This is kinda stupid, but I found it on my laptop somewhere,
and I thought I'd post it:
Asskicking Diary:
Lets face it, I kick ass. For as long as I can remember, I've
been kicking ass with a boot made of Yeti hide soaked in beatdown. Up until today, I've kept these experiences to myself-
but no longer. Asskicking of this magnitude wasn't meant to hang flaccidly in the shadows. No, no, it was meant to rise like
a veined throbbing missile straight into your colon. As such, I've decided to keep an Asskicking Diary to chronicle my adventures
in whiptail. You, my chosen audience, will be there for every groin biting, rectal splitting saga, my expert literary vision
entrancing you until the front of your underwear grows moist with excitement. So buckle up boys and girls, and grab some toilet
paper.
Destination: Shittingyourpantsville
May 1st, 2003:
Okay, so I'm in my cozy little bed dreaming of Brian Boitano,
when I'm jarred to boxer-staining consciousness by a blaring roar from outside my second floor apartment window.
Scrambling for a new pair of underwear within the twilight cacophony,
I finally get to the window and look out to see the maintenance man "Carl" down in the courtyard cutting the grass with a
riding lawnmower bigger than the AT-AT Walkers from Empire.
I screamed all manner of warnings at him, but he couldn't hear
me, and with nothing else to throw, I grabbed the neighbor's cat, (who happened to be sitting on my windowsill), and hurled
it down at Carl.
Unfortunately, I was too sleepy to control my unfathomable strength,
and I overshot the mark by a good four feet. The cat hit the ground right in front of Carl's riding lawnmower, and fortunately,
Carl didn't see it until it was too late.
Cat parts went everywhere, and even though I was sleepy and
pissed, I had to laugh, 'cause, well, some things are just too funny.
Ironically, I'd killed two birds with one stone, because the
cat's intestines got caught up in the lawnmower blades and locked the whole thing up.
Score so far, Mike: 1 / Dipshit Maintenance Man: 0
Still sitting on the now-quiet lawnmower, Carl's all bewildered
and looking up into the air, as if he thought the cat had descended from heaven or something, which is bullshit, because any
body that doesn't have their head up their ass knows that all cats come from Hell.
"Hey Carl!" I called down from the window, "Have you seen my
cat? I've been looking for it everywhere."
(Of course, it wasn't really my cat, it was my neighbor's
cat, but I wanted to see if I could get Carl to cry).
"Uh, no," Carl stammers, "No cats 'round here!"
Now this kind of lying is just gratuitous, 'cause theres blood
all over the lawnmower, all over the grass, and all over Carl. The son of a bitch had a cat paw hanging off of his blue plastic
nametag for God's sake!
"What's all that red stuff?"
"Um, ketchup!" Carl replies, "I, uh, dropped my lunch,
and um, ran over it with the lawnmower."
"Oh yeah? What were ya having, a McRoadkill?"
More inane babble drifts up from the courtyard so I just close
the window and go back to sleep. Brian Boitano and I had just started skating on our rink of frozen, plutonic love, when all
of a sudden, RRRRRRRRR!!!!! That fucking lawnmower wakes me up again!!!
Well, I couldn't count on finding another cat in such close
proximity, so I thought it was high time to make with the asskicking. My Boitano-filled dreams had already been ruined twice
by this walking turd, and besides, I was getting a mean hardon.
So I grab my bathrobe and some flip-flops and go stomping out
the door and down the staircase. Carl sees me and freaks, knowing- perhaps from the look on my face, or the sawed off bat
in my hand, I'm not sure which- that his ass is in imminent danger of being kicked. In one of the purest displays of dumbassedness
I've ever seen, Carl yanks the wheel and tries to get away on the lawnmower, which tops out at about two miles an hour.
Even in flip-flops, even in a bathrobe- Hell, even if I was
CARRYING the whale from Free Willie, this fuckstick could've no more escaped on that lawnmower than the gay guy from Will
& Grace could take me in a fist fight, (for clarification, that's a stand up fist fight. No wrestling).
WHAM!!! Head, meet sawed off bat.
Ya know, I really didn't hit him that hard, but Carl looses
consciousness and slumps forward across the lawnmower, which continues on across the courtyard. I was gonna catch up to it
again and shut it off, ('cause the sound was still pissing me off), but there's a fairly busy street at the end of the drive,
and since cars were coming and going on their way to work, I figured nature would run its course.
A hail of screeching tires, a loud crash, and silence fell across
the apartment complex. I expected cheering from the other tenants, but most were still asleep, and I'm not really a glory
hound. So back I go up the stairs to my apartment, and who should be waiting for me, but old man Robinson from across the
hall, (reputed to own a haunted amusement park).
He was dressed exactly like I was, bath robe, flip-flops, and
underwear- what a poser!
"Excuse me kiddo, do you have the time? I'm waiting on the mail
man and-"
"Yeah!" I cut him off, "I've got the time! It's asswhipping
o'clock!"
Without premise I picked him up and power-bombed him over the
balcony railing. Luckily, there was a giant sticker bush below, and it broke the old man's fall. Keep in mind, I'm not really
into hurting senior citizens, I just like keeping them on their toes. Old people like surprises, and what's more surprising
than being power-bombed off a second floor balcony?
"You alright down there, Mr. Robinson?" I called.
He didn't answer, so I figured he was...
