20 ? “WELCOME TO AMATEUR HOUR”
Dude—I mean,
Commander—that doesn't look
anything like her. For one thing, she was fat. Like
orca fat. Supposedly she was a Siberian, but, Christ, she might as well have been Samoan. No wonder she was so easy to catch, she practically suffocated her prey on the merest pounce, no need to sever the spine. *FWOOMP*
“Dinner!” Or, lunch. Or fuckin’
brunch. Have you ever met a cat that demanded an actual Sunday brunch? Well, I guess you have. I bet her last words were, “What? No pancake breakfast?” *snap*
For another—while that is a tuxedo, she wore hers much better.
Now, something you may not realize about me, is that I actually know how this shit works. Yeah, that's not a picture of my cat, but yeah, you took a picture of my cat,
of course, and now you're serving up the real goods to all of the computers that connect to the server and exist on that server's whitelist. (If you aren't getting 500 bucks a pop, you're getting
robbed. She's a fuckin’
ninja now. She's like the Foucalt of felines. Angels and demons alike tremble at the thought of her upcoming vengeance—I heard she got a regular thing now, teasing & torturing the other familiars, just because she feels like it. It's not even vengeance,
per se, she's just not allowed to target live flesh now without Daddy's permission—which isn't even my idea. She's got a new Daddy, and believe me, the less I know, the better. The Dragon Lord asked me for her hand in marriage.
I'm not even kidding. So you better be getting at least half a grand.
Per click, m***********.) The same goes for all sorts of Eyes Only stuff, that you and your foul ilk have been tooling around with over here over all these years. Remember: number one, I didn't just come here by accident, I was
summoned here. (Imagine the summoner’s initial disappointment—sorry, Doll... I had to
ripen.) Number two, not only do I pay attention, and am quite capable of learning
as well as inclined to do so... I was already smart before I got here. (Let that sink in, then—twist.)
And... I have paid my dues. Yeah, I bet you have too. Let's all give you a hand. Oh, wait you're already getting a reacharound—let's just wait. (Garrote.) Now, what's on the menu? Oh, surf‘N’turf again? Well, sucks for you.
You see, I actually have
been around. I don't have to be invited to the black hole in order to witness the event horizon. I can
deduce things. It's a
skill. It's not just a gift from Sherlock's syringe. It took practice to develop, something I'm sure you know plenty about. You know, like fealty.
Now, irrespective of whether or not you are the or an alleged perp—tell you what, as a courtesy, I'll assume that you're just being funny (yeah, it is, polite applause), and for whatever reason (low-hanging fruit), you feel the need that this is the length that you need to go to now, at this point, in order to get my goat.
Except, I don't have a goat, retard. I don't even have a retard. You know what I do have, though? Jimmies.
Unrustled. That's right;
you have no power over me. But you, oh my, oh goodness, oh my goodness... What, are you on a fucking countdown timer to grab your last trophy before the next server shutdown? Nigga,
please.
I AM JACKSTAR, DESTROYER OF DREAMS, AND I AM THE TROPHY OF ALL TROPHIES. You know it. I know it. They
all know it, even the ones who haven't read the emails, and if a certain someone were still reading this site, this would probably chap her ass good. Rushing to my defense, I can just see it in my imagination. Vivid. Wild. Completely out of control.
Except, that's not happening. A certain someone isn't here, and I don't need a certain someone's help to deal with this situation. What I do need, is Analysis Mode.
So: ANAL ON. *click* You're looking to get a rise here. Either you need money, or you need someone to fly off the handle. Now, as you know–you're not getting either from me. But as you may not know, I am fully in favor of you getting both money and handle-free flyers. Dude! You're proud? Of what you've done? Cool! So am I!
Jesus, I've
never been so important in
my entire life. It's like the axis of your entire universe revolves around my penis.
Sweet. And, people know who you are? Well, shit, I hope they can figure out how to remember how to spell both surnames. And this all worked out better, than getting me a truck, or comping a room or just teaching me how to record a f****** phone call, huh? Jesus, you people. Your fuckin’ whole industry. See, this is why you can't get good talent. Anyone with any imagination whatsoever isn't being creative with it, they're using it to figure out: A) what the fuck is going on; B) why you're still drawing breath; and C)... how to steal all my ideas before I go shitting them all out over the public domain like a rowdy moose that got into both the grog
and the Olestra.
(That being said, f*** it, I don't care, O Junior Scribes: f****** take it all with f****** no regrets. I've got a whole bag of Me, under pressure, on tap, and on Glory Road. Go nuts, do something nice with it, get your girl some shoes or something
fancy.)
Also: D) how to keep a straight face when talking to you, when you don't know what they know, which is this: I beat you m***********, fair and square. And
you cheated. how'd that work out for you? Does it sting? Does Sting still call? Probably not as often as before though, although how he can find time in his busy schedule to make a phone call every 18 and 1/2 hours, I'll never know. F****** limeys.
Ironic, no? Maybe someone should make a show about people who cheat and never, ever apologize. What do you think? Maybe you could finally host something right up in your alley.
But, instead, let's look forward, shall we? What do you think's going to happen now? Am I going to report you the police for harassment?
No, David, no. This is not harassment. This is
flattery. Harassment would be if you sent it to someone else, and hopefully after the last time, you're not going to pull that s*** again. (Dude! Wait, I mean... Commander! What did I tell you what happened? AN ENTIRE RAFT OF S*** M***********. I'll just park it over here with the rest of the flotilla. I'm going to have to request permission from the Coast Guard to use another digit on the f****** license plates just to keep from running out of unique IDs. And the parking? Forget about it. You might think I could just flush away a raft of s***, but at this point, flushing stopped being effective months ago. Can you say “backlog?” Great now: envision it. Because that's where I'm at, burned on the back of my f****** eyelids.) And, what, am I going to call the police and report to them that someone in the internet is being mean to someone I know?
Jesus, no. Get real. I'm never going to mention this s*** to anyone. I don't have to. I'm writing my own mention. I can do that. I can spell.
Imagine my dictionary. Yeah—it's big. It spans volumes. So, this is essentially the same playbook as before, and you know what happened when I told somebody that somebody was being mean to me on the Internet?
That's too bad. I don't know if I can help you, I have to check with my lawyer first.”
Now, that's a sympathetic meatball. But this time, this time is a little different. Because I remember the first time I mentioned this... “OMG! You won't believe what he just said to me! What he told me he did!” You want to know what reaction I got that first time? Well, actually the first time I didn't mention it, because I know a setup when I see one, I went to public school.
No, it was the second time, and I said, “How deranged is this guy?” and the answer I got back was this:
LIAR!
BLASPHEMER!
LIAR!
Yeah, that's right, not only did you never kill the cat, you never even joked about it three times. You also didn't leave multiple voicemails, that I also can't even play, because now, I guess, it sucks to be reminded... of certain things.
So, that's where we're at. You're not even being mean to anybody. You're just looking dumb. Again. Another day, another page gets inked into The Stalker Log... Truly, a mythical document, I've never seen it, but at this point it must truly be massive in size.
Like my cat. Seriously, She was huge. If she did get hit by a car, they probably ended up with a dent bigger than what was left in the USS Cole. But it wasn't a vehicle, now was it?
Do I even care? Let me ask you: am I lying?
Raving, balls out lunacy is no way to go through every day of your life, Son. It's also no way to form a Proper quorum.
You're better than this. Turn around, do a 180—this is not the way forward for you. Jesus, can't you get a mentor or something? Oh, right, half of the available options are blocking all your calls, and the other half is your clientele, and the conflict of interest is, I'm sure, apparent to all concerned. Can't have that, now can we? APPEARANCES MUST BE MAINTAINED. I guess. I can't be bothered with this s***—I have an
actual life, People.
God, I need a drink. I sure hope this
meth gaes wears off soon. All I want to do is just go to the beach, and wriggle my toes in the sand, and pound tequila untill I become one with the closest agave shrub.
But alas no. I'm
busy.
You should try it sometime. On something with
class.
End of line. PAY HER. Also, I need those control codes. Make it happen. Do not think even for an instant that I would ask were it not absolutely, critically essential. You don't have to email them. Send it via
post.
Or, you know, whatever. Bored now. Say, have you met Ted?
