Do You Understand Life?

You might think you understand life, but until you witness Johhny Wiseau’s beautiful disaster The Room for yourself, I’m here to say you don’t understand shit. Witness.

Recap

In my last post, I made my intentions quite clear:

• A few friends and I would gather
• We would make merry
• We would watch The Room
• We would explore boundaries and definitions: What is funny? What is awful?
• Where does Tommy Wiseau ‘the director’ end and his character ‘Johnny’ begin?
• Lastly, why did nobody fucking try to stop me when I made these intentions clear?

So here we all are, weeks later. We saw The Room and we lived. We all still exist. The TV room is clean again, quiet. Still. That stillness an act of passive betrayal to the truth. Because the sins that I saw right here, in this room – they were real. The pizza’s long gone; the drinks consumed. The Room is back in its dvd case where it fucking belongs, locked away for all time, calm, so deceptively calm. It will remain there, imprisoned forever like some foul mummy, until such time that I deem myself ready for penultimate punishment, second only to…

No, not death.

The ultimate punishment, I now know, could only be another viewing of…The Room. I will try not to reference too much from the movie, but in this I will fail. I’ve already failed. I understand life. The internet’s already ripe with reviews of Tommy’s work, and to add more low hanging fruit to an orchard of failure will only yield rotten results. My will may be strong, my goal may be pure, but still I will fail.

I will fail because in order for you to truly understand my story, I need you, the reader who has presumably not seen The Room, to relate to my mindset during my own viewing. And I’m fully aware that you likely will never see The Room. In fact, don’t see it. Don’t. There are entire infinities of reasons to not see it. Save yourself, save your time, save your money, save your current perspective on life, which has gotten you this far. I want you to witness without interacting, which I know may be impossible from a scientific standpoint. I want you to witness without me having to relive, but I know that’s impossible too, so I’ll soldier on for the good of all. I’m doing this for you.

I’ve already failed. I’m just a man and like all men, am flawed. Accept me, accept my failures. Love me for them. Witness.

I begin.

It began like many other group hangouts have, where the goal is to journey together into a scary dark cave of terrible cinema: We started with drinks, of course. We could have simply poured shots, but I thought we needed something with more kick. Enter the Vino Kicker.

If you think that sounds like a shot of vodka dropped into a glass of wine which you then chug, then it’s exactly what it sounds like. Originally dubbed the “Word Merger” by yours truly, my radical and lovely girlfriend Vanessa suggested Vino Kicker, and it stuck. There are no pics of us actually kicking them back (Mmmm yess, let the hate flow through you) because all our hands were full and selfie sticks are for people whose priorities need immediate, aggressive reconditioning. But rest assured, they certainly…packed…a..Ohhh I’m gonna do it…kick. Alright that’s enough.

We took ‘before’ pictures, which I will rely on in the event that I need to prove we were of sound mind. Here we are, still looking respectable:

Okay, ready?

We then entered…The Room.

We entered with high hopes of witnessing cinematic abnormalities, and readers, know that we were not disappointed. I’m an organized person, so I’m making a real effort to not simply make a bullet point list of all the many, many oddities that we saw, but fyi I might relapse later on. I want you to feel it, like an experience from a past life that you can’t quite put your finger on, like Winona Ryder being such a ho in Bram Stoker’s Dracula.

I can definitely relay how I personally feel, now that I’ve seen The Room. I feel like I want to excise the chunk of my brain tissue that remembers this movie and wring it out like a wet sponge, then collect the juice and weaponize it as a form of intellect and emotion eroding spray, like mace that makes you cruder instead of blinder. Think of the very end of American Psycho where Patrick Bateman not only refuses to repent for his crimes, (real or imagined), but laments only that he possesses no faculty to infect the rest of the world with his own dark insanity. Is this what The Room has done to me? Did I even watch it? Was this all just a fever dream?

Oh no, I definitely watched it. I couldn’t have imagined it. I’ve got creative juice, but it’d have to be blended with lead and boiled down to a noxious sludge in order for me to produce the same ideas that rose to the top of  the stew that makes up Tommy Wiseau’s frothy, salty version of reality. I’ve backed myself into a corner, I have no choice now. I have to try and explain the movie. Watch, as I fail.

I can’t tell you what the plot is, because it isn’t. I know that sentence isn’t grammatically correct, but I can’t really do anything about that. The plot isn’t. It isn’t. Instead, I can tell you what I think it was supposed to be.

Johhny (Tommy) is a man’s man with a heart of gold. He works in the “computer business”. He is good and pure and innocent, and head over heels in love with his girlfriend Lisa. But alas, Lisa has become bored with, and perhaps even resentful towards good Johnny, for reasons unknown. One day, on a whim and using minimal effort, she seduces Johnny’s best friend, Mark. There are at least three sex scenes which I will never mention again, ever. Then, Mark and Johnny essentially spend the rest of the movie grappling with the situation (Mark with his betrayal and Johnny with the discovery of said betrayal) in a way that makes you feel embarrassed for being alive and having seen something so awkward and not yelling STOP! at the top of your lungs, or at least smashing your TV.

But wait, there’s more!

• There’s Lisa’s mother, whose character comes the closest to what this movie has to offer as an actual person. Also, it becomes offhandedly revealed that she has cancer, but this is never mentioned again in any form.
• There’s some weird neighborhood kid whose name I forget who is for some reason good friends with Johnny, who comes and goes in Johnny’s apartment as he pleases, and who for some reason thinks nothing of literally jumping into a bed that already has two adults laying in it, under the covers. I’m not sure, it could be his hair, but every scene he’s in makes me feel weird.
• If memory serves there’s contention involving drugs.
• There’s also gun violence. The attitude here seems to be hey, why not.

In Memoriam of My Mind

I’m a pretty punctilious person (thanks Kingpin!) and I’ve got a decent imagination. I know how to explain abstract ideas and complicated concepts in plain language; it was my job for almost five years. And honestly, my vocabulary should be sufficient to accomplish this task. I’ve got all the tools I need, and I know how to use them.

But that description above is about as much as I can do.

Again: Don’t watch this movie. It’ll push you into this weird zone that you’ve hopefully never been to before, where you find yourself shushing your own girlfriend during the movie so that you can more clearly hear dialogue and plot ‘developments’ that cause throbbing, visible tumors to grow out of your neck right then and there. It makes you feel like an asshole, and then you sit there and think to yourself “Man, I feel like an asshole” and you know what, you’re fucking right.

I don’t want to give away the ending in case you ignore all of my advice, also all of the mental warning lights that you have SHOULD* be blaring in your brain right now, but in case you do watch this piece of shit anyway I’ll just say that you’ll be happy to know that the suffering, in a general sense, finally ends.

I know I’ve given nothing away, because the truth of that last statement is a universal constant that’s been proven in the CERN laboratory in Switzerland. The leading scientists there have informed me that regardless of how the movie ends, in order for my statement to remain true and accurate, all that need happen is that the movie actually, mercifully, end.

*If you’ve read this post and alarms aren’t blaring in your head as a result, then hey, you clearly have no survival instinct at all and I think you should watch The Room. Yeah, go ahead and watch it, and furthermore I think you deserve whatever happens to you, in the same way that I think people who shoot themselves in the face while cleaning out their loaded shotgun in their living room, while tragic, maybe have no one to blame but themselves. Nature, God, the Universe or whoever, they all roll a lot of dice when they make life, and not all of them turn out to be high rolls. The lower rolls used to get weeded out naturally – “Hey Throgg, let’s go poke sabertooth bear with stick, ha ha!” – but in today’s society with auto-everything, lots of them survive. They thrive even. They explore, and can sometimes wind up doing things like producing/acting in movies called The Room, or writing this blog post.

If you want to get drunk and watch shitty movies with your buds and laugh, more power to you. Invite me over, because I love that. I mean, they’re making a Sharknado 4, can you even believe that? Uhm wait, of course you can, because drinking and watching shitty movies with your friends has been a fun part of life since goddamned 2006, and there’s been an actual market devoted specifically to that concept for some time now, and I think that’s rad. But this isn’t that, do you hear me? I can’t tell, because I’m not sitting right next to you as you read this. This is not that.

Do you understand? Do you understand me?

I ask again: Do you understand life?

My Room

Friends, lovers, pizza delivery folk, disturbed downstairs neighbors, the Asian woman hiding in my attic, the Mothman who seems to have set up shop in my garage, Future Bello and most importantly the Watertown coroner – I call you to attention.

I ask for your guidance, your patience, your time and your strength, and in the Asian woman’s case for you to please flush after you’re done in the bathroom while I’m out of the apartment during the day. Let’s at least please maintain the illusion of your parasitism.

I ask these things because this weekend I will be hosting a viewing* of The Room, and if any of the reviews that I’ve encountered of this production are even partially accurate, I will need each and every one of them before the day is done.

If you know me and you’re reading this, you may think to yourself, “He’s just going to get drunk, order pizza and watch a shitty movie with his friends while the Mothman spies through the window and a foreign vagabond sleeps in his attic!” and you, sir or madam, are entitled to that. You’re not entirely wrong either, at least not in a technical sense. But truly you’ve missed out on the big picture, like ‘famous’ rapper B.o.B contesting that the Earth is flat, or an ant drone unaware of the existence of colonies other than her own. The Universe exists in a simultaneous myriad of colors and states, and like it or not, The Room is just another beautiful part of it that I’m going to explore.

I imagine the journey into The Room to be not a clumsy evaluation of a flawless cinematic and artistic failure, but rather as a sojourn into the self. If you don’t understand; if these words – and more importantly this concept – impress no value upon you whatsoever, then by all means turn back. At best, you’ll learn nothing from this post; at worst you’ll hurt your little mind. Carry on heeding the commands of your Queen back in the lonely anthill of your world as you complete your sentence of perpetual, servitudinal existence on this flat and meaningless Earth.

But there’s more to life, isn’t there? It’s out there waiting. Don’t you want to seek it?

Of course you would.

Was Starship Troopers just a movie about killing giant bugs? Or would you define it by that one pretty sweet shower scene? Was it created and enjoyed for the purpose watching some really intense, impressive and graphically violent scenes? You could say “Yes” and once more you could be correct, at least technically. But what you’d be leaving out is the loads of political and social commentary that were prominently displayed in virtually every scene. And until my consciousness is processed, recorded by The Federation, edited for content and streamed “All Net, All Channels”, I will do my best to relay my unfiltered opinions to you, the people, right here on BelloBitesBack.

In watching The Room I take a trip not just into myself, but into those who choose to accompany me on this venture as well. And as such things go, so too do they journey into me. Metaphorically, I mean. Put that away.

We companions will bond in a rare way as together, we explore such concepts as the very meaning of what it is to be terrible.

For example, if seeing this movie makes the artery in my neck throb due to excessive frustration, is that what makes it terrible? Or is the more terrible part the fact that it exists in the first place? Or is this an example of some perverted cosmic humor? Is God laughing at The Room?

What even is ‘funny’ anyway? Is it more funny that Director/Writer/Star Tommy Wiseau clearly suffers from one or many undiagnosed mental disorder(s)? Or will my predicted outburst of laughter at the internet infamous line “You are tearing me apart, Lisa!” drown out the protests of my moral quandary?

“Tommy please, it’s rude to stare. Tommy, for the last time close your mouth. Tommy, goddamnit, now you’re doing both. Oh fuck this, I quit.” -Tommy’s handler, if he had one.

And wherein lies the true essence of failure? Is this movie a ‘failure’? This, the weird fruit of Tommy’s jilted artistic vision (barely avoiding a cheap joke about his equally weird eyes, whoops, I just failed a little too!), or is it something more personal? Following this thought process I find myself asking: Are those shitty paintings that orangutans create to be counted as ‘failures’ as well? Motherfuckers barely even have thumbs! It’s amazing to me that they’ve figured out what a painting is in the first place, which is why whatever they produce is so impressive regardless of what a piece of shit it ends up looking like. To what standard are we measuring poor Tommy against, I ask? Where we expecting the next Inception? Can a person who pursues his own vision so unapologetically and fails in such a spectacular fashion truly be said to have ‘failed’? I mean, he followed the hell out of his vision didn’t he? That’s more than tons of people do! So what, yeah, maybe writing, directing, acting, acting normal, maintaining random snippets of logic or even maintaining even one unbroken line of coherent thought in a 99 minute story just happen to not be the areas where Mr. Wiseau excels. Excuse me, Picasso! How quick we are to judge! If you call a fish a failure for its inability to climb a tree…I dunno Chuck, but maybe you’re the failure.

Then again, this is said to have been the worst movie of all time. How will we react?

Though I have a good idea of how the gathering will go, I can’t foresee all the possible moral mutations we might stumble through in our quest for Truth. But I can guess!

Is attacking the concept of what art should be a crime? Should it be? What are the limits of my liquor consumption? When does the pizza arrive? How much abuse can be simultaneously shoveled onto all angles of my soul before it collapses under the black weight of hopelessness? How can I take from Tommy that which I expect his movie to take from me? What’s wrong with me? How did I get this way?

Is this what that bastard wanted all along?

Maybe The Room isn’t about delving through an artistic abomination in the hopes of finding a sliver of humor. Maybe it’s not even about getting some of my closest friends in one place so that we can set our differences aside for 99 minutes and point and laugh at the same thing. Perhaps The Room was set up in such a fashion so as to inspire the viewer to seek their own definition of its existence and purpose. Just as to some, Starship Troopers is merely a movie with pretty good boobs and some awesome battles, to me it is a political and social commentary that happens to be in movie form, which also happens to incorporate pretty good boobs and some awesome battles. If I’m right, well then, I guess we all have our own ‘Rooms’ to explore and define don’t we? And what does this say about My Room?

Mine is achieving the goal of a shared experience of self exploration, (the mental, PG kind), and it is a noble, if lofty goal. Yes of course, we’ll drink. Yes we (or at least I) will mock Tommy for his physical, mental and artistic shortcomings.  And yes, yes, FOR THE LAST TIME YES, I promise I’ll never subject any of you to this movie ever, ever again.

But through the mental anguish and incredulity, through the blurred vision, past the possible fistfights which will ensue when I refuse to change the channel and notwithstanding the banging on my floor from an irate downstairs neighbor, (just kidding, she’s nice), we comrades will have found something valuable and true in ourselves – and in one another. In each of us exploring and defining our own Rooms, we will have found something eternal.

I doubt anyone’s ever said this, but Tommy, for “The Room“…I thank you.

*Follow Up to the viewing of The Room to be posted shortly.

Game Over

The Comment:
“Here is an idea: have an Avatar from a video game come to life and you spend the day with him/her”

Finally, an entire Saturday all to myself.

Already did my laundry and worked out a little bit, the fridge is fully stocked and I’ve got no obligations for the next 24 hours. The weather’s even a little bit crappy out! If there was any remaining doubt it is now gone; I am justified.

Time to strap in for a video game marathon. Dis gon’ be goooood!

It took me a little bit of searching, but I finally found and dusted off my old first generation Playstation…and holy shit, it still works!!

Ohhhh mama, where should I start?! Maybe a fighting game to get going…then when I get tired of that I can switch to something more relaxed like FFVII. It’s gaming done right. Let’s see…

Yes!

My afternoon had begun…but little did I know that my greatest (or at least, my most insane) adventure was just hours ahead of me. I resolved to beat the MK Trilogy on Easy difficulty once with each character; this should take somewhere in the neighborhood of two hours. The first hour flew.

“Shao Kahn, get the FUCK out of my house with that shit! That’s right, walk right into my uppercut you idiot! Maybe next time I’ll play you on Medium so that I actually have to use two hands! What’s that? You want another uppercut? Well come get one! TOOOASTYYYYY!!!”

TOASTYYYY!!

I was really getting into it.

“Man, this is awesome. Alright let’s see, that’s Sub-Zero, Scorpion, Raiden, Baraka, Liu Kang, Reptile, Kung Lao…Ugh, I guess I’ll have to use Johnny ‘I’m an asshole’ Cage sooner or later. Alright, let’s do this…”

As I selected my least favorite kombatant I grew bored of the load screen, and I’m not quite sure how to explain what happened next. Maybe something from the section of my old school video game subconscious kicked into gear. Maybe deep down I was testing reality itself, challenging it, daring it to wow me. Maybe I was just bored.

I knew that it wouldn’t, shouldn’t, couldn’t do anything, but my hands diddled that ancient video game secret right into the Playstation controller anyway. And what happened next changed history.

Up, Up   my eyes widened

Down, Down   my toes tapped

Left, Right, Left, Right   I adjusted my pants

B, A, B, A*    sweat dripped from my brow

Select,Start!!!   OW!! I accidentally bit my tongue!

“Ahhh, FUCK!” I yelled, tossing the controller onto the couch next to me to hold my face.

“Hey bro. Watch where you’re throwing stuff.”

WHAT?!? 

Ugh

Johnny Cage was sitting next to me on my couch chugging my beer. My controller had hit him in the lap.

“Whathefuckisgoingon?!?!”

“Relax bro, buurrrrp! You summoned me here to Earthrealm with the Contra code – pretty sweet right? We get to spend an entire day together now! You got any Bud heavies?”

“…Johnny…Cage??”

“Yeah. Well? I’m thirsty bro. They don’t have beer in Outworld.”

I rolled with it.

“Of…course not. I don’t have any of that shit! Bud heavy is disgusting.”

“What did you just say? You insult my favorite beer bro?”

“Dude, it’s gross.” I stood up over him. I knew from playing the MK games that Johnny Cage could be sort of an asshole. True, he may be Johnny Cage but this was my house. If I didn’t assert myself right off the bat there was a great chance I’d end up carting his ass to the store to purchase disgusting Budweiser for him. Man, why couldn’t I have summoned Kitana instead?

“Is that so?” he said, standing up as well. Yikes. In the game he was one of the less intimidating characters but standing in front of me in my living room it was a different story. He was easily a foot taller and 50 pounds of solid muscle heavier than me. A handgun was holstered at his hip. I flinched.

He saw it.

“How about we take a trip to the liquor store before I shadow kick your ass through the wall?”

Stupid shadow kick

“Okay, but can you at least leave the gun so we don’t get arrested? What are you even doing with that – you don’t even get a gun until MK X.”

“I’m the essence of all things Johnny Cage, broseph. All his mannerisms, all his outfits, all his moves…and all his fatalities. Wanna see one?”

The car ride to the liquor store was mostly quiet. Even though I’d just made history and was driving around with a video game avatar come alive in the real world, I couldn’t help but feel a little frustrated. Of all the characters out there, why’d I have to get Johnny Cage? Why not Scorpion – well, he’d probably just kill me on sight – but why not Mega Man or Sonic the Hedgehog? Rictor Belmont the vampire slayer or Alucard, son of Dracula? Bayonetta? Samus? Freaking anyone but Johnny Cage!

He shifted in his seat and farted, breaking the silence in the worst possible way.

“Beeeef. Dude – seriously?”

“You know it brosama!”

Even though I offered to jump into the packy and grab a 30 of Bud myself, Johnny refused to wait in the car. “I don’t want you pussing out on me” he said. Charming.

I slammed the 30 rack onto the counter and reached for my wallet.

“IDs.”

Ohhhhh shit

Johnny Cage was a video game character. He wouldn’t have been coded to have a wallet, much less a license.

“Nah, I don’t need one bro.”

“Johnny, cool it. Let’s just go somewhere else and you can wait in the car.”

“No fuckin’ way. We’re getting these beers and we’re getting them now.” His voice was rising. “And what are you gonna do about it, guy??” He jabbed a finger at the man behind the counter, then backed up a step and crossed his arms over his chest like the defiant, cocky douchebag that he was coded to be. He smirked.

“Get out of here right now!” the man had his phone in his hand. “Or I call the cops!”

“Johnny, for the love of Christ can we please just-”

“Make us, fat man!” God, he was such a fucking child.

That must have hit a nerve, because the clerk slid over the counter with surprising agility, (he was a little hefty), but not before he reached behind the counter and produced a wooden Louisville Slugger. Johnny just stood there with his arms crossed, arrogant smirk and all.

The man ran in, winding up to take a swing; Johnny held his pose for the last possible second, and then

SPLAT

The bat dropped to the floor with a clunk as the man bent low, cradling his blasted balls. “YYYyyyooooouuuu sonofa-” he began, his voice barely more than a pathetic whimper, but then he crumpled face first to the floor and writhed. Johnny was already back on his feet after performing his nut-punch-split. It was his favorite move. Figures.

“C’mon bro.” He hoisted the 30 rack of Bud heavy up onto his shoulder like a frat boy, stepping around the shopkeeper who was still embracing his crotch with both hands. “Let’s…split.”

“You are such an ass.”

The second we got back to my apartment we began drinking Bud heavies ferociously. Me to try and alleviate the constant stress that accompanied accompanying Johnny Cage anywhere, and Johnny Cage because they didn’t have beer on Outworld and also because he was an uncultured swine. We didn’t talk much; I had nothing to say to the man. I knew his backstory from the games and truthfully it wasn’t that impressive. He was a movie star/stunt double who knew how to fight. I’d have been more interested in literally any other character from Mortal Kombat. In real life he was just as abrasive as his character was in the game, if not more so.

“So uh, when do you like, have to go back to Outworld?”

“I get to spend a whole day here bro, unless I get a Game Over. But let’s be real, that ain’t gonna happen! Beer me!”

Just then, an idea sliced its way right through my brain like a plasma sword. Oh. My. Christ. It was beautiful, poetic even. It was perfect.

“Sure thing Johnny.”

I just needed to distract him for five minutes, maybe less. He was a tool but not a complete idiot; if he saw what I was up to he’d probably hand me a shadow uppercut. I would need backup.

“Hey bro!” I yelled. I would get on his good side. “Hey man, you want me to call some friends over? We could throw a party!”

“What, they wanna meet the legend? Sure! You know any bitches?”

He was repulsive.

I picked up the phone and got to work; I didn’t even have to embellish. “Yes, the Johnny Cage. The video game character. Yes!! No I’m not insane. No! Yes. I – I don’t fucking know how, ask him!! Well to be honest he’s exactly the same as he is in the video ga-”

—“You mean fuckin’ awesome?!”

“That’s exactly what I was about to say, Johnny.”

“Right on.”

Within an hour my apartment was brimming with friends and acquaintances. The cocky son of a bitch was reveling in it all, rocking the beer pong table and handing out autographs left and right.

There were lots of questions about how he ended up here in Earthrealm but he mostly just brushed them off. “Ask the Outworlders man, they made the rules. Yo, who’s up next?!”

After the initial amazement wore off it didn’t take long for tensions to mount and for everyone to basically realize that they were drinking with a manchild. I went into the kitchen just for a second and heard yelling, followed by another crash. Ugh, what was that stupid son of a bitch up to now.

Then I heard some squealing.

Goddamnit Johnny.

I came storming out of the kitchen to find one of my closest friends crouched over on the ground, clutching his crotch.

“Johnny you asshole! You can’t just punch people in the dick anytime you feel like it! This is Earthrealm, there are rules here!”

“Sure I can bro.” He was still maintaining his signature split on the floor, having  just punched my friend in the penis. “I’m Johnny Cage” he grinned. “What are you gonna do, call the police?”

I didn’t know it until about 20 minutes later, but someone already had. By that point everyone had cleared out and it was just me and Cage; he was shotgunning a Budweiser in my kitchen, spilling everywhere when the doorbell rang. I went to get it and Johnny followed me down the steps. “Want me to fireball his ass?”

“Dude, you’ll get shot.”

I opened the door slowly.

“What seems to be the problem officer?” I recited. This was not part of my plan.

“I’ve received a noise complaint and also a report of assault; apparently one of your guests was punched in the uhm…crotch…by a man…”

“Get lost guy, we were just having a good time.”

I stammered “Uhhhh” as the officer pushed the door open a bit wider. He got a clear view of Johnny Cage and his eyes widened, recognizing the person who so perfectly fit the description in his report.

“Sir, I’m gonna need you to step outside.”

“I told you man, beat it. Unless you want an uppercut.”

“That’s assault sir. Outside. Now.” The officer took a step back, his hand on his gun.

I backed away quietly. This was not part of the plan.

“You want me to come outside? Here I come.”

A green blur buzzed by me as Johnny Cage shadow kicked the police officer in the chest, sending him flying. He sauntered outside and cracked his knuckles. “Finally! Believe it or not I was actually gettin’ tired of punchin’ junk!”

The officer drew, but Johnny lobbed one of his stupid green fireballs at him, knocking the gun from his hands. Then he closed the distance with another shadow kick and commenced an epic beat down. This was getting ugly. I ran inside, the ugly sounds of the fantastical fist fight on my front lawn following me up the stairs.

If the cop was any good, I’d have maybe three minutes tops.

I ran to the Playstation, frantic. Where was it where was it, it had to be here somewh – YES!

I ripped MK Trilogy out of the Playstation and threw my new game in. C’mon, load, load you bastard. I looked out the window; the poor cop was on his last legs.

Bruised and bloodied, he stood there in a daze, knees weak and arms flailing. He was just a normal man; simply no match for the superhuman video game avatar, the very essence of the shittiest Mortal Kombat kombatant, Johnny fucking Cage.

Johnny wound up and I knew what was coming.

“HEEEEERRRRREEEE’S JOHNNY!!” He yelled.

To this day I still can’t explain why the cop was wearing Scorpion’s yellow ninja outfit. Just roll with it.

Oh God he’s a murderer and an asshole, please load please load please load – finally!!

I booted up Tekken 3 and finger-sprinted through the menus. Campaign mode, 1 player – ah! Character select!

I heard Johnny’s dumb footsteps coming up the stairs slowly; he was in no rush. “Hey where’d you go bro?! Did you see my sweet fatality out there? Talk about ripping a new one!!”

Up, Up, Down, Down, Left, Right, Left, Right, B, A, B, A, Select, START!

“Yabu yabu yabu yabu yabu!!”

Yoshimitsu came spinning into being like a tornado of awesomeness, his green energy sword humming and sparkling.

Johnny stood at the top of the steps, dumbfounded. He looked at me.

“Really bro?”

“Yoshimitsu! Cut that guy in half!”

He didn’t need to be told twice. Maybe there was some sort of ancient rivalry between Tekken and Mortal Kombat characters that I didn’t know about. Maybe Yoshimitsu had literally just met Johnny Cage for the first time and already hated him. It could be that he was honor-bound to follow my commands without question; I’ll never know. Whatever the case Yoshimitsu wasted no time.

Johnny Cage saw Yoshimitsu winding up with his sword for his super thrust, and he held block. I grinned. Yoshimitsu was my favorite; I knew this move was unblockable.

Sure enough the plasma sword dove right through the block and through Johnny as well. There was no blood. He looked up and yelled “Game ooooooverrrrrr….” and then just sort of disintegrated into bits which reverted into code and then disappeared, like Agent Smith getting blown apart at the end of the first Matrix (spoiler!)

Yoshimitsu spun his sword in a celebratory figure eight pattern in front of him, cutting chunks out of my walls in the process. I was so elated I didn’t even care.

“Yoshimitsu, oh my god, thank you! That guy was such a fucking tool, you have no idea.”

The cyborg space pirate samurai bowed low; I returned the bow. Then he sat down and began meditating.

“You’re a strange bird, Yoshimitsu. Wanna chill out with me for a little bit, maybe play some video games?”

“Yabuuuu.”

“Sweet. Now let’s play something safe, like Dead Island.”

Art by Peter Nohrbacher

FOOTER
*Author’s Note: I substituted X and O, as PS controllers have neither A nor B

That’s all for now folks, but you know the drill – give me another weekly writing assignment by Commenting on this post!

A Kernel of Enlightenment

Today I found my Spirit Animal.

The elusive being that best encapsulates, best incorporates the truest representation of my deepest inner energy. The closest possible physical manifestation of my eternal soul. My dreams, my aspirations, my passions and the culmination of my most important goals personified in their rawest form.

Gaze into the sun, if ye dare.

Full Video Here. Please watch it.

Glimpse perfection.

Witness nirvana.

Enter the infinite with me.

Some liken the energy that comprises their innermost selves to a ‘noble’ animal; an eagle, a bear. A wolf perhaps. But in my heart of hearts, I am a man. Behold a man.

This is a man who truly cares about nothing. The literal definition provides complete clarification:

Once more:
“a place or state characterized by freedom from or oblivion to pain, worry, and the external world.”

Does a better example of such exist? Please, I implore my readers. Don’t reach this conclusion simply because I feel strongly. Use your own reasoning. Observe the facts.

Analyze this man’s physical appearance. Spend a minute to really notice his fucking outfit. The sneakers. The sweatpants. He has no qualms appearing in public this way. He has no qualms about anything.

Note that it is in fact raining on this man; note his posture and lack of umbrella. Complete and utter relaxation radiates from his person. Not a care in the world.

Of course it is possible that he’s drunk – but observe – there’s no beer to be seen.

Allow your eyes to drift to his upper torso. What is he barely holding onto in his left hand? Whatever it is, does anyone honestly believe he would pick it up if he dropped it?

Look at his fucking jacket; it’s clear he’s been at this for awhile. For most people, accumulating that amount of popcorn kernels about their face, neck and chest without brushing them clear would be an act of sheer willpower. We don’t see things like this often, because many people simply don’t have that amount of willpower.

Does it look to anyone like this man is exerting any willpower?

The way he chews, the head tilted back.

What in this world could possibly worry this man?

The foot waggle. Pure serenity.

The way that he comes up for air at the end of his feeding – it can’t be faked. In the modern world, a petty place of lies, deception, false advertising and double-talk, this man is a beacon of absolute truth.

He’s not fighting for what he believes in. He’s not oppressing or opposing oppression. He does not condemn and does not mind if others condemn him. He is absent from worry, free from concern. He has achieved everything he could ever want. He understands that every second of life is a gift, a gift that he graciously, shamelessly, utterly accepts.

This man is the master of his destiny. He simply is.

The metaphysical state that this man has reached exemplifies everything I’ve ever wanted. I’m so far behind him that I can’t even begin to fathom how he must view the world that the rest of us live in. Me with my worries and concerns, my meetings, my frozen windshield wiper fluid, my heating bills. My worn socks, my shirts that have frayed elbows. My finances, the next snowstorm, the progression of my training. My career, my relationships, my entire life. A thousand anvils of weight pressing down on my shoulders.

And then I rewatch the clip. I watch his shoulders. I notice the rain. I absorb his posture. I see how he comes up for air for the express purpose of not suffocating to death on all the popcorn he just poured down his face.

And I know that I am witnessing my Spirit Animal. Oblivious to stress, pain. Completely wild, unapologetic, ferociously fucking free. Never stop.

We’ll eat popcorn at the top.

Awash

Sam didn’t realize just how weakened the stern floorboards had become until one of them snapped beneath his feet. The boat rocked atop the rage of the ocean and the storm was a real bitch, fierce and without mercy. Sam’s old rubber boots were slippery on the deck and his weight was displaced. He skidded futilely and slammed against the guardrail just as the prow shuddered from a sidelong swell. Furious but helpless, Sam screamed a curse as he went over the side into the cold, black ocean. 

Icy, salty water jolted every bone; the fight for air invigorated muscle. Tossed about in the current like a plaything, Sam remembered life and kicked and clawed his way to the surface for it.

He surfaced in a panic. As he sputtered for air he vomited ocean; frantic eyes squinted and sought the familiar light and shape of his vessel, The Spero. Her light was the only thing to be seen for miles in every direction, and Sam homed in on it quickly. He sprinted as fast as he could.

It only took 30 seconds until he had to stop from exhaustion. How could Spero have gotten so far? No stranger to the ocean and even slightly embarrassed for his flub, Sam shed his boots beneath the waves.

‘Let them sink’, he thought. ‘I have to get there.’

Renewed for the moment and barefoot in the ocean, Sam set out through the storm once again for the glimmering lights of The Spero, which by now were a little bit dimmer.

After another two minutes he relinquished his baggy yellow rubber pants; ten seconds later he abandoned his trademark yellow jacket. They slowed him down tremendously and he’d be faster without them. Already, his feet and arms were numb.

Almost naked, Sam choked up water and felt the warmth dribble down his chin. The Spero was further now, fainter. Sam caught himself wondering about the headline that would be in the paper when she was eventually found, captainless, crewless and adrift. Then he snapped out of it.

NO!!!

The heat of Sam’s fury and adrenaline surged through his limbs and actually fought against the chill that was spreading through his body. He’d been a strong swimmer in his youth and was no stranger to the ocean; he’d even been overboard once before. Sam disregarded it all and swam with all of his energy. Sam swam for his very life.

He stopped only when he was completely drained. His arms and shoulders were on fire and his legs felt like lead weights. Sam was out of shape and he hadn’t taxed his body this way for years; already he was beginning to cramp. As he struggled just to tread water and stay afloat, Sam realized that The Spero was no closer. No, it couldn’t be. The waves were relentless and the storm hadn’t slowed at all. He grasped the reality of the situation and felt his heart jolt into his back. He would die here, he thought.

He started to thrash and curse in denial and a wave smashed over his head, muting him, defeating him. He rubbed the salt water from his eyes and spat out another mouthful of the sea; it was all he could do to keep from drowning right then and there. He would die here, he knew. Cold and alone.

He suddenly missed The Spero more intensely than any feeling he had ever felt before. The unique and uneven waterline of her bow, the warm homeyness of her cabin, the rusty chains and anchor, everything – even down to the creaky old stern floorboards which had finally broken and spelled his own doom.

Then, Sam experienced a rare moment of clarity.

This was his fault.

There’d been so many warning signs he had seen with his own eyes and ignored. He’d been directly in charge of so many factors that had lead to this outcome. He saw the past few years of his life for what it was; a series of actions and decisions bound together, calculated for the sole purpose of keeping his self neglect intact.

Why was it that Sam had never gotten around to addressing any of the replacements or repairs that The Spero so obviously needed? He remembered the day when the radio had snapped free from its mounted fixture, and how he’d haphazardly screwed it to the inside of the cabin wall that afternoon. “That’ll do.”

He remembered the first time he’d had real trouble with the motor out on the open sea, and how he’d given himself such credit for fixing the problem with duct tape. He hadn’t looked at the motor since. “Great job, Sam.”

The Spero had lost the ability to turn full starboard when the rudder had become stuck one especially cold winter. He’d been fully aware of this, and had compensated his steering to accommodate it for years. “Good problem solving.”

Why hadn’t he replaced or maintained the rusty chains and ancient anchor? Why was his gear so comically outdated? Why was he so out of shape? Why hadn’t he upgraded his tech? He concentrated and remembered where his life beacon was – unopened in a dusty drawer in the same box that it had come in, beneath a pile of old receipts in the cabin.

Sam remembered the first day that the stern floorboards had groaned in protest as he’d walked over them. “I should probably get those looked at” he’d thought. But over time he’d gotten used to the creaks and the groans, to the objections and various compensations he had to make for The Spero and for himself, in order to avoid change. He had always seen it as ‘keeping an even keel’; he had even defended this logic to others who had expressed their concerns.

Sam saw that the lights of The Spero were distant, just a flicker by now, and his rage abandoned him. He wept. He wept for the realization that his life would soon be over. He wept for everything he hadn’t gotten to do and everything he’d never be able to try. He wept for all the time he had spent walking over and navigating past his problems, but not fixing them. Sam wept most deeply because he knew he’d never get the chance to make any of it right.

If he had one more chance he knew he would. If only he had one more chance! He’d keep his passion for sailing and renew it with a fresh, brand new start. He would buy all new gear, make repairs, hire a crew – he’d had enough money for years now. He’d fix and address every problem with The Spero and he would finally start taking care of himself again like he used to. There would be no more problems resolved by duct tape or rusty screws, no more nights that end with a crossword and a whiskey, because Sam would love himself again.

And that had been the true problem the entire time, the single note which had spawned his self neglect and lead to his self defeating spiral. Deep down, with nothing to hide from witnesses who were not present, naked, freezing and alone, at last Sam acknowledged the truth. It could only have ever ended this way; he had seen to that. It wasn’t The Spero’s fault or the storm’s fault; he had done this to himself. Inch by inch, in each neglected rip and tear and crack and groan, Sam had ensured that his worst fear would come true.

Unwilling victim of his own insidious trap, Sam resigned himself to his fate. He was out of chances to turn this around, out of chances to love himself. If only he had more time! – but he didn’t and he never would.

The Spero was nowhere to be seen, perhaps she was over the crest of the next wave in the far distance, perhaps not. Sam looked around. Giant waves continued to roil and smash in the dark, the freezing wind howled in his ears, numbing his skull and stinging his eyes, but Sam didn’t mind anymore.

Out of chances, void of love, without hope, Sam exhaled and closed his eyes. Then he let himself sink, down into the cold black sea.

As he sank into the depths he looked up and surrendered his final breath. Sam watched the last of his air bubble up towards the surface, to become part of the world that he had abandoned long ago. He belonged here.

Raptors (Clever Girl)

Mark heard the soft pitter patter on the pavement behind him, but he didn’t process it in time. He began to turn around right as the lead raptor pounced. He panicked just in time to drop his groceries in his driveway, but not in time to cry out for help. Mark only felt the predator’s savage impact slam into his back and neck, then he knew no more.

Eight minutes later, black blood dripped from the muzzle of the lead raptor, pit pit pat on the pavement. Temporarily sated, the pack retreated from the vulnerability of the dull streetlight as one, to the calm safety of the shadows. With a flick of its head the lead raptor motioned to the next house down the street, and again the pack moved as one.

In the quiet black of night, the house was silently surrounded. Front and back, from the sides and always in the shadows, the raptors took their positions. Velociraptors are amazingly fast learners, and they had gotten the gist of setting this trap by now. They lay in wait with a predator’s disciplined patience. Five minutes of motionlessness became ten, became twenty. No newcomers, all quiet. It was time to move in.

Smooth as instinct, the pack of raptors converged to the lawn in the backyard, to the back door. As usual the lead raptor took position at the front, next to the door. Silently, gingerly, it just barely teased the doorknob with its foreclaw, testing. Raptors don’t understand luck so much as opportunity. The door was unlocked, and the opportunity was there for the taking. They took it.

A sharp twist opened the handle and the pack of predators flowed in like water. Three immediately sought the staircase and ran up the carpeted stairs, making heavy thuds on the steps that might have sounded like a man sprinting, but just a little too fast. The rest of the pack fanned out on the ground level, quickly and deftly seeking the proper positioning. Each unit moved with energetic purpose, occupying the entirety of the space completely and suddenly.

The unlucky family members, the ones who had been roused by the sudden noise at the door and on the stairs, were barely even conscious long enough to register a sense of danger, but most of them were lucky. The pack attacked as one and left no room for compromise. It was over in minutes.

Temporarily sated, the pack filed back out the backdoor and into the shadows. The lead raptor exited last. Black blood dripped from her muzzle, but made almost no sound as it fell into the grass. With a flick of her head, she motioned to the next house down the street, and the pack moved as one.

Always lock your door.

In Canada, There Are No Accidents

I’ll be delicate; for all I know some of you are Canadian.

Haha just kidding I barely ever get views from Canada.

It’s been really popular in the past fiveish years to make fun of Canadians. For their smugness, for their weird smug accents, for their excessively smug politeness and for their general international uselessness. Canada bashing has become so popular at this point that it’s basically 1/5 of the show How I Met Your Mother. I’m not just saying that because I’m jumping on a bandwagon; I think How I Met Your Mother has really waned in the past few years. Anyway, since 2006 I’ve been to Canada maybe five times on business, and I’ve met a ton of Canadians.

Were do Canadians and I stand? I can still remember one of the first conversations I had right after my plane touched down in Ontario and I was leaving the rental car garage:

“Excuse me, do you know where there might be a Dunkin Donuts around here?”
“You mean a Tim Hortons?”

Uhhhhh no motherfucker, I meant a Dunkin Donuts. Tim Hortons doesn’t take Visa (or didn’t in 2007) by the way, so watch out if you’ve got no cash and you’re running late to your presentation.

Pictured: the poor man’s Dunkin Donuts

Their paper currency looks and feels like knock-off Monopoly money. If you watch their news for an hour you’ll realize that about 70% of it is actually US news, because apparently nothing happens in Canada. Honestly, I’m sitting in Ontario watching current events that unfolded earlier that day – in Oregon. Get your own news you hacks. Same with their sports channel – it’s basically it was all US sports with the exception of hockey.

Quick, name a Canadian celebrity who actually still lives in Canada. Exactly.

They sit above us, condescendingly reporting on our news, begrudgingly watching our sports, judging us [mostly correctly] for being fat french fry-swilling, gun-happy Americans, yet their society feels and acts like a watered down version of ours.

Also they call water “hydro” and when they say the letter “Z” they actually say the word “Zed”. Like if I asked a Canadian to spell the word “Zoo” they would say “Zed, Oh, Oh”. You smug bastards.

But I’m not writing this to just bash on Canadians. This post is devoted to what they’re doing right, besides being our hat.

Canadians fucking hate accidents. They hate accidents like Republicans hate illegal immigrants, like the Taliban hates a chick driving a car, or like Judd Apatow hates me for lifting that joke right out of Knocked Up. Canadians hate accidents like killer whales hate their trainers, except Canadians hate accidents openly. Don’t believe me? Check out some of their PSAs I saw while I was up there.

Now, I saw these around five or so years ago so this is long overdue – I can only hope they’ve gotten even crazier since then.

And be warned, these actual PSAs that I’m about to show you are a little graphic…and extremely hilarious.

Kitchen Accidents

http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=noFCekWiUGE

Fucking yikes! There I was in ’07 or ’08, just sitting innocently alone on my Ontario hotel bed probably scarfing a Subway (ahem, Tim Hortons) sandwich watching the American news, when they break for commercial and that insanity smacks me right in the face. The transition from pseudo-polite newscasting to balls-out graphic violence in under a minute caught me completely off guard. I let out a nervous chuckle, chewed my way through the next few [normal] commercials, and resumed watching the news.

Construction Accidents

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mai2s5MSrsc

AHHHHHHHHH!!! Fucking what the fuck?! This one wasn’t even that guy’s fault!

• Special effects price tag for showing innocent, hapless construction worker getting just absolutely rocked by a fireball: $200
• Special effects price tag for showing innocent, hapless construction worker’s rag doll body falling lifelessly down the side of the building: $80
• Special effects price tag for having lifeless rag doll body of innocent, hapless construction worker collide perfectly with the cab of passing dump truck: priceless

And what’s with that closing line “There really are no accidents”. Uhhhhh, yes there are, haven’t the people in charge of these PSAs ever stubbed their toe before? Anyway, let the carnage continue!

Factory Accident

http://www.ebaumsworld.com/video/watch/56773/

C’mon Canada, I know you hate accidents but now we’re just getting silly. There is no way that guy would be that calm after getting simultaneously crushed and speared by iron spikes, especially if he knows it’s the supervisor’s fault all along for not reporting that broken shelf. Your blood lust for exterminating accidents is making you sloppy – I mean at this point that guy is basically a talking zombie. Pull it together eh, PSA?

*Author’s note: As you can see, I’m having to dig deeper and deeper into the internet to find these as individual videos. A few enterprising individuals have already made compilations of these five PSAs all lumped together into one video, but I want to give you each one separately if I can. They all have their own unique, albeit drastically unnecessarily violent flavor. Ok, on to the next.

Retail Store Accident

http://www.ebaumsworld.com/video/watch/56770/

Again, Canada, you gotta be careful when you mess with the reasonable suspension of disbelief while undertaking your ultra violent quest to make the world a safer place. I mean it’s awesome, but I connect a thousand times more with the uninjured coworker’s look of disbelief than I do with the woman who smashed her way through that glass table and then calmly resurrected herself to talk about the dangers of accidents. Also, zombie-boutique worker is right. She shouldn’t have reached over like that! According to Canada you got what you deserved, sucka!

Electricity Accident

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MwCyVku1HvI

Oh Canada, oh Canada. After politely flirting with the premise (as is your wont) you’ve finally lost it and gone full-on zombie. What’s more disturbing to me than the notion that the guy speaking at that funeral is responsible for that zombie’s death is the fact that no one at the funeral is freaking the fuck out that someone just rose from the dead to sorrowfully yet politely accuse his former boss of negligent homicide.

*Author’s Note: Sorry, had to use the full version of all five of these PSAs lumped together into one video – the electricity one is the last one and I couldn’t find anywhere else on the internet.

A Parting Word
Canada, you may strive to emulate American society using only the most embarrassingly fake politically correct cookie cutter versions of our societal norms. You may continue to unapologetically copy our sports and news. You may revel in your love for beer and maple syrup, and that’s actually kind of awesome (no sarcasm there). You may misuse proper English and speak fluent French (ugh) in certain provinces, and know with absolutely zero uncertainty that Tim Hortons will never, ever be equal to Dunkin Donuts.

But even though there are a lot of things I don’t like about you, that doesn’t mean I won’t give credit where it’s due, and goddamnit do I respect the hell out of these PSAs.

Eat Bath Salts, Fight Demons

CAUTION: IMAGES IN THIS BLOG POST MAY BE HILARIOUS TO SOME.

I’ve been waiting for this for a long time.

We’ve finally done it. The US Navy has finally found a way to positively identify the demons who walk among us. All we have to do is snort some bath salts.

Thanks to this utterly ridiculous PSA, normal citizens like you or extraordinary citizens like myself now know the crucial tool we need to go forth and combat the evils who walk freely among us, disguised as men or fairly hot girlfriends. One sniff, and you can embark on an hours-long quest where you’ll identify, fight and hopefully slay these demons that dare to step foot into our plane of existence. Still out of the loop? Well load up your crossbow, smelt some silver bullets and get your pimp slapping hand ready while you watch this PSA brought to us by the only nationally recognized demon hunting force in existence, the US Navy. Don’t worry, you’ll have time to do all those things as the video is six fucking minutes long. Haha just kidding, all the good parts are over by two minutes, but still.

Click, if you dare to venture into the perilous world of demon hunting…

Just one sniff, Boatswain. That’s all it takes to transform from a skinny sailor into fucking Van Helsing. One sniff, and you and your a little-too-intense eyes will be out the door on a mission; to find and destroy the demons that infest the world of man.

As you emerge from your apartment the world may seem blurry, but that’s only because you’re seeing how it really is for the first time. It is in no away abnormal to vomit up all the coffee you drank this morning over the side of a railing while making the most ludicrously fake puking noise I’ve ever heard, like our hero does at (around 40 seconds in). It’s just your bodies way of preparing for the upcoming trials it will soon face. Maybe next time, try not to sound like such a pussy though.

Your hunt will take you many places, but ultimately you will be drawn to a location where demons disguised as humans congregate in secret. Of course, I refer to your local bowling alley. Upon entering do not be distracted by offerings of free french fries; they were put there only to slow you down. OK, maybe just eat one real quick (0:46), then keep walking until you find your prey. You know they’re close. You can feel them here; this place reeks of an unholy presence. You should wait until you can zero in on one before you make any moves and hey, you’re already in a bowling alley. Why not pick up a few spares while you wait for your new demondar (that’s like gaydar, but for demons) to fine tune itself.

Give your lovely girlfriend a kiss on the lips, but don’t listen to any of her shit (0:53). You cannot be distracted. Now you can feel the demons closing in from all around you, but you can’t yet tell from where. You need a weapon. Grab one of these sweet bowling balls and finger deeply it until your enemies make a move (0:59).

It’s all part of the plan, trust me.

They’ll show themselves any minute now, you can feel them approach. Any second now (1:06)…

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

THE TIME IS NOW, ATTACK!!! (1:11)

RIGHT IN YOUR DEMON FACE

HA! Bet you didn’t see that coming, demon! Lightning fast, you initiate combat. Wow, that demon went right down; these bath salts must have infused your backhand with the power of God himself! Fear my wrath, demons!!!

Now flee this place before others arrive (1:13). You need to regroup and gather your strength for the coming fight. Back at your apartment, you’re finally safe. Ah, your roommate (1:18). Have you got a story for him, wait, what? Oh God, not him too. DEMON!!!!! 

Don’t look into his eyes, don’t look into his eyes, he’ll cast a spell on you, don’t, don’t…no…

Taken by the demon’s spell, you fall unconscious.

You awaken in a hospital surrounded by demons. LET GO YOU FIENDS! GET THEE BACK! (1:35).

They’ve got you tied down to a gurney, no doubt preparing you for hours of torture ahead. At least the dubstep in your head hasn’t stopped yet, so you can partially tune their foul language out. Let me go, demons! They begin sticking needles into your skin, and things fade to white (1:55).

You wake again to an empty room. The demons have gone, but you’re still strapped to this gurney. You make one final, desparate attempt to free yourself, but the noise rouses the demon guards. They flood into the room to restrain you. LET ME UP, COWARDS! you scream. FACE ME ONE ON ONE AND DIE BY MY RIGHTEOUS HANDS! But it’s no use. They tighten the straps further and inject you with poison. As you feel it coursing through your veins, you have but one regret. You wish you could have slain more demons.

You tried. Valiant, fallen demon hunter, rest easy. Someone will avenge you.

And Now a Note of Seriousness
There are many messages the US Navy might be trying to impart on us viewers, but all of them will be hard to nail down. One of them might be that demons are all around us at all times. Perhaps another is that if you sniff bath salts, everyone around you will appear to tranfrom into demons. Another might be the important lesson that demon hunting is a solitary trade, and demon hunters will be shunned by modern society. Yet another could be that modeling a public service announcement almost scene for scene around the video for ‘Smack My Bitch Up’ by Prodigy is somehow a good idea or that nobody would notice. Who can say?

Is sniffing bath salts a bad idea? Yes. Will it make you trip balls? Probably! But falsely dangling the prospect of demon hunting right in front of my face like that is a pretty terrible thing for the US Navy’s psychiatry department to do. I’ve been dreaming about hunting demons my whole life; fortunately I’m old enough now that when I see this video I know it’s rubbish. But what if I took it seriously? I’d love to slay me some demons, and this video proves they’re out there! I’d plow through a mountain of bath salts just for the chance to exorcise one minor demon.

You do an admirable job of protecting our seas and enforcing maritime law, US Navy. Why don’t you stick to that instead of going out of your way to mock my dreams of demon slaying.

I Have Too Much Power

I feel like that’s so accurate it could be a photograph of me, except I have even more power and also someone shopped me some hair (I’ll take it).

I have too much power. Too much. That’s not to say I want to share it or give any of it up, I’m just sayin’ is all. Perhaps I’m meta-aware of my standing in time and the universe right now, but I am absolutely pulsing with power and ability.

How did I get this way? Eating right and living a healthy lifestyle? Am I the human offspring of a Roman god? A gamma radiation experiment gone wrong? Did I drink two 5 Hour Energies in a row?

None of that nonsense, lowly mortal! Hearken to me, allow me to demonstrate but a small fraction of my awesome and terrible power.

I want to watch the 1989 sci-fi thriller Leviathan tonight. I will.

For the next eight hours I want to peruse through an infinite number of musical selections, for free, of songs that are calculated to be to my liking. I will.

Hmmm, now I want something more tangible, something physical. I know, I want the actual dvd of the movie Wall-E within my possession by the end of the week. And I want it brand new and for cheap, say, under $10.00. It is mine.

I’ll be in the city tonight, and I want directions. I’ll be driving home after work, and I want to check traffic. Maybe now I’m home and I want to get my creep on and read about Karen O’s personal life history!

It is within my power to get almost anything I want, within mere days, hours, minutes or even seconds of wanting it. Now weakling, pay attention. Let me reveal the source, the wellspring from which my power gushes nigh uncontrollably:

It is the magic of the internet that lends me my might. A series of tubes to some, a conduit of omnipotence for me. I can look down across the land with a god’s eye view! I can be nearly instantly informed of the latest and greatest news, announcement or conflict in any major city in the entire world, any time I want.

If I can think of a thing that exists, I have the potential to see that thing, research it or buy it in under one minute.

In the slow moving march of centuries, no other generation of humanity can make such a claim, or even properly imagine its scope. Just ahead of my fingertips is more cumulative knowledge and power than all that existed in all collective kingdoms in the entire world for the past 500 years. 500 years ago if even a king wanted something that wasn’t in his immediate vicinity, the fastest method of communicating that desire was by carrier pigeon; now I can share pictures of bacon and my fabulous ties with the entire world in nearly an instant. The potential extent of my influence is nearly infinite; I am like unto a God.

Ask me something I don’t even know yet. I’ll just use this.

www.google.com

I didn’t even have to exert myself for this endowment; like all true ascension I was born into it. I was born right on the crest of the exact microscopic wave-sliver of time in the history of existence that spells the difference between me gathering berries in a loincloth, slaving all day under a feudal lord who I’ve never met, or driving a day’s walk on foot home in under 30 minutes inside of my automated chariot to find a computer animated masterpiece starring a hopeful robot who finds true love in the future in my mailbox.

Wall-E gets it.

I am equal parts ecstatic, humbled and terrified of my own power.

I, a modern god of average means, have more golden opportunity stretched in front of me than all the humans who have ever lived or died in the past (just googled how long humans have been around) ~200,000 years, and by the standards of my society I’m not even materially rich.

It’s a good thing this power is available only to me.

Bro Summit 2012: Spidery Death and The Meaning of Life

This past weekend was Bro Summit 2012.

Bro Summit 2012, a hearty combination of varied meats and spreadable cheeses. An all male liquid hetero-merry-go-round of extra excessive beer and liquor consumption. A medley of drinking games, fart jokes and actual, deathly poisonous farts. A gathering of uncloseted nerds nerding it up playing Magic the Gathering [of Nerds]. All major organs are currently on detox and will need around three more days of pampering to resume normal functionality, though the psychological scars may never heal.

Unfortunately there were very few pictures taken, as holding a camera or phone would require a free hand, and every free hand equals one less beer or bite of steak that could be funneled into my face right now. Even so I managed to snap a few, which is good because if I hadn’t these memories might be lost to the swirling sands of time. That’s a great way to say I’d be too drunk to remember. Here’s the first one I took while packing for Bro Summit on Friday, before any damage was done.

Magic cards, funny movies, LCR dice game, rechargeable flashlight, matches, fantastic nudie cards, combat knife.

Bro Summit 2012 took place at an awesome old lakehouse right on Lake Winnipesaukee; Ben’s parents have a timeshare there. However for the first time in history, they were gone and we had the place all to ourselves. Time to crack some beers, put on the Thong Song and tear this place apart!

The five of us (Gov, Brian, Ben, Joe and yours truly) rolled in on Friday night around 9:30pm. Through an act of providence, Joe and I happened to take an exit off 93N on our way up, and found a Wendy’s. I’d gotten a bag o’ JBC’s for all the boys, which disappeared shortly after our arrival. Though we’d essentially all pledged not to get too drunk the first night in (we wanted to save that for Saturday), we ignored that sentiment immediately and easily slayed the first 30 rack in about an hour and a half, then started working our way through the second. Ben’s rocking 80’s playlist set the tone perfectly for drinking games, which we played until around midnight. Then dudes started dropping, retreating to empty rooms scattered throughout the house, while the last few of us stayed up to watch Spaceballs on VHS in the den. It was glorious.

Saturday we were off to a relatively early start at 9am. The walls of the lakehouse are very thin, so I woke up when I heard voices in the kitchen below me. I knew the time had come for me to do my job. I brushed my teeth using the water I’d brought in a nalgene bottle, (all the running water is just unfiltered lake water), and tumbled downstairs to begin cooking the bacon. Oh yes, the bacon. Of course I made the entire pack of bacon, which divided by five hungry dudes is two and a piece bacons per dude. Men were milling around the kitchen absorbing coffee like sponges, hovering over me and the frying bacon, circling like fucking vultures. I tried shooing them out to wait on the porch but it was useless, the smell was in the air. Fifteen or twenty minutes later the bacon was good to go, and it was on to the eggs, cheese and microwave sausages. You see, I had placed myself in charge of breakfast and I had a specific vision in mind. I am happy to say it went according to plan. Here is that vision:

I put the sandwich down just long enough to take that picture and it practically got eaten by another dude. Just kidding, they were all crafting their own masterpieces.

I realize now that I’ve talked way too much about only the first night and first morning; if I continue with play by plays of the entire weekend you’ll never read the whole thing. I’ll sum up so that I can get to the topic I want to focus on.

• Saturday midday we went into town and resupplied. Supplies included but were not limited to around 12lbs of assorted meat (robust sausages, a terrible amount of steak tips, more bacon, more eggs), spreadable cheese, pepperoni, two 30 racks, a bottle of Captain Morgans and a bottle of Wild Turkey 101
• Got back to the lakehouse around 3pm; excessive consumption of everything began
• Immediately began slamming rum and cokes
• Played Magic for a good two hours. Magic cannot be played alone, but I will protect the full identities of the other players so as to protect them from ridicule. Their initials are Ben B. and Joe S
• [blank section of time]
• More food (pepperoni, cheese, cheese, chips and guac? More cheese?)
• Shotgunned a beer with combat knife
• Jumped in the lake, very cold. The trick is to get a running start:

Walking in slow is no good. Best to get a running start and cannonball your way in.

• Shower + rum and cokes to warm up. Assembled fire pit for later use.

At this point it was just becoming dusk. I remember going into the bathroom for my shower and having a lightbulb go off in my brain, but I was riproaringly drunk so my epiphany vanished almost immediately after making its stage entrance. It would return later.

The rest of the night is awash in meat, Magic, fire and alcohol. Someone got the steak tips going beautifully on the grill. There were leftover sausages from lunch. Joe made beans and we husked ears of corn while taking shots. We ate meat until we couldn’t anymore, then drank until we could start [m]eating again.

Night fell and the fire rose. There’s something about sitting around a firepit that will never get old to me.

It feels right, it smells right, and it’s the perfect environment for S’mores, which we also ate. All of a sudden, rain. Sheets of rain. We ran inside and played LCR until we literally couldn’t anymore, gorging on steak tips like seagulls nipping at a whale carcass. Someone popped [my old VHS that has been relegated to the lakehouse for all time] Dumb and Dumber into the trusty VCR, and we retired to our respective fartrooms bedrooms for the night. It was man heaven in a man haven.

Author’s Note: Apparently Joe had trouble sleeping and was laying awake in his room at around 4am. The walls are very thin at the lakehouse; he said he could hear everyone just farting it up and groaning/giggling all night in their own separate rooms. Except me, because my body is a finely tuned 100% efficient energy machine that produces no waste whatsoever. I don’t even poop.

The next day I woke up first, went downstairs to where the good bathroom was and pooped an entire steak. Let’s not talk anymore about that, but upon entering the bathroom I immediately remembered my epiphany and ran up and got my phone.

It was the spiders. Tons of spiders; spiders everywhere. I was surrounded by spidery death.

La la la, lakehouse bathroom, la la la

Oh, hi big guy. Are you the guardian of the good bathroom?

Hmmm, I see you brought backup. You guys stay up there, ok?

Well, it seems like you guys have quite the little colony going here…

Ohgodohgodohgodohgod

There were at least five more, big and small, setting up shop on the ceiling of the good bathroom, but the photos came out fuzzy. Anyway I think you get the picture. Baby spiders were building baby spiderwebs, just like the generations before them. Also, since I think spiders are cannibals, they knew to stay out of their neighbor’s yards. I know that spiders don’t go to spider school to learn this (or how to build a web) and that this boils down to some kind of instinct, but seeing generations of spiders above me as I unleashed steamy hell got my mind churning.

It was the spiders that made me remember the meaning of life. Yesterday when my brain was demolished, I must have looked at the ceiling and had a flash of translucence. The thought probably remained in my head just long enough to make an impression before I flushed it all away (nice metaphor?).

Anyway, the purpose of life is two-fold. Stay with me.

1. Be you as hard as you can be. 
Pursue what you love and what makes you feel right, whatever it is. Art, math, music, biology, fitness, whatever. Whatever it is. Like arguing? Go be a lawyer. Like playing video games? Be a software tester. It doesn’t matter what it is, but you have to be you. Don’t just pursue your passion; master it, or come as close to mastering it as your passion allows. Are you a black belt in something? That’s great! But you haven’t mastered jack; come talk to me when you’re a fifth or sixth degree.

This guy gets it; have you seen this commercial? He is being him.

Haha, gross.

And one more subpoint on #1, you should probably be doing that anyway, even if you think my blog is bullshit. Also, why are you reading it then?

2. Pass the knowledge. 
Ok, so you like drumming and you’re Travis Barker on the drums. You like insulting people and you’re Jeff Ross. You hate crime and you’re Batman. You’re still learning, always learning, but you are a master of your craft, a poster child of pursuing your passion. You made it. But realize, it’s finite. You won’t be around forever; do you want your knowledge, your unique interpretation of your skill set to die with you? Your responsibility is now to the continuation of the art or talent that you’ve sacrificed so much of your life for. Who will rock the drums like you do in 100 years? Who will call people fat and stupid with your own biting brand of brilliance? Who will be able to throw a batarang with such precision as to knock guns out of two criminals’ hands in under a second?

Please tell me you know what this is from

Think of an art, a martial art, or the ability to play an instrument. Unless you’re a prodigy (hint: you’re not) you’re not born with the ability to make music, draw a perfect circle or take someone’s center off balance. These and others are skills learned over decades, perhaps years of training depending on your focus, sacrifice and lastly, natural ability.

Do you want that skill and knowledge to go to waste, to be lost? Every Batman needs a Nightwing. Arthritis will claim the Dark Knight eventually, and when it does the only thing that will comfort him is the knowledge that there’s someone else out there bustin’ skulls his way.

Teach. Teach your trade, impart your knowledge; pass it forward to the next generation. No one else in the whole world has your knowledge or your expertise in your field, but it’s your responsibility to get the power to change that. Not everybody gets this chance. Share your experience and in doing so immortalize a skill, or maybe if you’re lucky, an ideal.

There, sitting on the toilet at Ben’s lakehouse, reeking of booze and surrounded by spidery death, I crapped out a steak, and the meaning of life came to me.

I now do my best to pass it forward to you.