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

I Didn't Ask To Be Awesome, I Was Born That Way

Ex-Girlfriend: What's taking so long? What are you doing?
Me: I'm thinking about how awesome it would be if I had a harem of female selves. I could start my own race.
Ex-Girlfriend: Do you really need to be thinking about that now?
Me: I have to think about something. The whole 'cutting you' thing doesn't really get my motor going. But then, nothing could get my motor going like an entire army of sexy Korean bitches, who are also me.

______________

Me: Shit. Shit.
Joe: You alright, dude?
Me: I think I drank too much. I think I'm going to die.
Joe: Just stay out here on the balcony. You'll be alright.
Me: If I ever survive this, I swear I'm gonna switch to water every time I think I'm even slightly beginning to get drunk. And if Lewis calls me a pansy and I die, I'm going to come back as a ghost and kick his ass.
Joe: It's okay, dude. You look pretty bad, but you'll make it through.
Me: I don't think I will. I'm pretty sure I'm going to die.
Joe: It's okay, I'm watching you.
Me: Can you get some paper?
Joe: Why?
Me: I ain't dying until somebody ghostwrites my memoirs. I'm too fucking amazing to go without a lengthy epitaph. And you just volunteered, bitch.

__________

Me: S and W together makes the 'swuh' sound.
The Boy: Swuh... ah.. muh. Swam.
Me: Good. It's like, "I swam through a river of insignificant people to get where I am today."
Wife: Erm...
Me: What's this one say?
The Boy: Stuh... ih... ffff. Stiff.
Me: Right. Like somebody who's not alive anymore.
Wife: (looks over)
Me: He needs to understand where we get dead people from. They're a valuable commodity.
__________

Me: I take the tubby bitch bottles of Seroquel now. I didn't even know there was a prescription bottle bigger than, you know. Prescription-sized.
minipul8r: Do you take them as a side job?
Me: So your girlfriend can have the diabetes. The tubby bitch bottle officially has enough stamina to take down at least 5 normal pill bottles.
minipul8r: Well, she has 10 bottles. So you'd better have at least two.
Me: Shit.
minipul8r: Bottle Wars!
Me: Hell yes. I'm gonna play that with some gin as soon as I get home tonight.

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.