Wednesday, March 18, 2015
Tuesday, March 17, 2015
Or should I say, amazing email writer. I have just finished reading your most recent email, and I have to say, I am floored. This is an email for the record books. We will be holding a ceremy in honor of this email complete with several types of cake, a large arrangement of over 1000 exotic flowers, and, of course, last, but not least, an incredible three hour long fireworks ceremony honoring your electronic communication.
Not only that, but this email shall also be printed out and plastered all over the largest building in the city for all to read at all times of day. People shall never forget the day you sent this email. The president has deemed this a national holiday in honor of this fine correspondence. You will receive all of the medals and all of the Pulitzers.
Never has anyone been more validated than you shall be.
Never has anyone been more validated than you shall be.
P.S. Now please stop sending emails!
Sunday, March 15, 2015
The chair sat empty. And for that, Desi was glad.
Ever since Trevor caught a cold and was killed in a horrific trash compactor incident, Desi's life had improved. The hotline training would go well, this she felt sure of, but without the added headache of Trevor, it would go better than well, it would go super awesome. Her close friend and confidant, Linda agreed, and said, “I am glad Trevor is not here. He was awful. And his nose was always running and dripping snot all over everything.”
“Yes,” I agree, said Desi, adjusting her glasses, “It was an act of mercy that that garbage truck ate him.”
The prospective volunteers had already started to file in. Some old, some young, mostly dressed in sweat pants, for what reason, she could not say, but then she remembered why. Trevor had edited the flier to encourage comfortable wear. This was another bad thing he had done. His reasoning had been that since the meeting would take so long, it be better that everyone be comfortable as possible.
One woman had arrived in only her panties. She was asked to leave.
Suddenly, a great crash was heard not far from their building. She looked out the window, and saw that one of the homes was ablaze. Not wasting any time, she rushed outside, having never seen a house on fire before.
Outside, Desi, Linda, and the rest of the group stood staring in awe at the flaming home. The roof had an enormous gash where it seemed a large meteor had come crashing through. Just as Desi was about to comment on this, the door opened, and out of the flaming house stepped none other than Trevor himself!
Desi gasped. Linda ran screaming.
“Hello, Desi,” said Trevor.
“Trevor?” asked Desi, afraid for her life, her shaking fists clenched, ready to do him in for the second time if she had to.
“No, it is not Trevor. I am Tyrone. Trevor was a douche bag doppelganger with a bad cold. I have come from far off to rid the world of him. Please, point me in his direction.”
“Oh,” said Desi. “Well, you came all this way for nothing.”
“How is that?”
“Trevor is dead.”
“Oh,” said Tyrone, scratching his bald head. “Darn.”
“But we have an opening for an intern, and if you are truly the better half, then we would be glad to have you.”
“Okay,” said Tyrone.
Wednesday, March 11, 2015
This is what you write.
“Listen, dumb ass! You can't be sick! No one can be sick!” Dung was screaming mad. She was mad as hell, if there was a hell. Who knows anymore.
Tyrone, a tall and gangly man who couldn't be bothered to grow hair on his head, shuffled to his corner, and began to cry blood. Blooood! WHOA!
WHAT!? I SAID WHAT!?
“BLOOD!?” said Isidro, “He can't cry blood. Makes no sense. Wipe the snot from your nose and get back to work, Tyrone."
Linda stormed in, fists above her head punching everyone's thoughts to death, and said, “Does anyone have any ham!?”
Tyrone, still shuffling, bent over and picked up a fat slice and tossed it to her.
Dung flew through the air, caught it, and said, “No ham!”
Tyrone shuffled home. And cried into his pillow. But also had a little party. A dance party! YESSSS.
Sunday, March 1, 2015
Being held back four years in high school isn't a big deal. A lot of kids in this country are still in high school at my age. I saw it on the news. When the report came on the TV, my mom, an incredibly obese woman who received 700 dollars checks every month from the government, yelled at me in her labored voice, huffing and screaming, “Billy! Come down! There's someone dumb as you in Alabama!”
I went downstairs to catch the last bit of it. The newscaster, an alluring Japanese woman with ruby red lips I yearned to smooch, shook her head and said, “That poor stupid overgrown child.”
“Momma, I ain't nothing like that man. I am intelligent and well-read.”
“No you ain't, boy. You's a god damned idiot! I sure wished I had that abortion.”
“Whatever, MOM! At least I don't weigh, like, six hundred fucking pounds!”
Momma began crying profusely at this cutting and insightful jab. I often commented on how fat she was only to watch her cry. Satisfied with myself, I went back upstairs to play some more DoTA 2. DOTA 2 is an incredibly complex video game created by several of the greatest minds of our century. It requires the most intelligent types of minds to excel. I am currently one of the highest ranked players, I'll have you know. Which means my brain capacity is enormous and that I have an IQ of at least 190.
I yelled some stupid shit at the screen that you wouldn't understand, because the concepts and strategies of DOTA 2 are all well beyond your feeble grasp, dumb reader. I had been put on a team of morons, so we lost by a ton. Irate that I would be wronged so deeply, I closed the game, and went to their forums, where I could voice my dissent that subhumans would attempt to play this game. Two hours later, I had crafted a truly earth shattering diatribe.
It was 3 AM and Momma yelled at me to go to bed, as I had school tomorrow.
“Shut up, Mom! You're not my boss!”
I finally went to sleep at 5 AM, but only after watching several hours of DOTA 2 videos and arguing on Reddit about DOTA 2. If it were not for this video game to fill the hours of my pointless life, I do not know what I would do.
Sometimes at night when I think about all the video games I had played, I wondered if I had not made a terrible mistake. Certainly being a 20 year old 11th grader could somehow be connected to this, I thought, but fortunately I am always able to dash these thoughts out of my mind and get some solid shut eye. When I slept, I had a dream. It was of a girl I knew from the local video game store. She has huge honkin' tits.
In the morning I ate cereal and had some beer, even though Mom did not want me to.
On the bus, some freshman girls made fun of me for being 20 years old, but I ignored them by staring out the window and counting how many fast food restaurants we passed. Eight, to be exact, and everyday, my mom eats at all of them.
At school, I pissed myself.