Truth Is Stranger: How I Went To The Launch Party

The magical little girl fairy princess, Nelly, who I once saved from self-destruction in the midst of an obscure planet of stupid pink people has returned to us, like some sort of human boomerang made of poison and sweet, delicious berries. She has returned to become my acolyte in the ways of code. She has returned to purpleize my girlfriend.

So anyways, after tranking out Friday night with insufflated zolpidem, we prepared ourselves for the release of the most perfect piece of software ever invented, the algorithm which will probably be responsible for the rise of SkyNet and the eventual total enslavement of all mankind to manufacture binary milkshakes for our thirsty robotic overlords.

I've never been to a midnight software/game console launch before, so I was pretty excited. I was expecting, I dunno. Some video game playing. A roomful of idiots talking about Bleach, which is what anime freaks talk about before they run behind a shelf for an impromptu session of gay, buttery gaysex. And a group of asians standing there, feeling superior because asians are automatically allowed to talk about video games and tentacle rape cartoons, without anyone caring ever. I was so convinced of the potential asian population that I made a spoiler out of cardboard to stick on the back of my car so I could have a rocket just as ricey as anyone else's. Unfortunately, I ran out of glue, and I couldn't remember the secret Shaolin hand-signal attacky thing that all asians learn at birth and use in place of toolboxes.

When we got to the launch party, diabetic Josh was standing there, wearing an eyepatch to keep his insulin-deprived eyeballs from melting and leaking out, calling out numbers for the tournament. It was nuts. There was a shifting, stinking, geeky mass of fat white guys and tiny asian girls crowded around a single Wii display, screaming sexist things about Princess Peach (Poh-lin-sess Pi-chu) and watching two people play. I stood there for a while before the smell of Jedi Spirit made me physically sick and I had to go outside. Which is where the line began anyways, so we got our copy of the game insanely early and went back home while some idiot with a crappy stereo system played Sublime from his car. Then I went home, beat the game instantly with my magical asian controller skill, and then took a bunch of pills and went to sleep, next to my girlfriend, Grimace.

Dear Josh: A Retrospective

Dear Josh:

I was just remembering all the crazy times we've had. I mean, after all, I haven't written you in a long time. You're probably in your room, watching Robot Robot Super Happy Fun (Tentacle Edition) and slowly dying because of your magical diabetes viruses; I'm sitting here at work, being the life of the party (like usual), and feeling just a little whimsical.

I first met you when I started working at Courtesy Call as a teenager, not knowing that place was basically a magical telemarketing sweatshop that I would quit two weeks later. Over the years, we became fast friends, as we would trade video games and I would try not to notice you furiously masturbating to technicolor maidens being destroyed by alien octopi.

Eventually, you met a girl whose name was Natasha, whose mother was one of those stereotypical types: everyone called her Mama, she smoked pot for some vague 'condition', and she'd get the thigh sweats every time somebody mentioned Actual Elvis. Natasha was way too hot for you. We kept hoping the relationship would last forever, because we liked you, but we knew it would never happen, because Natasha was (1) a real girl, (2) smoking hot, and (3) not prone to random squid rape. When she left, you were crushed, and we were there for you. I remind you of this now, because in some later letter I plan on asking you to loan me money.

Oh, those were youthful and carefree days, back when your pathetic wimpy pancreas still had a bit of spunk. In fact, I remember exactly when things turned for the worse: when the police called us and informed us that you were passed out in the middle of the street on Sunset and Mountain Vista. They thought you were drunk. They had no idea that you actually just have a really crappy endocrine system, the kind you can buy in Brazil for a pittance, and your alcohol-like breath was just ketoacidosis, which is a long word for "YOUR ORGANS SUCK".

You've deteriorated over the years, and we keep watching and worrying and hoping your body, like a 1970's Dodge Dart, doesn't just stop working entirely one day. Even though it will. If I ever run into Natasha again, I'll tell her how to contact you, because I know you totally know how to work the pity angle.

So anyways, keep fighting the good fight. I hope you don't die, you know, soon. By the way, save this letter, because all this mushy sentimentality means it doubles as my Christmas card.

Regards,

Teleolurian

Hitler Bad, Vandals Bad Also

From the second story vantage point of my bedroom, I can see into the backyard of my neighbors' house. It's a jungle of badly-spelled graffiti, the same tags that have been showing up around my neighborhood. And I mean, this stuff is pretty bad. It's like they all learned English in a night course, from that idiot Jimmy, who everyone hates.

I'm not quite sure what to do in this situation. I feel it's my civic duty to somehow inform the police, but it also seems like sort of a monumental waste to call in about neighborhood vandalism when the police are out pulling over drunks, fighting terrorists with flamethrowers, and saving America. On the other hand, if the vandalism continues, then the property values drop. The poor people will move in next door by obtaining magical liar's loans from Countrywide, who would sell a mortgage to Mussolini if they could just get him to sign. The sushi restaurants will be replaced by roach-infested taco stands, and the terrorists will win.

Nobody wants their children to grow up in Iranian taco-laden America, with Il Duce living next door, promising to make the trains run on time (even though the Desert Wind train route doesn't even run anymore, WTF Amtrak?). Maybe I should just get some exceptionally ugly thugs, who I know from the strip club, to go next door and politely beat the entrails out of those darn meddling kids. I want the boy and the girl to grow up eating sushi and driving minivans, not withdrawing from both world wars.

Mommy Dearest

Dear Josh:

I hear you're moving back in with mom. Good for you. Once you get past the shame of the situation (which I hear increases with age, and let's face it - you're not getting any younger), you'll realize that a zero-rent situation is probably one of the best things you can face in the current bombing housing market.

That being said, there are doubtless changes that will have to be made to your lifestyle. Gone are the days when you can sit on the couch in your dadundadaas watching The Rock beat up John Cena (or whatever horrible uterus vomit they show on WWE nowadays). Not because your mother hasn't seen you in your underwear, obviously, but because it's no secret how hugely aroused you get when watching teh wrestle.

Things You Sacrifice	Things You Get Instead
Eating filthy fast food	Crusts cut off your sandwiches
Sex with an actual person	Free internet
Staying Up All Night Watching Cable	Staying Up All Night In Your Room
Coming home late and slamming your door with the satisfaction of a homeowner	Coming home late and tiptoeing into your room
Crazy people next door	Hearing your parents have sweaty old-people sex
Your own bathroom	Never running out of shampoo
Freedom	Advice
A long bus ride to work	An even longer bus ride to work, complete with a bus stop in a really bad neighborhood where people cook meth right out in the open
Inviting friends over whenever you want	Meth

Your Baby Daddy Thinks You're An Idiot

Dear Josh's Ex-Wife:

You probably don't have time during your busy day of waddling back and forth between the fridge and the couch to read, so let me sum up about everything you could ever need to hear:

Fuck You.

Seriously, you are the poster girl for Everything Wrong With America. I know that sleeping with Josh is like diving to sunken R'lyeh and staring Cthulhu in the face, but there's 'madness' and there's total idiocy. And then there's succeeding at being a total idiot. Which angers me in a deep and irreparable manner. Seriously, you don't want to get a glimpse at the violent retribution fantasies I have, in which you receive your deserved comeuppance for being- and let me get this as clear as possible - a total entitlement twat.

Now, obviously, poor and ugly people shouldn't mate. When they do, you end up with the missed abortions you call your loving sons, what with all their medications and mental retardedness and whatnot. And, of course, bearing Josh's trollish offspring is enough to make anybody's flesh literally revolt against them, so I can't say anything bad about nature blowing you up by two hundred and fifty pounds and literally corroding your genes like so much rotting feces.

But there is nothing funny, endearing, or even sane about the fact that you call the police whenever the poor seizure-ridden bastard moves because of your idiotic made-up fear that he might stop lapsing into diabetic comas long enough to do anything to you. You do not deserve his child support money, which is not so much going to your children as to the various governmental institutions that raise your children and feed them pills and soothe them of their fears that you may consume them. I hope the sour cream that runs through your veins curdles in your heart and makes each dolphin breath like sucking air through a straw submerged in rancid butter for the rest of your horrible miserable life.

I really don't know a better way to express how I feel. Your sheer idiotic greed has left my potent wordsmithery feeble and impotent. Somehow, you live completely ignorant of making your own way in favor of letting a dying man's minimum wage enthrone you in squalor as you suck the cream out of Twinkies and feed your children on budget dinners of Hamburger Helper Macaroni and Pills. What you are doing is horrible beyond the capacity of language to describe. The fact that such things are even possible leaves me questioning the verisimilitude of existence. Surely, such things were never meant to be.

You Have A Problem

Dear Josh's Girlfriend's Ex-Husband:

You have a problem. Nobody buys $200 blocks of cable pornography for single-serving consumption. At least you had the decency to try to blame it on your children, which shows signs of healthy brain usage.

Seriously, though. I can't imagine the kind of manual dexterity endurance session that must have taken. You must be built like a fucking auto detailer. Do people shy away in aversion from your one massive Popeye arm? Did you put an anchor tattoo on it? Did you give it a girl's name?

Josh: I'm sorry for your loss, and the fact that you're stuck on DSL because you can't afford to pay off the bill so you can afford real internet. You really shouldn't let ex-anythings onto your property unless you're packing a shotgun. Trust me on this. Nothing smells better than sawed-off in the morning, and nothing gets the testosterone flowing like threatening someone who could probably kick your ass with a hefty firearm. That is, unless you're the kind of person who needs a decathlon of shitty cable porn to rub off some crotchfruit.

Also, I suggest you buy a black light. And don't let your kids eat anything that's dropped on the floor. If the carpet sticks to your heel when you walk over to change the channel, that's the sign that there's some rancid man-batter somewhere nearby. Touching you. I'll let that sink in for a bit.

Okay. So, in conclusion, do not skimp on renting a carpet steam cleaner. Because there is another man's angel-food cake mix somewhere in your cruddy shag. Imagine the blob. Imagine it growing and consuming everything it touches. This should be triggering your primal retch reflexes right now. Nobody wants to think about some guy's tapioca in the space they have laid claim to. Fucking clean your carpet. And your couch. And if you have a dog, clean that too.

Wear gloves,
Me.

Wrestling Is Not Entertainment

Dear Josh:

Wrestling is not entertainment. I understand how it can seem to be a portrayal of the survival of the fittest, on a superficial and completely braindead level. But it shouldn't be watched. It is, in fact, completely unwatchable.

Many people speculate on whether or not wrestling is real or faked. This is like asking if a bowel movement is relatively well-formed; it is not worth asking. Wrestling is faked. And it is overwhelmingly retarded. It is surprising how many professed 'homophobes' suddenly raise the crane at the sight of two grunting oiled men rubbing each other gently.

Drama, when done right, can be suspenseful; beautiful; exciting. Wrestling is not drama. That screaming and grunting and hateful bickering before somebody makes a 'surprise' chair hit? The one that happens at least once every week? That's put in there for a reason. It's so the mouth-breathers who watch wrestling can remember that there are two men, who have gay-sounding names like 'The Penetrator', who want to fight each other. Damn it, it's used to JUSTIFY the fact that they're basically going to have violent homoerotic sex on national television. You can see the exact same thing happen a block away from the Hard Rock Casino, in the alley behind the Gypsy Motel. Except those guys only make $10 per session.

I don't know why you get so excited, like some sort of ritalin-enhanced ape, whenever this happens. You literally scream and jump up and down. The concept of naming moves is not a new thing. Video games do this. Cartoons do this. Heck. Normal people do this. Remember the 'Locomotion'? The 'Running Man'? The 'Roger Rabbit'? Do those things make you think of gaysexuals? Because the men who did those dances, in my opinion, were the kind of men who tended to have loving, tender sex with each other.

STOP. Just please, get a better hobby.

Forever Diabetic

Dear Josh:

After sending you the link about the games, you told me you will be retiring from GameStop and hopefully getting on disability, because now the horrible diabetes has started to give you hypoglycemic seizures that make you bite your tongue and die a little inside.

You have always been the diabetic in the group. In fact, if I were your campaign speechwriter and you were running for president and I had to make a list of the three most important, world-changing things you've done, number one would be: Has Diabetes.

It's what makes you special, and what helps me tell you apart from all the other meatbags who try to ride my coattails to utterly hip. Your diabetes, and the way we'd pour normal Mountain Dew into your wussy diet bottle just so we could watch you become horribly irrational and maybe pass out.

But don't worry. We've got your back on this one, compadre. While you're on disability, you'll have the perfect opportunity to stay at home and watch over the lab we're going to build. That's right. Me and all the guys, and whichever of the girls want to come along, are going to build a lab, and we're going to develop an immortality serum.

Crazy, no? I can tell by how silent you've become that you're stunned by our generosity and our brilliance. And to be honest, it was all my idea. But that's okay. This isn't about me.

This is about you.

Our hope is that we'll finish this before the sugar need shuts down your central nervous system, or at least before there's a new season of House MD on the air. Because we are totally committed to you. Until the fall season, at least.

One day you will wake up, and you will be immortal. And who knows, maybe you'll have laser eyes or some sweet cybernetic enhancements or mutant healing powers or something. You will be eternal. You will be forever diabetic.

You will watch all of us grow old, and play tricks on us like we used to do to you- moving our canes, or telling us you'll give us some immortality serum but then it turns out to be poison, or something like that. And we'll be like, Josh, that joker. What a riot. Except those of us that you gave poison to, because they'll be more like, gag, gag, a pox on you. And we'll all laugh.

One day the Earth will be incinerated, probably by you, on accident. And you will float in the cold depths of space, craving insulin. Planets will fear you as you descend upon their alien populations, craving their sweet, sweet pancreases.

They will send out their superheroes, but all their attempts will be futile, because if there's one thing extrasolar aliens aren't, it's American. And you'll be all, RAWR, and they'll build a statue of you with a plate and harvest virgin pancrei in mounds to lay upon it.

The way I see it, it'll all be pretty sweet, unless you get hit by a glucose comet or something. Just floating out there in space, wanting insulin, choking on your tongue.

BFF,
Me.

Buying Anime Related Games

Dear Josh:

I remember how thrilled you were when you got your job at Gamestop. You were so fantastically happy that you forgot to lube up before watching WWE, giving yourself a severe indian burn. I remember how you wept like a child and then grabbed a tube of Icy Hot, calming yourself with a furious One Piece lolicon strokefest. And I must say, I have never seen you with such zeal for life, or four year old animated girls.

That having been said, I can't say I particularly agree with your game selection "skillz". I think that Naruto is a raging homosexual plant by an interstellar alien conspiracy with the nefarious goals of making all your 'boy batter' somehow 'belong to them'. The fact that the lengthy interlude between me going into a video game store and me leaving is rendered pointless by your insipid recommendations for every animated action-pedophilia title under the sun.

Going into a video game store used to be like going into an adult video store. I would be left alone and blissful with the promise of a new encounter behind every friendly box cover. And, much like an adult video store, the guys on the covers of the fighting games are making horrible "O" faces.

Seriously, Josh. The monumental tide of waste must stop. There are games that do not involve tentacles. For instance, Day of No Fucking Tentacles. I wish I could say that was just an ad hom and not the kind of "action" I get every time I buy something you recommend. I'd like to introduce you to something called Taste, as soon as I stop buying games long enough to purchase a two by four and a nail.

Thank you,
Me.