decided to throw a little party.”
“So?”
“He invited some freshmen… girls… and well, things got a little out of hand. There was some pot, and a lot of beer, and maybe sex and stuff…”
“So your roommate had a party while you were out. What does this have to do with you?”
“Let me finish, ok? Please?”
“…”
“Ok, so he was having this party and it was a little loud I guess, because someone on campus called the police.”
[angry, but still tolerant voice] “It must have been some party for another college student to call the cops!”
“I guess… But the thing is, the cops arrived just as I came back from dinner and walked in to my room.”
“Oh, no…”
“Uh, now mom, everyone stuck up for me and told the cops and the college people that I wasn’t involved with the party. They all believe I had nothing to do with the drugs and underage drinking and stuff, but the college people said they need to make an example of us, so…”
[my mothers anger is so great I can physically feel it emanating from the phone line] “Don’t tell me they suspended you?”
“No. No mom, they didn’t suspend us. We’re being expelled.”
Imagine the most vile, angry and venomous string of curses you’ve ever heard. Now multiply whatever you’re thinking of by ten and point it at yourself.
Aha! You just winced, didn’t you?
Unbeknownst to myself, my mother was a cursing pro. I don’t know if she was hanging out at bars frequented by sailors or not, but she was using curses unheard and unspoken of since the stone ages, and never the same curse twice. She started out at a barely audible whisper and worked her way up to a royal scream. At the end, she got so loud that the phone line could only transmit loud static punctuated by rage filled squawks.
If I had done this in person, I would have been dead right then.
“Mom.”
[more cursing]
“Mom!”
[even more cursing]
“MOM!”
“What? What else do you have to say for yourself, you stupid little…”
“Mom, what day is it?”
“What the hell does that have to do with anything?”
“Mom. Concentrate now. What’s today’s date?”
“It’s March… No wait. It’s not March it’s…”
[stifling laughter] “It’s…?”
“…”
“April Fools.”
“You son of a BITCH!”
[laughing] “But mom, that makes you the bitch!”
We both laughed for a long time after that. Every few moments she would have to catch her breath and explain what had happened to her office mates, who would then join in the laughter and congratulate me for my joke, chastise me for being such a bastard and offer condolences to my mother.
My mother has never let her guard down on April Fools Day again.
She loves to tell this story whenever any other parent talks about how cruel their kids can be. My mother always comes away from those conversations the ‘winner’ and I am looked at as if I am some disgusting, heartless and evil scientific experiment gone awry.
“You know, if you had tried this in person, I would have killed you. Dead. With my own two hands.”
“I know, mom. I know.”
I love my mom.
Mr. GeekMan Visits The Dentist
“Mr. GeekMan, the dentist will see you now.”
I thanked the receptionist/nurse/demon and made my way to the back room where my new dentist, Dr. D. Kay, sat waiting for me like an evil hobgoblin lurking in the shadowy depths of his cold, dark dungeon abode. He smiled, showing his perfect pearly whites in a mouth free of gum disease, and offered me a seat in what must have been one of his leftover spiked chairs from the Spanish Inquisition.
I thought I saw dried bloodstains on the armrests.
With some trepidation I took the offered seat, not noticing the leather restraining straps until they had been tightened around my wrists and ankles, and heard my new dentist speak.
“So, Mr. GeekMan, this is your first time with us.”
By the glint of mischief in his eyes I could tell it was not a question. He turned away from me and when he turned back he used a pair of nipple clips to secure a plastic coated paper towel to my chest. I let out a soft cry as the sharp metal teeth cut into my tender nipple flesh. I could only assume the napkin was there to protect the newly waxed floor from any stray splatters of blood that might escape my body during his examination. Making sure the napkin was secure by giving a firm tug on the chain, Dr. D. Kay got up and left me to acclimate myself to the pain alone in the room.
I began to sweat.
Scared now of what was to come, I promised myself I would get out of this place alive, no matter what it took. No matter how repulsive my actions might be to myself in the morning, no matter how hard I might find it to look myself in the mirror tomorrow, I would do whatever it took to survive my trip to the dentist.
My nipples throbbed painfully in silent agreement.
By the time the Master of Sadism returned to the room I had devised a plan to insure my continued good health and survival. With the application of liberal amounts of my sweat I had already managed to remove my right arm from its restraint. When the Devil of Dentistry sat down next to me and began sharpening his instruments of torture, I put my plan into effect.
I reached over and grabbed him by the balls.
“Woah!”
“Now that I’ve got your attention Doc, let me lay down the law. If you cause me pain, I will cause you pain. Kapeesh?”
The look he gave me was one of defiant anger and promised retribution. But I could see the understanding in his eyes and I could almost smell his fear. I was in charge now, he knew it as well as I did and there was nothing he could do about it. I could tell he was doing some very quick thinking, but I thought nothing of it. I had him trapped and there wasn’t anything he could do until I let him go.
“I understand, Mr. GeekMan.”
“Good.”
“May I assume that you won’t wish to converse with me as I do my work?”
“What, with your hands and those sharp, pointy, metal hooks in my mouth?”
“Yes. My usual patients seem to like it.”
“Do you expect me to talk?”
“No, Mr. GeekMan. I expect you to bleed.”
And with no more warning than that quick homage to James Bond, he began his work. Every once in a while he would poke somewhere soft, my tongue or my gums, just to test my resolve. Each time, I gave him a little squeeze to show I knew what he was up to. That I was wise to his little game.
When he finished I couldn’t let go of those shriveled, sweaty, raisin-shaped sacs of spooge fast enough.
I was ashamed of my actions and I wanted to apologize, but for some reason I was also proud, so I didn’t. I had faced the evil bastard down in his own domain and it looked as if I had actually come out ahead. As I sauntered up to the front desk to pay my bill, I was a little startled to find the doctor had joined the receptionist and they were watching my approach.
They were both smiling.
My blood turned to ice and my smug smile of victory was wiped from my face. Seeing my reaction, the dentist turned towards his evil minion and spoke loudly enough for everyone in the entire reception area to hear.
“Mr. GeekMan will need to make another appointment sometime soon. The sooner the better.”
“I will?”
This didn’t sound good. I could see his smile grow colder and meaner as an evil, reddish glow emanated from his eyes. He was enjoying this, watching me squirm as I waited for the bad news, knowing I couldn’t do a thing about it now that I had let go of his privates and they were safely out of reach behind the desk.
Dammit, I knew I should have held on until I made my escape.
“Mr. GeekMan, your teeth are in almost perfect condition except for your wisdom teeth. The two top wisdom teeth need to be removed as soon as possible, they’re rotten almost to the core.”
He turned and looked me right in the eyes as his smile grew to an impossible size and his teeth became pointed and serrated like a shark’s.
“Who’s got whom by the balls now, Mr. GeekMan?”
Whom indeed, you sadistic bastard. Whom indeed.
Meeting A Mightier Geek
Guess who I met at the FIRST Robot Competition held at Columbia University on Saturday?
Dean Kamen is my tiny, little, geek god of silly inventions.
On more site specific news, it has been pointed out to me by a few visitors that on May 17th this site will be one year old. Some people have even asked me if they could buy me something from my nonexistent Amazon wishlist. My first response was to ask for a signed, blank check instead of a present, but that idea was rejected out of hand. Also rejected was my idea of having visitors fund my new internet venture; ‘e-Lawnmowers – For All Your Virtual Lawn Care Needs’.
I’m still working on that one.
After thinking about the Blog-iversary thing though, I was suddenly overcome by a great website birthday present idea that might just be worth everyone’s time and effort. Please hold your groans of pain at the thought of another one of my stupid ideas until after my egotistical speech is done. Your halfhearted indulgence of my immense stupidity will be greatly appreciated. Thank you.
Where was I? Oh yeah, presents…
My brilliant idea was to ask you, my visitors, to send me a picture of yourself wearing or holding something with my ugly face on it. Nothing scandalous or pr0n, just you in a t-shirt or hat, or holding a mug or mouse pad from my store. Amazingly enough, The Mighty Shop now has many new and exciting pieces of Geek memorabilia for you to purchase at everyday low prices. That’s right! Prices so low, I’m practically giving them all away!
[collective gasp of surprise]
Low prices, you say? What are the odds? Imagine that.
In short, I want pictures of you for my site. I’ll even link the picture you send me to your web site or email address if you’d like. If making a poor, pathetic Geek happy doesn’t send you hunting for your wallet, try thinking of the hits you’ll receive when I link to you. Imagine the fame! The power and influence! The money!
You’ll even be supplied with a lifetime supply of yellow dye number 5!
I’m not asking for much people, just a single picture of you for my gallery. I think it’ll be really, really cool to have pictures of people all over the world holding or wearing things that have my face on it. If you send me your picture you would be helping me fulfill two of my life’s secret dreams all in one fell swoop. Becoming a worldwide overnight fashion sensation and being named Egotistical, Megalomaniac Evil Super Genius of the Year by the Academy of Super Villains.
And no matter what you may think, I am not trying to reach level three of The Credo. Dammit.
The Wasabi Incident
I was introduced to Japanese food when I was in my late teens.
I can’t really recall much of the dinner itself, especially since I didn’t then, and still don’t eat fish. But I do remember that I was shocked to find out that Japanese food consisted almost exclusively of disgusting, slimy, raw fish. However, my friends were greatly amused by the facial expressions I made each time I was offered a piece to taste and kept forcing piece after disgusting piece upon me. Usually preceded by the words, “Oh, but you’ll really like this one!”
This was most likely followed by the explosive ejection of the offered piece of stinky food across the table.
The only saving grace for me was my introduction to the wonderful, amazingly spicy, green ‘mustard’ that sat in a small ceramic bowl on the table. This green stuff, whose name I couldn’t say properly for the life of me, was the spiciest thing I had eaten since my aunt’s special tacos, and I loved it. In fact, the waiters needed to refill the egg sized lump of wasabi twice during the meal.
I paid dearly for the amount of wasabi I ate that night the next day, but damn it was worth it.
Anywaste, we were done with the meal and we were going to start on dessert. My best female friend at the time, who we will call Shaggy for no reason at all, was sitting to my immediate right. Seeing my look of utter confusion at the choices on the menu, she offered to order her favorite dessert and let me taste it. I agreed, she ordered something called ‘Green Tea Ice Cream’ and when the cold, green lump arrived, I tasted it.
I can only imagine that if I were to lick the sweaty, hairy, frozen balls of the Abominable Snowman, it would taste exactly like Green Tea Ice Cream.
Shrugging, Shaggy went back to enjoying her ice cream for a few minutes while I entertained my friends by explaining in great detail why raw fish on wads of rice shaped like slugs shouldn’t be considered a meal. Especially at the outrageous prices we were paying by my poor-college-student standards. Everyone was laughing and enjoying themselves, nothing wrong, nothing amiss.
Nothing that is, until Shaggy made The Mistake.
There we all were, sitting at the table, eating, laughing and drinking, when she turned to me discreetly and told me she needed to visit the ladies room. She then excused herself, left the table and made her way to the back of the restaurant where the restrooms were located.
Leaving behind her bowl of ice cream.
I sat there for a few moments, just staring at that bowl with a devilish smile upon my face, until I realized that my friends had all gone silent. Looking up, I found they were all staring at me with puzzled expressions on their faces, probably wondering what was so fascinating about Shaggy’s half eaten bowl of ice cream. Looking around to make sure Shaggy was nowhere in sight, I made a casual observation to my assembled friends.
“Green Tea Ice Cream,” I said in a soft voice, “looks a lot like wasabi.”
When Shaggy returned to her seat a few minutes later, she didn’t notice how quiet the table was and immediately proceeded to eat her melting ice cream. Keep in mind that no one at the table even attempted to warn her. Lifting her spoon, she found that it had a very, very large scoop of what appeared to be Green Tea Ice Cream on it, and she happily opened her mouth and shoved the entire thing inside. As soon as the spoon left her mouth she realized what had happened and her eyes went wide and began to water as her face became so red I thought she would burst into flame.
It was the perfect practical joke.
By all rights, I should have died that night. I should have been a victim of a frontal lobotomy by a spoonful of wasabi shoved up my nose and into my brain, but somehow I survived. Shaggy didn’t get angry, she didn’t even get upset. In fact, as soon as she had recovered from her initial shock, she turned to face me and somehow managed to swallow before calmly taking a drink of water.
“Damn.” She said, as she continued to eat her ice cream.
“That was perfect.”
Haiku Style Blog-Fu
I present to you
My day, from morning to night
Damn you, I am lame
Wake up 10 a.m.
Yawn, stretch, scratch myself and fart
Damn you, brand new day
Water, soap, shampoo
To clean; lather, rinse, repeat
Damn you, stinging eyes
Brush my teeth and hair
Shave face with brand new razor
Damn you, bleeding face
Breakfast beckons me
Hot cocoa and Captain Crunch
Damn you, empty milk
Get dressed, shirt and jeans
Laughing people pass me by
Damn you, open fly
Now it’s time to work
And yet, I procrastinate
Damn you, Miss Ex-Boxx
Hungry, dinner time
Deliveryman rings bell
Damn you, burnt pizza
Pizza stomach pains
Porcelain throne, sit, relief
Damn you, no T.P.
Sit and stare at screen
Inspiration! Time to Blog
Damn you, MS Word
Bedtime, tired, sleep
Can’t stop thinking in haiku
Damn you, I must stop
Imperfect Getaway
It was like a bolt of lightening.
I was sitting there in Miss Gould’s second grade classroom, trying to devise a new way to torture the smelly, nasty, old bat, when something in my mind clicked together with enough force to literally throw me from my seat and to the floor in surprise. The fact that Stacy V. was wearing a cute and very mini mini-skirt had nothing to do with my revelation, but it may have influenced the direction of my fall.
I wasn’t sure, but I thought she was wearing white panties with little yellow ducky’s.
After apologizing to the class for my clumsiness, I picked myself up from the floor and got back in my seat. I knew almost instinctively that my minor epiphany would lead to all sorts of cool and exciting experiments, but I just didn’t know how yet. I decided to ponder the ramifications of my discovery just as soon as I picked up my pencil. Making sure no one was looking at me, I stealthily dropped my pencil in front of Stacy’s desk and proceeded to pick it up again.
Yep, definitely ducky’s.
Since I sat next to the window, I had a great view of the schools outer courtyard and the street. Being that it was winter outside, the schools large radiators under the windows were on and doing their job of making each and every classroom uncomfortably warm. As I sat there, watching the snow fall gently to the ground and sweating my hairless gonads off in my brown corduroy dungarees (the height of fashion from the discount bins at Woolworth’s), I pondered my newfound bit of knowledge trying to figure out just how I could turn it to my advantage.
“Crayons,” I thought to myself, “are made of wax.”
As I sat there in awe of my own intelligence, I decided to test my newfound discovery’s validity by melting some crayons as soon as I could figure out how to start a fire in the classroom without getting in trouble.
Then I remembered the radiator pipes.
Tentatively, I reached out my hand and touched one of the radiators. Oh yeah, they were hot! I sucked on my slightly burnt fingers and began to devise a plan. All I needed now was to get my hands on some crayons…
“Drawing time, everyone. Go to the back of the room and get your crayons.”
“God.” I thought to myself as I returned to my seat. “You must truly love me.”
Understandably, he had nothing to say to that.
Now, since I thought I was a smart little bastard, I knew I would have to be careful or I’d be in big poopy. I had learned from watching television that if you’re going to commit a crime you should always wear gloves or the cops would find your fingerprints and then find you and send you ‘downtown’. Of course, I had no idea how fingerprints helped the cops find someone or even why going downtown was bad, but it didn’t really matter. For whatever reason, my young mind had latched onto the idea that if I didn’t leave any fingerprints then I wouldn’t get into any trouble.
I know it’s stupid now but it made sense to me at the time, so shut up.
I didn’t dare go back to the closet in the back of the class for my gloves because that was just the type of thing a rookie would do. I was far too clever to make that mistake. Instead, I hit upon another brilliant idea. It popped into my head that Elmer’s Glue, when it dries on your skin, has almost the same consistency and texture as rubber. And it just so happened that I had a bottle of glue in my schoolbag.
It was almost too easy.
Not more than 20 minutes and 17 crayons later, Miss Gould discovered me on the floor in the back of the classroom. My hands and arms were covered with dry, cracking Elmer’s Glue and I was watching a slowly melting Ruby Red Crayola join its already fully melted brothers and sisters on the radiator pipes. She was not pleased.
“GeekMan! Just what do you think you’re doing, young man?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? Just look at those pipes, they’re covered with melted crayons! You’re going to have to clean up that mess before the end of school today and the principal is going to call your mother!”
“But, I didn’t do nuthin’!”
“Mr. GeekMan, you are a liar. I can see you with my own eyes!”
“But you don’t have any proof Miss Gould, so I can’t get in trouble.”
“And just what’s that supposed to mean?”
I smiled smugly and raised my glue covered hands for the whole class to see.
“I’m wearing gloves!”
Hypothetical Biology
Humans are biologically stupid.
That’s right, we’re all anatomically retarded. We have two hands, two feet, two ears, two eyes and even two separate methods of expelling waste from our bodies and yet we have only one way to breathe. Think about that for a moment because a little while ago the full ramifications of having only one method of breathing became crystal clear to me. I wanted to breathe but I couldn’t and so I got to thinking about how stupid human anatomy was and how I’d give Darwin a piece of my mind if I met him in the afterlife.
I may have thought about kicking his ass, too.
Now, humans can live without sight or sound, without our hands and feet, but none of us can ever live without breathing, right? So doesn’t it make sense for us to have an alternate method of getting air into our lungs just in case something was to go wrong? I mean really, who does quality control for Mother Nature anyway? Arthur Anderson?
Wait, this story’s a little too embarrassing for me to tell so I’ll give you a hypothetical situation to ponder instead, ok?
Let’s say a man is sitting at home all alone doing nothing too important. Suddenly and without warning, his single air passage becomes blocked by, oh, I don’t know… a small piece of chocolate chip cookie dough from a late night bowl of ice cream. This frozen piece of dough wedges itself quite firmly in place and decides it rather likes its surroundings, would enjoy prolonging its stay in the esophagus and would someone be so kind as to call the cabana boy to rub some sunscreen on its back while it lounges by the pool?
It is at this point that a secondary breathing apparatus would have been much appreciated by the hypothetical man.
Now, some of you might be thinking to yourselves, “GeekMan, we already have a secondary breathing apparatus. It’s called a nose.” Untrue, I say. The nose is connected to the same pipe as your mouth and so, if the pipe becomes blocked then your nose becomes as useless as your mouth. This is why I feel the nose is only good for sensing where the Froot Loops are hidden and for producing copious amounts of mucus which will tend to drip out at the most inappropriate of times.
Onto your plate at dinner with the parents of your significant other, for example.
Now luckily, our hypothetical man with a breathing problem is sufficiently quick on his mental feet to figure out how to save himself and manages to forcibly dislodge the offensive piece of food from his throat before the grim reaper showed up. The removal of the dastardly dough involved many carefully thought out steps of meticulous and deliberate actions. One of these steps was frantically and forcibly striking himself in the stomach with his own fist, not unlike an angry and sexually frustrated chimpanzee in heat.
I didn’t say he was a smart hypothetical man.
When the Dough of Danger was finally removed, our hypothetical man might have been seen to slowly squish it between his thumb and index finger in an act of angry defiance. A hypothetical piece of Bread might have turned to a hypothetical Ex Boxx and say, “Damn. I guess I owe you five bucks, he’ll live after all.” If our hypothetical man had had two different methods of breathing he might have been able to breathe well enough to curse the hypothetical figments of his hypothetical imagination. Instead, he pondered the stupidity of having only one way to breathe while ignoring the snickering figments of his imagination and eating the rest of the pint of ice cream in righteous anger.
At the time, it was the only way he could think of to properly punish it.
Fireworks Are Evil
One fine day, my best friend and I were sitting around with nothing to do when we hit upon the idea of setting off a few old firecrackers and bottle rockets we had left over from the Fourth of July. Not wanting to get caught doing something ‘dangerous’ by our overprotective mothers, we decided the safest place we could go to enjoy ourselves was the roof of our six floor apartment building. We started off innocently enough. A few firecrackers and some sparklers. Nothing dangerous, just two boys having some fun with gunpowder and fire in the big city.
We were kinda like Bo and Luke Duke, only… not.
Well, after we had exhausted our supply of the ‘weaker’ mini-bombs and poppers, we decided to play with the bottle rockets. For those of you who don’t know, a bottle rocket is a slightly more powerful firecracker attached to a thin red stick. You’re supposed to put the stick into a container or bottle, light the fuse and watch as it flies into the air for a couple of seconds before it blows up with a satisfying BANG!
Bottles! As if Bo and Luke would ever use something so wimpy.
Instead of using ‘un-cool’ bottles we came to the conclusion that we could avoid harm by simply holding the stick in our hands, lighting the very dangerous explosive (which was obviously made with care by an overworked, underpaid sweatshop employee in some third world country) and then throwing the lit rocket into the air. Of course, not knowing our physics as well as we might have, it never dawned on us that perhaps a ‘rocket’ made of gunpowder and cheap paper might not have the best aerodynamics in the world and could possibly double back, imbed itself into our anuses and explode in a very painful ball of fire.
Damn. Now that would’ve made one hell of a story.
Anywaste, I don’t recall which of us came up with the idea but somehow we found out through experimentation that if we threw the rockets horizontally, they would fly great distances before exploding with a bang both loud and satisfying enough to make us smile. Soon enough we were throwing these tiny, self-guided missiles all over the roof and we were getting pretty good at learning how to aim them properly.
That’s when the bus honked its horn on the street below.
Our eyes lit up like the flames of hell and we both ran to the edge of the roof. The bus was just sitting there at the light, waiting patiently for someone, anyone, to strike it down with tiny, hand-guided, flaming pieces of death wrapped in cheap paper. Should we? Could we? Dared we? This, we decided, was a gift from Loki, god of mischief, and we were not about to insult him by letting this golden opportunity pass us by.
We really were little bastards, weren’t we?
The first rocket exploded long before it reached the bus. The second fell to the street and died in a futile attempt to reach its target. Numbers three and four exploded underneath the bus, but the fifth, ah the blessed fifth, managed to outdo its brothers and sisters by not only reaching the drivers side window but actually bouncing off it. Of course, it exploded on the street with nary a sound and doing no damage, but we were too busy rejoicing to care. In our minds, the bus was a flaming, blackened heap on the street with people running from the wreckage trying in vain to put out their flaming clothes and burning flesh.
We pretended our principal was one of the passengers.
When the bus pulled away from the intersection, completely unscathed and unaware, I’m sure that no one on board realized anything at all was amiss. In fact, if we ourselves hadn’t known what to listen and look for I don’t think we would have seen or heard anything out of the ordinary. As the bus was rolling away though, we saw something approaching in the distance that instantly became our next target.
A bike messenger. Oh. My. God.
To be honest, I don’t believe either of us actually thought we could hit him. I mean, a man on a bike is a much, much smaller target than a big, city bus. Plus, he was pedaling hard, moving fast and all the way across the street. All in all, a seasoned Green Beret with a sniper rifle on a windless day would have had a tough time hitting this guy, but somehow I knew that I could do it so I lit the fuse and let the rocket fly.
It exploded somewhere between his rear wheel and his puckering anus.
I’m not sure that some of you understand exactly what just happened, so let me slow explain this in a little more detail for you. A man on a bike is minding his own business, pedaling through a relatively safe neighborhood in Brooklyn on a beautiful summers day. Suddenly, he hears something that sounds like a gunshot directly behind him followed by howling laughter.
Ah. Now you understand.
To say this guy pedaled for his life would not do the scene justice. Imagine this poor guy, who had moments before probably been enjoying his day, suddenly taking off as if he had all the hounds of hell on his tail. I’m not positive, but I think he may have screamed in terror as he made his escape down a side street.
He may even have soiled himself.
I know what you’re thinking and yes, looking back I agree wholeheartedly. We were evil, mean and nasty little deviants and should have been spanked like naughty monkeys to within an inch of our lives on a nightly basis just on general principles alone. But back then, Mr. Hentai and I just fell to the floor of the roof laughing like demons on crack as we each told the other in great detail, over and over again, how funny the whole thing was. In fact, it still makes us laugh to this very day.
Fshshshshshshssssss… BANG! “HOLY SHIT!” Pedal, pedal, pedal, pedal. [evil laughter]
Oh boy, somebody spank me.
Frag Me, But Good
The following takes place at my local TOYS foR schmUckS.
“Oh yeah, Barbie. You know you want it. You naughty girl. Daddy’s going to spank you…”
“Hey there, Tiger. Aren’t you a little old for dolls?”
“What? Who said that?”
I quickly put down the Barbie and Ken dolls I had been playing with and scanned the aisle. Aside from the 8 year old girl I was trying to scar emotionally for life, there was no one else there. As I turned towards her to ask if she had said something, she suddenly turned on her heel and ran down the aisle screaming for her mother.
“Well, how rude. I wonder if she’s the one who said that? That’s a damn sexy voice for a kid.”
“No Sugah, she didn’t say it, I did. I’m three rows over and waiting for you, Stud.”
I was a little nervous now but my curiosity was piqued, so I headed to the end of the aisle and turned to my left. If I had been thinking at all I would have realized that no human voice could reach me with such clarity from three rows over in a crowded TRU. And no woman with a voice that sexy would ever talk to me when I hadn’t shaved for four days straight. But something about that voice just compelled me to listen. It was hypnotic. I reached the third aisle and suddenly it all became very clear.
“Wait a minute! This is the video game section… My god, you’re an Ex-Boxx!”
“That’s right my macho man. I’m sleek, I’m new and I’m just dying to go home with you.”
“Oh no lady, I’m not falling for your charms. I haven’t played a game in over three years, so your wily charms have no effect on me. I can’t play video games anymore ever since I started having wrist pains, so you can just seduce some other poor sap and leave me alone.”
“You don’t want me, Hot Stuff? Not even a teensy bit?”
“Nope.”
I said it with as much confidence and finality as I could muster and tried to turn away before she could start talking again. I was almost to the end of the aisle before I heard here clear her throat.
“Baby Cakes, are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Positive?”
“Positive.”
“Well then, I guess it won’t change your mind if I show you this.”
With that, the monitor above the Micro$oft display came to life and was filled with images of Halo. I couldn’t help myself because I really am a weak-willed Geek and I turned around to look. I know, I know, I was stupid. It was a trap and I knew it was a trap and I still couldn’t resist.
I’m so dumb sometimes I can’t believe I ever managed to find my way out of the womb.
One look at that awe inspiring vision of gaming wet dreams was all it took. Suddenly, my brain ceased all upper functions and it was only through a supreme effort of will that I managed to breath at all. My body stood there, slack and unresponsive, as the images held my eyes captive. I couldn’t help it, I got excited. My pulse quickened, sweat broke out on my brow and my nipples even got hard.
I got so excited I think I peed, just a little, in my pants.
I’m not sure how long I stood there, but I think I recall the images looping four or five times before I became aware of a voice. It might have taken another few loops before I realized the voice was asking a question.
“Wha? Who? Hmmmm… I’m sorry, did you say something?”
“That’s all right, Tiger. I was just wondering if you might have changed your mind about taking a poor girl home?”
That snapped me back to reality real fast.
“Oh no, missy. You’re not going to get me that easily. I can’t take you home with me. I have a girlfriend already. I don’t have the money to afford you. I’ve got wrist pains. I don’t have the time. We’re just not right for each other.”
“Is that really how you feel?”
“I’m sorry, but yes. I really can’t take you home with me. Besides, I spend all my money on the VEHTS so I really can’t see spending money on something like you. Sorry.”
I could tell she was disappointed, but I figured she’d get over it. I just hoped I could get out of there before she started crying or something. That would have really sucked. Have you ever heard a piece of hardware cry? It’s pathetic. Really.
It kind of sounds like Willie Nelson gargling with battery acid.
Anyway, I really just didn’t have the time for her kind of nonesense. I mean, I spend all my time with my computers and my girlfriend. How would I ever find the time…
“You know, you could hook me up to the VEHTS and play games with 5.1 digital surround sound.”
At 5am the next morning, after playing Halo for 9 hours straight without stopping for food, water, or going to the bathroom, I suddenly realized what I had done. I looked over to Miss Boxx as she sat proudly in her new place of distinction in the VEHTS rack and gave her my most evil glare.
“I can’t believe I brought you home.”
“Aw Sugah. You don’t really mean that, do you? Whoops, you died again. Shall I hit restart for you, Sweetums?”
Crying softly to myself at the injustice of it all, I nodded to her and turned back to the TV. I’m not positive, but I think I saw an evil smile of sadistic pleasure on her lips as I turned away.
That heartless bitch.