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The Ballad of Poor Richard

I once appealed to the universe, beseeching it to take my father’s life so that I might, in return, receive a holographic Blastoise Pokemon card (If you do not recall the story, read about it here).  That plea I made, unforgivable as it was, did not mark the end of my pocket-monster-inspired antics.  The forthcoming story acts as a pseudo-sequel, and it picks up roughly a year after the events of Pokemon Patricide:

It was 5th grade.  The Pokemon fetishism that rapt the 4th grade consciousness had inexplicably dwindled, no doubt supplanted by gel pens, Old Navy sweater-vests, Tomagatchis, hair-bleach for white-boys, and, of course, a growing sense of maturation.  Indeed, most of the kids in 5th grade, fickle creatures incapable of anything but fleeting adoration, had no qualms about treating their pocket-monsters like lint and abandoning them forever.  But it wasn’t a simple disenchantment with Pokemon; no, there was a collective backlash against it.  Pokemon became stigmatized as unsophisticated and infantile.  And so, unable to divorce myself from my Pokemaniac impulses, and equally unfit to embrace a pariah’s existence, Pokemon became my mistress.

I made sweet, shameful love to my mistress in the back-corners of classrooms.  I forewent the urinals on bathroom breaks, opting instead to take my mistress into the stalls with me and shuffle her delicately.  At home, I adored her in my bedroom.  However, love her as I did, I grew bored of her.  She needed an injection of something new.  She needed to be traded.

I needn’t tell you the inherent difficulty of trading Pokemon cards in school.  It had always been a black-market and clandestine affair, appropriate only in huddles during recess or at crowded tables during lunch.  But 5th grade saw a new hurdle.  No one can be trusted.  There was no longer solidarity among the kids, yet the administration was still as suppressive as ever.  How, then, in that environment was I going to negotiate a Pokemon trade?

The answer came in the form of a new kid.  For the sake of anonymity, we’ll call him Poor Richard Lotruck.  Poor Richard, a Tom Cruise doppelganger if I ever saw one, immediately warmed-up to me.  We became fast friends.  I told him everything, even about my mistress and how embarrassed I was about her…how I had never, and would never, tell anyone else about her.  For my candor, he returned in kind.

He told me about all the tigers he had at home.  When we learned about colorblindness, I was enamored with the idea, and he confided to me that he was, in fact, colorblind.  He told me about a spaceship he and his dad were making.  And, most importantly of all, he told me about the exhaustive collection of Pokemon cards he had.  I was bewitched:  He owned a copy, often duplicate copies, of seemingly every card I was interested in!  And there was one card I was particularly interested in…a Dark Raichu.ImageWell, Poor Richard and I got to haggling about what I could give him in return for one of his countless Dark Raichu cards.  I was a bit confused as to why he would want any of my cards, seeing as he already had copies of them all, but I wasn’t in a mood to ask questions, fearing that I would lose my Pokemon confidant.  And so, as per Poor Richard’s request, I brought to school a collection of my ten best Pokemon cards.

Poor Richard and I did not have every class together, but we did share a classroom, albeit at different times during the day.  And so, Poor Richard devised an ingenious plan:  He would look over my cards during his class, and then, in true covert fashion, he would nestle the cards on a specific page in the book beneath his seat.  Then, when I entered the class directly after he left, I could surreptitiously retrieve my cards by flipping to that page and removing them.  Sure, the plan seemed a bit intricate, but I dug it.

And so, I handed him my collection of cards.  He gave them a quick study, pocketed them, then told me they would be on page 497 when he was done.  I asked if I could see the Dark Raichu card.  You’ll never believe it, but he had forgotten to bring the card!  I said it was okay and that he could just bring it tomorrow.  We went our separate ways.

When my class was over, I hustled to Poor Richard’s classroom.  I saw him as he walked out.  We made eye contact, and he winked at me.  I entered the room, located Poor Richard’s chair, snatched the book, opened it to page 497, and gasped.  The cards were not there.  Perhaps Poor Richard mistakenly put the cards on a different page?  I held the spine of the book, and then shook it violently.  Nothing fell out.

Later that day, I confronted Poor Richard.  I told him that my cards weren’t there.  A caricature of shock and empathy looked back at me as he explained how he had put the cards on page 497, how he had no idea what happened to them, and how, regrettably, he could not give me the Dark Raichu card because I had no cards to trade for it.  I told him I understood and he seemed relieved.

I did understand.  I understood that I had been played like a goddamn fiddle.  I understood that Poor Richard was a Tom-Cruise-looking little shit who took advantage of my vulnerable combination of trust and fear.  I understood that he knew that I wouldn’t tell on him because he knew how embarrassed I was to still like Pokemon.  I did understand…that Poor Richard Lotruck had to die.

But since I wasn’t in the murdering mood, I settled for a healthy, festering, consuming appetite for revenge.  Yes, I devoted the rest of 5th grade to biding my time until I could strike back at Poor Richard.  The waiting was not easy, nor was pretending to still be his friend.  I had to listen to his lies, act as if I was enthralled by his grandeur, and hold my tongue and fist as I saw his self-satisfied smugness.  Luckily for me, Poor Richard was an idiot.  An admirable con-artist?  Maybe.  An unbelievably daft student?  Most certainly.  Every time his idiocy was reaffirmed by his report card, my revenge hunger-pangs quelled a bit.  It was delightful to see him fail.

Time went by and it was almost the end of the year.  The summer was approaching quickly, and Poor Richard was tip-toeing towards a precarious impasse:  Would he become next year’s stupidest 6th grader?  Or would he delay that inevitability for one year in order to double-down as 5th grade’s oldest idiot?

I saw my chance to make that decision for him.  See, we had a group project.  The group was Poor Richard, two friends of mine, and me.  We finished the project.  Naturally, Poor Richard contributed nothing.  There is, however, a gentleman’s rule that, when it comes to evaluating group members for a project, one should always give full credit.  I broke that gentleman’s rule and, behind Poor Richard’s back, convinced the other two group members to break it as well.  We all gave Poor Richard zeros.  When the teacher asked to see us after class in order to affirm that what we wrote was true, we did not back down.  Poor Richard Lotruck got held back and I…I was the straw that broke that camel’s back.

Moral:  Don’t mess with my Pokemon, asshole.

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My Open Letter to a Presumed Pimp

Dear Sir,

From what I can glean from your, admittedly, dashing threads, you are one of two things:  A pimp dressed-to-the-nines in what can only be described as stereotypical splendor; or a very late arrival to–or a very early revivalist of–the Zoot Suit riots.  Your garb vis-à-vis the aforementioned riots is spot on, but I question your commitment to/your knowledge of the Mexican-American riots that made your suit famous…so pimp it is!  Although, and now I’m just spitballin’, you could very well be colorblind.  Given the motley collection of colors you are currently representing, I sort of hope so.  You are not, however, mute.  I know this because, despite my attempts at whatever the opposite of eavesdropping is, I now know more than I care to about the size of your pit-bull (hella big); your evaluation of the Mayan calendar (whack shit); your aspirations and estimations for the future financial growth (cha-chingity-chang and it ain’t no thang); and how you feel about being stared at on the bus (they pointin’ they peepers my way like I’m something to see).  Point is, you are one of those rare spirits whose physical essence appropriately reflects your personality.  You are, as the trench warfare saying goes, over the top.  You are a collection of exaggerations coalesced into a caricature.  More cartoon than man, really.  And I love you for it.  You are unabashedly every conceivable stereotype of a pimp–and you must know it–yet you don’t give a shit.  You are struttin’ around with a completely unnecessary cane.  You are dangling all sorts of medallions from your neck.  Your shitty phone has a bedazzled case.  And, I would gladly bet the proceeds from my next blog post that if you have a business card, then it declares you an “Entertainer” by trade.  Hell, you’ve entertained me.  I guess what I want to say is this:  Thank you for being you, inside and out.


A Secret Admirer

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These are my readers, apparently

For those of you not familiar with WordPress, the site offers its bloggers a handy little set of stats.  These stats include how many “hits” your blog has for the day, week, month, year.  It also identifies where the “hits” originate from.  Perhaps the viewer clicked on a link from Facebook or Twitter, or perhaps it is because a fella searched for “Humor” on the WordPress search-engine and stumbled upon your humorous blog, or maybe, just maybe, they searched Google for “my fat friend looks like kool aide.”  This last avenue is the one I want to pause on.  See, as a WordPress blogger, I am able to see exactly what my readers typed in order to bring them to my blog.  The previous (and all subsequent) search entries are real searches made by my real readers.  Those inquisitive souls deserve to find what they are looking for or, at the very least, someone who will respond to what they are looking for.  I am that person.  For each search, I will do my damnedest to provide a sufficient response.  These are my readers, apparently.  Enjoy.

Note:  The searches are in bold and the responses are not.

What is the liquid used to knock people out:  Chloroform, my friend.  I’m sure you’ll have a woozy date in no time.  People who purchased this item also purchased:  A white cloth.

Dirty minds will only be able to see this:  I don’t know what “this” is, but I see phallic symbols all over the place.  Ubiquitous dick, I tell you!

People who look like people from the past:  Any people of an ethnicity other than your own; they all look the same, after all.

I like you you are weird:  If I may, this is quite a charming and cute search.  It feels authentic and is all the more adorable because the searcher opted for “like” instead of “love.”  Well played, anonymous.

Me riding my dog under a saddle:  I’m not sure if Google is gonna give you the picture you’re looking for…it might give you someone riding a dog in a saddle, but I have my doubts that that someone is gonna be you.  I could be wrong.  This could be you.

Causes for cat to be born without eyes:  The eyeballs got lost under the refrigerator with all the other balls.

My children are better than yours:  Well, that can only mean that my abortions were more successful than yours.

Do all men have hair on ass:  Only real men, son.

No levels of honesty just honesty funny cat:  This one starts out philosophical, pausing on what seems to be a disenchantment with the multiple tiers of honesty in favor of a more simple incarnation, then quickly dissolves into “funny cat.”  This type of search is commonly known as of now as Internet Tourette’s, or the inability to finish a serious Google-search without including something utterly ridiculous and off-topic.

Skid marks on bed sheets:  Suggestion number one:  Wipe your ass better.  Suggestion number two:  Stop sleeping naked.  Suggestion number three:  Get a dream-catcher because your dreams should not make you shit your pants.

Dirty ways to use nutella:  Come on over.  Bring the Nutella, honey.  Also, read this, it should get you hot.

Morgan freeman girlfriend:  He don’t need a girl, he got Andy Dufresne!

Badass charizard:  See:  Charizard.

Bikinis on fat animals:  See:  Bikinis on Americans.  America is obese.  Deal with it.

Wham george micheal ;):  I love (LOVE) the winky face.  The fact that someone typed that in with his or her search excites me about the future of the human race.  There is hope yet!  😉

Impossible questions for gingers:  Honestly, I’m surprised more people aren’t searching the same thing.  We need to find out ways to stump these riddle-devouring gingers!

Things I wish were real:  If you consult Google for your personal preferences, there is a problem.  I bet your parents are ashamed.  I know I am.

Kobe bryant and gary oak porn:  I am delighted that this search brought you to my humble blog.

Things to dip in kool aide powder:  Lick you finger.  Dip it in.  Lick a pretzel rod.  Dip it in.  Lick a Fun Dip stick.  Dip it in.  The possibilities are endless.

More coming soon…

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An Historical Fact You Ought To Know

The Defenestration of Prague:

Defenestration, for those of you who live alone on the first floor, is the act of hurling another thing or person–say, a roommate?–out of a window.  Perhaps the most famous defenestration happened in Prague in 1618.  For those of you unfamiliar with the Thirty Years War, it was basically a civil war between Catholics and Protestants all across Europe.  Where does Prague factor in?  Well, Prague was in the midst of a dynastic overhaul that would see a hardline Catholic become the emperor.  Some of the Bohemian nobles were none-too-pleased.  They feared, and rightfully so, that they were going to lose the freedom of religion to which they had grown accustomed to.  As you might have guessed, words are of little consequence to religious folk when they are discontented.  No, they have a divine urge to get their hands dirty.  These particular Protestants waltzed into the royal castle and proceeded to throw three men out of the allegedly 70-foot third-floor window.  Now, I’m no historian, but I believe this is how the encounter occurred:

Protestants (upon entering the castle):  We have come with many grievances and fears about our livelihood!

Catholics (not looking up):  Sure, sure…staple them to the door next to Martin Luther’s.

Protestants:  Oh, I think you misunderstand us.  We wish to teach you a lesson.

Catholics:  And what kind of lesson would that be?

Protestants:  Why, it is a vocabulary lesson.  We would like to teach you the meaning of “defenestrate.”

Catholics:  Ah, well we are unfamiliar with the term.  Could you use it in a sentence?

Protestants:  Indeed we can:  “The Protestants, upon being pissed off, defenestrated the Catholics from the third floor.”

Catholics:  Hmmmm…yeah, we still don’t get it.

Protestants (approaching the Catholics):  Well, it is better to show not tell…

Well, you probably think the Catholics died.  Blasphemy!  The Pope is ashamed of you.  The Catholics lived to tell the tale by landing in a pile of shit.  Holy shit that was some Holy shit!  And that is why Catholics are always full of shit.

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