“MUAHAHAHAHAHA!”
Last Friday, all day…
Me.
Once it arrived.
“MUUUUAAAAAHAHAHAHAHA!”
Finally…
For the last 16 months–me in my crimefighters, flint-sharpening sticks with opposable thumbs, siccing them on eyeballs from a country away, in a ritual dubbed The Open-Mouth Kiss Of A Blind-Running Rage.
You’ve probably heard me referred to as Biblical Sex: a.k.a the Cold Consummate Quake: a.k.a. the Oh No You Didn’t: a.k.a the Somebody Gonna Burn in Hell For That: a.k.a. the Duke of Irving 82431. And closer to Memphis, they just call me Pat.
I wasn’t always special. Nope. Most kids aren’t. It didn’t matter how many radioactive spiders I bit, or the number of volts wired to my nunchucks, swinging from the back of the boat into shark-infested waters… I simply didn’t have what it takes for a power like this.
But the text hath predict, and the muscles in my fingers survived the Plight of Atrophy, and the dimensionally advanced opened the Carpal Tunnel, to expose my T9 Android as mildly retarded.
Not long ago he started smoking from his balls, SITREPPIN on a screen that’s a Meta 4.5. I wouldn’t yet say he deserves put down. I mean, two lines at a time makes a tedious punt when sidekicking for the maestro of WhAt Did yoU Say tO ME, PuNk!?.
That shit’s gonna wear on anybody.
So the lesson for you kids is hard work pays off, as my retarded sidekick and I were indubitably scouted. The Council of Excellent Adventures and Stuff Like That were force-fed the work that we logged on our Pinterest. And because I know you little fuckers are unlikely to have heard of such an outfit, it’s composed of my dad and the hyper-sexual Otherson.
They bestowed upon me an Annunaki technology. One that opens up the Great Spirit Gateway for me to funnel my mojo and necromance your filthy minds. It’s the kind of tech that only ancient alien theorists could imagine: semicolons and underlines, complete with special characters–indentured, in servitude, to grammar’s sweet confections.
I said the words from the scribe to breath in it my life: “Baptize me a Belieber in the Felt of Bold Divine!” I also gave it Tesla’s seed and flipped the switch on its side.
And alive it came! For discussion and with memory. “Alright then–you spelled that wrong, didn’t ya. No worries. Nuffin’ we can’t handle as a team. Giv’ it anutha go then, mate. Don’t be shy. Take as much time as you need. I’m not here to judge. Go on, just breath.” Together we developed phonetic understanding, which allows me to decrypt the endearments it encodes in its BEEPs.
Of course, the good comes with bad, and it hurts to admit we’ve had a quarrel or two. Like jilted lovers–yesterday morning, in the middle of breakfast, just a quick little tiff and it broke down and smoked. I tried to offer some sense but it didn’t seem to help. It was stubborn. And weird. And I didn’t appreciate the way it was throwin’ out vibes. And when I told it “I love you” and tried to share a kiss, it screeched, then started stutter- chirping full-seizure, with the worse yet to come…a bomb made of stink.
If we’re being honest right now, I don’t trust its demeanor, and it’s not like I can throw it in a car and drop it off with its mom…
Do you think it even has one?
Yeah, that would explain a lot…
I wish there was a service for councils on the circuit–to check team history and stats, vulnerabilities and charisma. Something that would send a flag if, say, you were online, prospecting hand-me-down assault gear that had a past with Gary Busey.
Suppose I better wrap this up before it starts to wonder. You wouldn’t imagine the trouble I’m still in from what I did with my thumbs. Last thing anyone wants is for it to poke around my histories. You don’t want outed for butt stuff with a monster like that.
And that’s my time.
Anyway, it looks like the lot of you have got an assembly. So I’m gonna skip the Serenity Prayer, but feel free to say it for me.
Cold Consummate Quake–over and out!
[Thanks for the typewriter and books!]