Beautifully Unique Sparkleponies: On Myths, Morons, Free Speech, Football, and Assorted Absurdities (9 page)

Fuck fate. Fuck fate and its cold-iron shackles wearing our legs raw as we trudge in the same blind circle. Fuck fate and the numb cattle-like torpor it causes. Fuck fate and every single tyrant who’s ever tried to enslave someone.

I choose free will. I choose to believe that my actions have meaning, my thoughts validity, and my dreams reality. I choose my right to make this world a better place for all those who would rise up against fate’s blind yoke and CHOOSE to take responsibility for their actions, knowing full well it means they must examine the consequences of those actions.

Why? Because if I’m fated to act like this, at least it lets me spit in the old bastard’s eye.

T
he temperature at kickoff is predicted to be a balmy 72 degrees with a light breeze from the southeast. Playing in today’s Equality Bowl are the Lustful Cockmonsters, winners of this year’s Fromunda League, and the Beautifully Unique Sparkleponies, champions of the Sad Trombone Division. I’ll tell you what—you’ve never seen such resplendent uniforms as the ones these two teams are wearing. It’s almost like watching a clown filled with confetti explode in slow motion while Richard Simmons backflips his way through a triple rainbow.

Early picks have the Lustful Cockmonsters as five-point favorites, the team resurgent behind the potent combination of Hamshank Thunderloin and Drake Crotchcrusher, but some experts predict that the high-flying aerial attack of Lily “Donkeypunch” Landon and Jupiter Cameltoe could lead the Sparkleponies to an upset. Of course, the player fans are most eager to see, Fister
McGrundle, appears to have suffered some sort of lower-leg injury following an unusually energetic bout of calisthenics during pregame warm-up. We’ll update you as we learn more; I know I speak for everyone at the stadium when I say that a game without a good Fister is simply not worth watching.

Also in the mix are field conditions. While initial reports were favorable about the beautifully manicured and styled grass, a brief shower of glitter and tinsel appears to have made the footing a bit treacherous. As we speak, equipment managers are breaking out the stiletto heels and workmen’s boots to give the players a little extra traction if they need it.

Stay tuned for moooooooooore SPORTSBALL!

S
tep 1. Connect to the Internet. If you’re logging on through AOL’s thirty-day free trial CD, please, for the love of all that’s holy, do not try to Win the Internet. I promise you that it won’t end well.

Step 2. Find something that makes you upset. This can be literally anything at all. Did
Cat Fancy
publish a scathing review of “long-haired Siamese whatever the hell
Cat Fancy
calls a cat”? Begin wildly gesticulating as you spit frothing obscenities at your monitor. Is someone in an obscure chili subforum at BobsChili Hut.com extolling the virtues of beanless chili? Let your blood pressure hit 500 psi while your pacemaker issues sad beeping noises. Did your local sportsball player fail your impossible goals of perfection by showing himself to be only mortal? Better get a mouth guard so you don’t shatter your teeth into a fine powder as you grind them together in rage.

Step 3. Write down why you’re upset. Since the medium of print doesn’t convey volume or emotion very well, you’ll have to make up for it by using CAPS LOCK AND MISSPELLING/TRUNCATING AS MNY WOORDS ASD POSIBLE!!!1! The key is to ride that fine edge of literacy and lunacy; you want the lucky recipient of your righteous judgment to feel the weight of every thundering denunciation, but if it’s too incomprehensible, the guy’ll probably just ignore it.

Step 4. Post the ten-page essay you just wrote about your chosen victim’s mating habits (generally with corpses or wild animals), personal hygiene (nonexistent), family lineage (whores and baby molesters), intelligence (dumber than a lobotomized clam on bath salts), and genitalia (scabrous, pustulant, and disfigured) anywhere you think he could possibly see it. This includes Facebook, Twitter, Reddit, personal blogs, impersonal blogs, random news aggregators, and printed broadsides.

Step 5. Wait for your target to respond. When he does, take select quotations completely out of context to back up whatever point you feel like making while maintaining a continuous barrage of ad hominem attacks. If he raises a valid point you don’t want to address, either pretend it was never said or claim that he misinterpreted you and obviously isn’t smart enough to understand your logic. Continue berating the individual until he refuses to answer anymore or until the quoting and requoting causes the page to crash and drag down half of Geocities with it. Bonus points for saying, “Clearly I can’t have a conversation with someone as intolerant as you—I’m through here” and then continuing the argument.

Step 6. Eat a victory snack, secure in the knowledge that you definitely changed the mind of someone you’ll never meet in real
life. There’s no doubt he’s a million times more fulfilled now that you’ve educated him on his various inadequacies and shared how they can be corrected. If only everyone in the world were as smart as you, we’d all Win the Internet!

Step 7. Self-euthanize.

T
his is the part where I tell you about me.

Growing up, I was always the nerdy kid with thick glasses who knew all the answers and eagerly waved his hand in class. It wasn’t to make others feel bad or to try to get attention; as children, we’re taught that it’s a good thing to learn and have the right answers. I enjoy excelling at things, and I had the answers (most of the time, though I thought I had them all the time), so I raised my hand. I still raise my hand if there’s a question I can answer. I guess I like sharing information with people.

Growing up, I was the best player on my soccer and baseball teams; I pitched and batted cleanup in baseball, and I played midfield and goalie in soccer. Part of my aptitude was due to the various baseball and soccer camps my parents sent me to, and the other part was that I enjoyed excelling at things. I liked to compete and I liked to win, and I still do; I will never apologize for that. I’m fundamentally
incapable of giving anything less than my best effort, so bear that in mind if you invite me to a Ping-Pong match or a game of Warmachine (I’ve learned how to be less of a jerk about it, though, which I’m pretty sure is a good thing).

Growing up, I always had my head in a book. I mastered the art of reading while walking: I glanced up quickly every now and then to make sure I didn’t run into anything. I loved to read, and I would frequently get in trouble in class for reading when I was supposed to be paying attention. This seemed rather odd to me at the time (and still does), but whatever. Apparently, school is for learning what the curriculum says you should learn, not for learning in and of itself. I would also read in the car on the way to soccer and baseball practice, in the bathtub, under my covers late at night when I was supposed to be sleeping (I had to develop a good ear to hear my mom coming up the stairs to catch me); basically, whenever I had some free time, I was reading. People who know me now will say nothing has changed in that respect.

Growing up, I had no idea what girls were for. I could talk with them, build sand castles with them, and play board games with them, but the concept of relationships never even entered my mind. I didn’t go on a date until my senior year of high school, and that was more because it seemed to be the expected thing to do (I was slowly picking up civilized manners at that point, but the going was rough). I went on recruiting trips to UCLA, and when I was there, I was completely clueless that my future wife was at all interested in me; I just thought she was being nice by explaining the different things to do once I got to campus. (We’re both pretty glad that I figured it out eventually.) I asked to go to an arcade during my official visit because the basketball game was boring and I wanted to do something fun. Nothing out of the ordinary about that, right?

Growing up, I got in fights with my brother all the time. We were both completely unwilling to back down from anything, and that led to some truly interesting incidents (I maintain that I never started a single one; I just finished it). We can look at those now and chuckle, but we’ve both had to learn how to walk away, a lesson I think is valuable no matter what age you learn it. You should never be afraid to stand your ground for something worth fighting for, but learning what’s worth fighting for can be a very long (and occasionally painful) process. Nowadays I let the little stuff go; life’s too short to be angry all the time, and I’d rather laugh at the absurdity of it all. Fair warning, though—don’t mess with my sense of justice; there’s some vicious monsters lurking in those depths, and when they come out, well, there be dragons.

Growing up, I had parents who loved me (and they still do). They taught me to be polite, to always give my best effort, and to treat other people the way I would want to be treated. They gave me the tools I needed to succeed in life even if I didn’t realize it at the time, and, really, what child does? I hated practicing the violin, but now I know that I have an ear for music because of that practice. I hated practicing soccer and baseball, but now I know that the only way to succeed is to put in the necessary hard work. I hated not being able to play video games all the time, but now I know that everything in moderation is the key to a happy, healthy life. I’ve made my own choices in that life, but the scaffolding and structure of those choices was made available to me by my parents, and for that I love them.

Growing up, I had a family that cared, and that’s all a child needs.

T
his is a brief list of things that annoy me. Scratch that—not annoy me;
infuriate
me. Teeth-clenching, sweat-inducing rage triggers. If you’re on this list, I HATE YOU and I hope you sit on a tack.

Hey, pickletits, you know what? I’m six feet five inches tall, and I ALREADY DON’T FIT IN THIS FLYING SARDINE TIN. When you oh-so-merrily tilt back to get an extra couple of inches of legroom for your five-foot-eight-inch frame, I want to strangle you with the strap of your Coach bag. I was already flossing with my kneecaps before you started invading my space, and it’s literally all I can do not to rip off the tray table and beat you savagely about the head and shoulders until you return to the upright position. I
know the seat’s uncomfortable, but you leaning it back won’t suddenly turn it into a recliner, and your blithe ignorance of human anatomy (as regards the length of tibiae and the bending of knee joints) makes Bad Thoughts percolate through my brain. Also, it crunches down my laptop screen, so I get the added bonus of dislocating my spine if I try to watch anything on it.

Don’t be a dick. Leave your seat alone and suffer through the flight like the rest of us, because I can guarantee you I’m going to kick the back of it like a hyperactive five-year-old until you figure things out (
kick
being a relative term, given my complete inability to move anything below the shoulders, so I’ll have to settle for a pointed knee jab as I fruitlessly try to find a more comfortable position).

You guys are assholes, plain and simple. Do you really think the rest of us are sitting bumper to bumper listening to shitty music while the sun broils us alive inside our cars because we enjoy it? No, we don’t enjoy it. In fact, it really sucks. We’re sitting here slowly contemplating a re-creation of
Falling Down
but not driving on the side of the road, because we learned this amazing concept in kindergarten called WAIT YOUR FUCKING TURN, YOU TROGLODYTE. We know there’s a merge up ahead. We saw the signs! Apparently, though, it’s too much to ask for any of you guys to follow the same goddamn rules of the road as everyone else, so we get to wait an extra twenty minutes while you scream past in your custom flame-decal F-350 with a three-foot lift as Nickelback
blares forth like an apocalyptic clarion call and then nudge your way in front of some terrified housewife who’s a shattered wreck for the next three days.

Every single time I see one of you syphilitic toads, I take great pleasure in pulling in front of you and then proceeding to travel at exactly two miles an hour. Keep laying on the horn—I might just let other people pass me so you get back from your power lunch even later! You’re a festering jizzstain and I hope your urethra gets invaded by poisonous spiders. Oh, and those truck nutz? Not as hilarious as you think they are.

Look, I get it. You’re a fan of some obscure indie-folk-funk-trailer rock-narwhal yodeler who records only through a Fisher-Price cat keyboard while applying fifteen different effects pedals at once. That’s great. I’m happy for you. Now I’d like to introduce you to this amazing new invention called PUT SOME HEADPHONES ON BEFORE I MURDER YOUR FACE WITH A HAM.

I don’t want to hear your crappy music! If I wanted to hear your crappy music, I’d go buy it and listen to it, and the fact that I haven’t should give you a very solid clue that I’m not interested in the soothing strains of Bespoke Dildonics. Do you really think your mad iTunes DJ skills are going to make a party suddenly appear (possibly with Bud Light and a bewildered Pitbull)? No! Stop polluting the air in a forty-five-meter radius because you just have to share the latest underground club hit from Lil’ Big Yolo, because if you don’t, I’m going to pull up some crap by Smashing
Pumpkins that sounds like a violin being run through Satan’s asshole and make us all miserable.

(Also, if your headphones are Beats by Dre, that shit doesn’t count. Those are useless for actually keeping noise contained in the ear canal. Seriously, there’re old-school boom boxes that are quieter.)