(role da credduts.) There are a couple of things I hate about mankind. One of them is their utter indifference to certain, moral-related things, and the other is their attachment to that which truly should not matter.
Take school for example. Since the age of four, I have been attending this mad contraption in order to learn about "mathematics," "reading," "writing," and a whole slew of other things that fit the definition of insanity quite nicely. Teacheraurus-Rex taught me math so I can, what--forget it 20 years later? And they obviously think reading and writing is just as important as talking because otherwise, I would've had three extra hours every day to do whatever the hell I wanted.
But, ignoring all the sarcasm of my happy-six-year-old-cheerleader-Jessica mindset, I have to say that peer pressure is definitely the dumbest thing ever invented.
It started a few months ago. I work at A&M Offices, you know, the company everyone makes fun of on national television and theatres? Can't remember? Take a moment to think about all the Bob's you've seen in a pressed white shirt and black slacks drinking coffee and conversing with the Steve's and Ann's of modern America. That's A&M Offices. We do--quite literally--nothing! The "regulation" and "company protocol" exist for no reason other than making us more afraid of the Wilderness. When that computer virus hits our network in 2012, we shall be there for the revolution. Smiley face.
Anyway, I was flying back to the office in my red and blue tights, since that's obviously what all interns do these days, and I came across a newly opened building on 14th. I flew behind an alleyway and emerged as Clarky Kenson, the hard-working male of 26 years who aspires to be the head of that company over there, and went over to check it out. Little did I know that by focusing my attentions on the new GameSpot headquarters and pausing on my usual route to work, I was earning myself a one-way ticket to living off pension, taxes, and dirty bananas supposedly picked from Elysian Fields. But, dare I say it, I quite enjoyed my pit-stop because I met a good hoochie and had a glass of beer with Jeff Gertsmann on the rooftop of the new building. Apparently he's been sitting there typing on his notebook since the day he was fired. Sad, really. The word "notebook" used to have only one meaning...
Okay, before I go into a rant about oral sex and testicle amusements: I then swam over to Wall Street (since Wall Street is where every company in the world is located) and rode up to the 354th floor, clocked in, smacked Joe on his frightfully homosexual behind, had a few laughs with Dave, gave Terry some advice to further destroy his relationship with his wife, and went over to my sacred cubicle. I remember checking my email and playing some Runescape before it happened. The yell. A big, loud, frightening noise like a plane crashing into the earth. You can imagine his uvula swiveling around like a speed bag if you want, it's spot on. The yell had come from my boss, who was an expert at such things, and when we interpreted it into modern language, he'd been calling for none other than yours truly.
I skipped over to him in my red and blue tights--haha, hidden beneath my slacks of course--and asked him in his native tongue what the f*** he wanted. He said to me several new words that I'd never taken the pleasure to learn but old Joe would later explain to me that I'd been fired for arriving to work five hours late. I suppose when you're drunk on top of a building such things as time lose their sexual value so you just stop paying attention to it. I packed up my belongings and, after many words of goodbye, made my way back to 14th only to find that Jeff had gone off to find himself a life, the slick bastard.
I had consumed half of his stock before getting a phone call from Joe about some conspiracy involving my review of Hello Kitty Online on IGN and was told to write a letter involving expletives about the state of the Mississipi river. I realize now that it was all just an illusion stemming from the hardcore Irish brew that flowed through my veins at the time, but oops!, too late. (I'm writing this from prison, by the way.)
In any case, I told imaginary-Joe that I did not--absolutely did not--want to write a letter involving two or more expletives, but he just would not close the case. I had to get rough with him a few times, hanging up the phone on him and the like, but he battled back with the "redial" button and I suppose I was just too drunk to refuse such things. So then I went to the extreme and started yelling blatancies at him, just so he would get a taste of my fury. I said to him "Joe, if you don't stop calling me I'll come over there and cut off your--your--", and after he egged me on with much gusto, "--hawangawang!" (I do apologize for the rude language, but in the practice of raw and unflinching truth I refuse to censor!)
Then all the other yahoolahoo's (sorry, I'll stop that now) started ringing me up. Several of them suggested I write an essay about world hunger, but even in my blind drunkedness I failed to see the effect of such a work on my state of employment. And so I told them, one after the other: NO.
I'd like to explain something at this point. My definition of the word "no." To me, this sacred word passed down from generations of Native Americans is a clear and absolute statement saying back the f*** off and drop the subject or I'll shoot you with something deadly and effective. An astounding number of people seem to misunderstand that. They say things like, "Really?" and "You sure?" as if I didn't just say "no" and instead said some sort of Japanese mistranslation like "I want you to have you with me." My reactions are always different. Sometimes I do a Dempsey Roll. Sometimes I kiss them because my hatred cannot be expressed in any other way. Sometimes I laugh and give them a few stabs in the crotch. And sometimes I just stare at them.
Well, in this particular case I was quite stumped as to how to react when lady Idiotry came knocking at my door in the form of these many ex-co-workers and fans and admirers. Part of me wanted to kill them and make cute decorations on my mantle for that pagan holiday down in December. The other part of me wanted to yell out "BEEEANS!" in a horrific battle cry and run down 14th in my birthday suit. It was quite nippy, mind you, surely less than ten Celsius. But when you're a drunkard things seem much warmer than usual, don't they?
As the thought strolled through my mind, tempting me with irresistible mounds of cosmic freedom, I realized that it was becoming quite a chore to get off the phone in the first place. I told old Joe to go can it and "get one," and I'm sure he was quite offended by that, but to everyone else I implored them to have a nice day involving lots of bagels and coffee--because it was their problem now, not mine--and hung up nicely on their oversized ego's. Before beginning my streak of nirvana I made sure to finish off Jeff's stock and make my ascension into utter delirium complete. Sensibly, I tossed the cans off the roof after I was done with them, only I realize now that they were as much cans as my ass is made of candy. Yes, I threw thirty glass bottles of Guinness over a five-story building, possibly attributing to the deaths of a golden retriever Maxie and a midget named Chuck. Bite me. If you've got a sway about it you can lingo with my lawyer over in the lounge because I'm quite busy avoiding rape and enlightenment right now.
So about the streak, I managed to make it about three blocks before a private Gary intervened with a club made of holly, clearly a testament that punishment could just as well be a fashionable affair if you allowed it. He said "Hey, wot! Why are ye running around without yer clothin', ah? Are ye lookin' for a piece of justice? Because I'm made of justice, wot! You'll be hearin' all kinds of holy praises after I'm finished puttin' ye through the runnin' mill of divine intervention." And I said quite plainly that I did not understand one word he had just said.
Some rough-housing ensued between me and the portly father of three; some "fistycuffs," if I may be so bold as to quote off the inter-web. He put up his fistycuffs and I put up mine, and in the midst of a daring crowd we had ourselves a battle royale. I think I beat his ass quite nicely with my fistycuffs, but it was not so pleasent as I hoped it would be. His kidneys, for one, did not smile at the thought of dying in battle and so I was forced to strike at his bowels, which was indeed a messy affair. He didn't play Barbie with his holly club though, because the moment I attacked his metaphorical heart he made sure to strike me a deadly one, tears flowing down his bruised face like he was a bitch.
Anyway, before I continue to violate more copyright talking about fistycuffs, the battle ended in my nude and glorious victory and I think it sobered me up a little because when I raised my hand in triumph I could feel the insane cold lashing out at my genitals.
Now, one would tell you that I began to run at that precise moment because of some sort of guilt I felt at defeating the fat piece of justice, but I declare that that was not the case in even the slightest. You can imagine by now that it was cold enough for one's nipples to break off, and I was about as prepared for it as Harry Potter was prepared to retake his seventh year for skipping school. Well, that's why I ran. Because it was flipping cold. If I smiled too hard I'd spend the rest of my life hunting down all the pieces of my face after the icy wind scattered them throughout the world.
Now as I ran, I discovered I had superhuman strength. It involved a bus and gravity, alright?
When I awoke in the hospital, my boss and ex-co-workers all stood over me asking me how I felt. God. If I had a pistol I'd have pistol-whipped them right then and there. I just got hit by a bus, how the f*** do you think I feel? I should've said to them "Why, I feel just peachy. Considering I'm paralyzed from the waist down, I feel very good indeed!" But instead I just gave each of them a fluttering kiss.
By the way, did you catch the joke about the pistol? If you pistol-whip someone, you're basically shooting them, get it? Because--because you can't really whip someone with a pistol! Hahaha, I'm unemployed!
So I decided it would be best if I died. I told the doctors to go "lick something wet," and I don't think they understood because they pressed me with details about health and insurance. Apparently, I had to pay them for saving my life, as if they were not already getting paid to do so. It made sense after a while...in a retarded sort of way. But I told them of my current state of unemployment and they gave me hard looks in my face. Then I told them to just let me go ahead and kick the bucket, since I was nearing the [world-wide] average age of death anyway. But they said to go do it elsewhere, and to further my limp and blasted image they called me "broke." Dr. Schwillinger then called security and I was escorted out into the middle of the street and left there.
I think this was probably the worst part of the ordeal. Not about the seventy-something blocks of cars honking their horns in frustration at me, no. What really bites me to this day was the unending stream of "No's" I had to dish out in epic proportions.
"Hey, buddy, you okay?" No.
"Can you get out of the road?" No.
"Why not? You dead?" No.
"Um, why are you lying on the sidewalk in the middle of the night?" No.
"Would you like some candy, mister?" Heavens no, I don't know where that's been.
"Hey, dude, rad stunt man!" Come here and let me kiss you.
"Excuse me, I'm gonna have to ask you to get off the sidewalk, please?" Did anyone ever tell you your head looks like a d***? Well, some rough-housing ensued after that one.
"Haha, look at the paralyzed guy sitting in the park!" Is that what you kids go for these days?
"Excuse me, can you pass me that ball?" No, and I'd like for you to stop looking like a girl.
"But... I am a girl." No you're not, stop being queer. Yeah you take your little ball and run along. Lord knows you need one.
"Woah man, haven't seen you in a while. Wanna hang by my place? I got a new system, the PS3. I already got Gears of War and Halo, and I just picked up Pokemon Amethyst. We could hang together, you know like old times? Also I’m a superhero now. Lawyer by day, vigilante by night. Dark night. Get it? Yeeeah, I'm so good at squeezing people's lemons. I still make great lemonade by the way. Sold a fortune on ebay and fiverr. Want a taste? Wanna come? Wanna ride the ride? Whip the whip? You wanna go make f***ing history bro!?!?" No.
"You there! Did you tell my daughter she looked like a boy?" *the finger*
"Hey, what happened to your face? Did you get beat up?" Yes.
"By who?" A human of the opposite sex.
"A girl!?" No.
"......" Yeah I know, just run along okay?
Hey, fatso, may I get a lift over to 14th? "No!"
Hey, dock-end, may I get a lift over to 14th? "No!"
Hey, dumbass, may I get a lift over to 14th? "Sure, whatever, hop in."
"Where to?" 14th, please.
"That's $12." To hell with you! I tried to flee but for some reason my arms magically stopped being fast.
"Hey, man! We've been looking all over for you! What's up? Have you been up here this entire time?" Oh look it's Joe.
"Did you drink my entire stock of liquor?" Maybe...
"There he is! That's the guy that killed my dog!" Why hello my good hoochie, come for another bite?
"Did you murder this woman's dog?" No, sir, I only killed it.
You may no envision bars slamming in my face! THE END.