New experiences can leave you stronger, wiser and occasionally worrying about how easily you bruise. The last of which was the case when my niece sucker punched me rather recently.

I suppose I can’t say it was entirely unexpected as 90% of women I’ve ever had contact with have thrown something large at me while smiling a smile fit for a DVD-only Jerry Springer episode…..but you’ll forgive me if I find myself a little confused by the whole ordeal…..

The ordeal isn’t the sucker punch (which admittedly was by a 10 month old who probably confuses my hair with porridge) but rather the “Being an Uncle” aspect, how I’m supposed to do Unclythings in Unclyways and how I’m expected to have automatically overcome the fear of children I’ve possessed since I was one.

Added to the merry-go-round of oddness is that I was declared her Godfather. As an aspiring failure at life I find that to be a little bit of a daunting quasi-responsibility….or at least I did until I also discovered that his girlfriend (yay for modern society being too hip and cool for marriage but not unplanned childbirth!) declared her merriment of siblings to be godfathers and godmothers as well.

I should establish that contrary to what many of you were thinking, being a godfather isn’t anything like the movie. There are no horses, fancy suits or old men that sound like their testicles produce industrial grade helium. There IS an awful lot of financial extortion though, so that’s kind of a plus……until you realise which end of it you sit on of course.

One thing that concerns me over and above everything else would have to be what I’m going to get her to call me. Her current choice is what I can only assume is the Klingon word for anal suppositories but I’m looking for something a little more…….defined. I’m leaning towards “Uncle ReallybigpenismissIswear” (for when I take her out and do EXACTLY what her father made me do in order to potentially attract female suitors) but might also settle for “Uncle Thatsmyspecialplace” as a sort of eternal getoutofbabysitting-free card.

P.S.

Taro has complained I haven’t been making fun of enough Japanese things lately and so I’d like to apologise for this the only way I know how: Via a potentially insincere (and italiced!) PS message at the bottom of an entry.

P.P.S.

I found and monochromeulated THIS photo of me and (the severely over-mentioned) Sir Penistuck rather recently. The best part about the photo is that It makes me feel like a superhero who’s only power is looking like he’s taking a shit.

I once dated a girl who would put make-up ON ME before we went out. Thinking back I probably should’ve taken that as a sign that she was a lesbian and not waited until I was forced to……. watch Bjork concert dvds, wear only pyjamas around her house (which led to futile arguments with the parents – who accused me of being a cocaine addict at one point – that the bulge peeking out was me in my non-aroused state) and eventually even draw her sleeping with assorted female celebrities.

Of course things have never really been “normal” according to my ghost of relationships past. The first creature that could have the misfortune of being called my girlfriend would disappear for 6 month periods at a time and then accuse me of being a figment of her imagination. The second only went out with me because she was desperately trying to convince herself I was Kurt Kobain reborn and not the guy who storms out furiously when the bartender refuses his order of a strawberry milkshake.

Revelations (aka “oh so subtle bitching”) about my past aside, I recently had an encounter that couldn’t be considered more off topic if I’d left it out of the fridge for several months (yes yes that joke was horrendous but I’d only be truly concerned if anyone actually caught it).

Sir Penistuck, warrior of waste-line wax, recently found his way down from his aquatic lair to pay me yet another visit….which is particularly troubling when your mother asks which friend is over and you tell her “It’s that one who hides his willy like a girl all the time” and she says “Oh Penistuck! I’ll make sure to knock before coming in then” while giving a very VERY haunting wink.

After a brief stint around the house of him trying to seduce my grandmother I did make the poor decision to actually travel outside of my incontinence-cave (which is the new word hardcore kids are using for bedroom) and visit a “pub” with him, his sister and her best friend.

What might appear obvious to any seasoned readers is that obstacles found it delightful to present themselves as the evening ran its merry little course…….though quite honestly the most traumatic of the lot was probably when the waiter began claiming they only served milkshakes to “kiddies”…..following with me assuring him that if he looked inside my pants he wouldn’t argue my youth (at which point I died a little inside) and might even consider giving me a pity discount.

Needless to say as shocking as that was it only narrowly beat out the period in which PT began rubbing his nipples and licking the air in my direction. My response was a very polite bout of sobbing while deciding to sit backwards for the next hour or so.

Finally as if to serve somewhat like arsenic icing on my carcinogen cake, his sister initiated some sort of modern neighbourhood-wide mating call by means of rapping along with the radio the entire journey back.

P.S.

On a positive note it appears my actual personage is in mildly higher desire in the lands PT and Mobp hail from…..on the not quite so positive side though……that desire seems to take THIS rather alarming shape.

About once a month my parents tell me I’m adopted, and was found in either a gutter, oozing egg or bowl filled with salad dressing……realising the falsities each time I yell at them for giving me hope that my “bringapetrathome andnameitmummydearest” phase wasn’t just a fleeting childhood dream.

In other news it appears my attempts at Vulcan mind melding with the single pair of panties I possess have been less successful than desired. The story behind said panties, and how they came into my possession eons ago, is far too boring I’m afraid (filled with witches, gunfights and lots of me crying into a microphone while playing internet backgammon) and so I won’t bother destroying your hopes for valid entertainment by going into it…………I shall instead cover something far more risky………or I dare I even say………nefarious…….

Go ahead and look that word up if you need to, I almost did myself but decided words are more fun when you don’t really know what they mean but think they look pretty in a sentence.

*ahem* Now as for our topic upon this entry, it is something I have dared never consider………something I fear more than cotton wool (I shit you not that I am deathly afraid of the stuff…..and t-tissues) and being forced to watch reality television COMBINED!

Recently……..I attempted…………cooking.

*crows muck about in the air to set some sort of negative vibe thing*

BUT FEAR NOT! Still strong is my desire to be mortally terrified of anything that snaps, crackles or pops on its own (which is why I take weekly visits to the supermarket to stab Rice Krispies boxes) and such my steps have been minor indeed.

For years now I had simply mastered the art of “stickingfrozencrapintheoven” and waiting until the smoke alarm went off to signal readyness (they’re really convenient like that you know) but recently…….recently I’ve taken to the unparalleled skill known only as pan frying.

Yes……I truly have reached frying age…….at last I am no slave to others in the house making my meals as unhealthy and fattening as possible……….NAY! FOR NOW I CAN POISON MYSELF LIKE A MAN! Finally I might reach the American levels of obesity I admire so!

This brings us to another odd little – mostly unrelated – (but sticking to a topic is too dreadfully dreadful) point regarding me that I’ve touched on briefly lately. My voice.

As those of you who stayed awake till the end of the last entry no doubt know, my accent is rather indefinable. The reason for this is *probably* my early acting background combined with my minor hobby of purposely warping my voice to match others while I was but a fledgling in the dung pile.

The reason isn’t important though, so really you wasted your time reading that last paragraph.

Making my readers hate me ASSide, what is important is that everyone I meet says 2 things to me. The first of which is usually “You’re full of shit you know that right?” but the second, THE SECOND SLIGHTLY LESS INSULTIVE AND DEPRESSING THING they say is “Where are you from?”.

Now this presents a mild dilemma. I’ve been accused of being Irish, Scottish, British, American and even had one elderly gentleman swear I was from his home VILLAGE in the mountains (perhaps it was the boobtube and stage name “Agatha” I was rolling with at the time) but sadly these are way off base and the reality of me not being one of the village people (self-destructive subtle sexual orientation attack!) is always rather depressing for the questioner to bare.

Considering I don’t like seeing their sad faces, and that cutting off their faces is a far too messy solution, I ask YOU my loyal readers and readettes……………..What should I say in response? What is a barely known but believable pile of bullshit-butter I can spread upon their question toast?

I am mostly Belgian in blood but having never even visited my supposed homeland and not speaking ANY of its clusterfark of languages leaves me a bit weary of stating that……and then being questioned as to why my knowledge of Flemish and French ends before it even begins would certainly awkwardify things more than even I can handle.

SO GO FORTH AND COMMENTULATE! Of course the majority of you haven’t actually heard my voice (Because I’m not douchetastic enough to pretend people on the internets want a sound clip of me saying random garbage……..let alone pretend it wouldn’t be god awfully embarrassing) but what I am asking for isn’t voice judgement, it’s ethnic deception!

I wish for a believable lie that will make their littler hearts flutter and then bugger off thinking I’m not just some strange bastard who warped his own voice to the point of no return.

P.S.

The last entry sucked only because it lacked a PS section…..or at least that’s what I’m going to keep telling myself.

I’ve often wondered why each and every time I’m brave (read as: clinically retarded) enough to leave the confines of my room to venture unto this confusing little realm we call “reality” I find myself not only bat shit terrified, but also surrounded by enough unfortunate events to actually justify my paranoia.

The particular adventure I’ll retell this time around would be the first centering around the genetic misdemeanour of a friend (he regrows teeth……….for reals yo) I have known only as “Yashad”. Of course this being me I can’t POSSIBLY call him by his ACTUAL name the entire entry (as that simply wouldn’t be appropriate) so we’ll call him Y-tama. Admittingly that’s a little dirty of me but considering my initial idea was Y-chinko…..I think those few of you who know what those suffixes mean might forgive me.

I won’t go into too many details about how we know each other but as a brief I’ll simply say we met in Grade 10, coincidently took almost every class together, became rather close nit friends and even had one point whereby I chaperoned an important date of his while I…..well…..while I was wearing a dress….

SOME THINGS DON’T NEED TO BE EXPLAINED.

*ahem*

R-Regardless, we’ve kept in touch and while I decided to study network engineering and train my art skills (albeit what little of them are not imaginary) solo, he decided to follow the path of a graphic designer and thus in his 4th and final year of study he invited me to “attend” an exhibition at his university.

The reason I use the word “attend” so loosely is because little did I know before hand that…….I was going to be part of the artwork itself.

He gently eased in the surprise, in fact he folded it compactly in between a ramble about how he’d found some girl at varsity that would love my manly bits and not run away screaming (and perhaps my reply of “How big is her penis?” wasn’t entirely appropriate when I remember that his MOTHER was in the car with us at the time)…..but I would not be fooled! I STARED HIM DOWN AND DOWN AND EVEN FURTHER DOWN AND then I sort of squinted for a bit because the windows were open and the wind was getting in my eyes…..B-BUT THEN I FINALLY GOT THE TRUTH OUT OF HIM I DID!

Our objective revolved around his creation known as “Felicity” (which I accidentally named a few nights before during one of his “SAY A RANDOM WORD!”-Phonecalls) and the idea of dressing “her” up. Essentially we had to grab attendees (which wasn’t hard because 2 hours before me and Y-tama went around sticking his posters….on top of everyone else’s posters), ask them to choose a unconventional shape from the floor (which me, Y-tama and his clinically insane but altogether rather friendly brother made before hand) and pick a spot for us to tape it up on the sculpture.

The biggest flaw in this plan was probably that Y-tama felt it right that we don’t let the actual viewers tape things themselves. From a practical stand point the 3 of us desperately fighting over the ladder, tape and actual moving room didn’t work out really well but the real kicker was having to tell the excited little artlites that they couldn’t do it themselves and watch their faces droop much akin to a 40-something woman’s chest.

Time went by as the unyielding bastard it is and so we found ourselves at would could only be considered the end of the event. This “end” however was some sort of pseudo new usage of the word as Y-tama’s female photographer friend “Z” (who Yash has a bulge in his manties for) spent the next hour taking photographs of his piece from every angle possible.

Finally……she was done…..finally I could begin the journey back to my lair…….finally I could touch myself inappropriately while watching Full House reruns………BUT NAY! REALITY WAS FAR CRUELLER THAN I EVER IMAGINED! Not only were we detoured into a brief stint into what was vaguely considered a “vip lounge” but after even escaping those confines we found ourselves needing to jump start a neighbouring vehicle!

I use “we” vaguely of course as my knowledge with cars is comparable to a 3 year old’s knowledge of whether shitting on the walls is a good or a bad thing.

Turns out it took me a little longer than 3 years to learn that lesson myself…..but moving ever so onwards for the sake of whatever is supposedly left of my pride…..

Eventually we found ourselves homeward bound and a surprising addition to our crew was Y’s female friend, although what wasn’t surprising is after questioning me on my origins (every person does this as I have an indefinable accent)  she started battering me with insults, insults I may or may not have deflected when I politely questioned if her Greek heritage was somehow related to that moustache peeping out from under her nose……pleasantly she found complete silence for the next hour a rather appropriate response.

That said even though I’m sure I met someone who’ll be sharpening cutlery in my direction, even though I was exhausted by the whole affair and even though I wrote an entry people should deserve a medal (or at least a spray painted coupon) for actually wading through, I do still think it was a worthwhile endeavour.

[EDIT] Cap’n Yashpants has requested I spam the masses with his Youtube channel. Little does he realise my “masses” are about 5 people, 4 of which probably have downs syndrome. [/EDITness]

Ah the noble geek. Copper-clad and wielding a sense of reality where every action can be explained by either a dice roll or lag. Once a year the force wills such creatures to commune, to unite, to share thousands of dollars of illegal content per second while mixing in the odd insult about each other’s mothers/sexual orientation…………and this force can only be called “rAge”.

Of course I myself, being a geek of the oddest calibre, am not outside of this pack….and thus every year I find myself drawn to the event much like a moth to a giant moth orgy of moth sex (admitting though that at rage there are no women whose names do not end in avi or jpg). However this year’s tale begins a little differently…..it begins…..THE NIGHT BEFORE.

The night before rage was spent having a frienddate with my (ex)-girlfriend (she seems to get a tad upset when I capitalize the EX bit so now I’ll now make up for it by even bracketing that ex) that involved the usual string of me confessing to her 15 times in one evening, being rejected 15 times in one evening, hiding behind the couch crying and amazing her with my ability to suck at even the most common of tasks.

By the end of the evening (when my suck meter had maxed) I did however receive MINIMAL FEMALE CONTACT! This……was just a hug….and probably one out of pity/duty but my sexual harassing nature caused it to last for an entire 10 minutes……10 GLORIOUS MINUTES OF….well yes yes you all get the picture.

Now we’ll actually get to the “How is this relevant to Rage?” bit: It isn’t.

Not technically at least but I will admit that the lingering smell of MINIMAL FEMALE CONTACT that I admirably refused to wash from my body did give me some pretty spiteful looks from my comrades the next day……which might explain why fate caused a rather large degree of disasters to befall me.

*murky flashback effect possibly done with baking soda and prescription anti-depressants*

As usual carrying my equipment proved to be the first hurdle. I’m always told of these elusive “Trolley boys” who will aid one in their carrying endeavours for just a six pence and loaf of bread (forgive the lame attempt to sound like an early era British chimney sweep) but as usual they weren’t exactly making their presence known. While investigating their den I DID find a broken metal trolley that a security guard insisted I use when I tried showing him cleavage (I believe his words were muffled by the vomit sounds protruding from his mouth but I got the gist of things)…..and although this worked out fairly well (aside from it levitating halfway in the air every few meters and losing more parts in the process) during the last 1 meter of travel our mysterious helpers actually appeared…..prompting me to give them financial compensation out of undue guilt.

The second hurdle occurred when my the top skin of my toes decided they didn’t really like my sandals anymore and promptly cut themselves. On the positive end I earned back everyone’s respect when I made some toilet paper plasters for them.

Sticking with our bathroom theme we have our third hurdle. Before rage I sat here and in one of the brief moments that I wasn’t masturbating thinking about the previous evening (she actually reads this stuff so……….I suppose shouldn’t be surprised by my failures when I say things like this) I thought to myself “You know……I think I might be constipated at some point in the near future and all that pushing certainly can’t be good for my piles” which then led me to take something clearly mislabelled as a “stool softener”.

Long story short I spent most of rage in the bathroom……..whiiiiiich probably wouldn’t have been so bad if all the toilets didn’t flood leading to re-enactment of Noah’s ark except with somewhat more poo than animals.

Then there was an overly enthusiastic lad who recognised me while I had clearly forgotten his identity….however I used my niceguy-fu to dish out the usual “It’s been a long time! How’ve you been?” rubbish until 7 hours later (OF HIM TALKING) I had some vague understanding of how we were supposed to know each other.

The last of all my challenges was that D-chan and Derick (who attends/hosts most of the lans and that gloriously painful paintball session I had) had decided that this venue would be perfect for them to engage in what could only be termed intergalactic gastric warfare. This meant that even my brief moments outside of the loo still contained the foulest smells you’d find within.

P.S.

Since it lost the poll but still had quite a bit of support I decided to start posting up anime write-ups (not really reviews or summaries – think of them as “thoughts”) in the anime section (under misc for the less “explorative” of you) of the site. This should flesh out the site a little more over time and give you all another thing to pretend you care about. (Also note that updates to that section are random and won’t be announced)

P.P.S.

I actually did that pose at least 20 times before drawing it properly. The worst part is I enjoyed it.