Wednesday, November 4, 2009

Something I Call Personality

It’s November 4th. I wake to a text message on my phone. “ZOMG! Check your email.” It’s B, and he has, for some as of yet unknown reason, decided to stir me from my near-perfect state of hibernation. I roll out of my queen size bed for one, complete my obligatory morning fish, and fire up my 3-year-old-yet-still-better-than-your-PC Apple laptop, the familiar power-on chime warming my still-frozen senses. The email blinks in my inbox. Although the always-faithful protocol of Air Force email servers has removed the attachment, I still understand the intent of the message. All I need to see is one web address:

You see, a while back – it will be 4 months tomorrow, to be exact – B and I undertook a marvelous, albeit immensely disgusting, feat of human food consumption. We each took a 12 inch cheese steak from Jim’s (Whiz with, naturally), slapped her vertically on a 14 inch slice of pizza from Lorenzo & Sons, folded it in half, and with jaws unhinged, ingested our creations with the force and awe that you would only see during feeding time in the reptile house at the Philadelphia Zoo. Now, B has already told this story in the inaugural entry of this web log, and my only purpose of re-telling it is to point out that from this story rose the idea to document our misadventures and share them with the world, for the low-low price of $1.99 per month.

For a few weeks now, B has been trying to have his blog published by the people who produce Tucker Max’s website. Only recently did he learn that Amazon also offers this service, and on this glorious first Wednesday in November of 2009, the life tellings of one, now two, red-blooded Americans are available for your reading pleasure. The current followers, and those who have been brought here by the undeniable magnitude of my awesomeness, will notice that we will not share any real names in our stories. If you are so lucky to be mentioned in the pages of this on-going account, consider yourself lucky, but be forewarned that at some point, you are probably going to do something that will warrant you getting made fun of, and that your moniker in the tale will almost undoubtedly be tied to a very obvious shortcoming. If you don’t like it, tough bananas. Either a) don’t show your ass when I’m around, or 2) go back to perusing the headlines on, because you are most likely an out-of-touch-with-reality liberal douche. I know it’s probably not fair of me to lump everything into these two possibilities and leave no room for debate, but too bad. I’m a veteran, and I will do as I please.

For those readers who aren’t fortunate enough to know B and I in real life, we are quite the dynamic duo, playing off each other’s strengths and praying on each other’s weaknesses. I’ve gladly accepted his offer to co-author this blog. Rest assured that if it happens, and one of us isn’t ripping on it, the other will be there to pick up the slack. Neither of us having the tendency to bite his tongue, he and I are about to unleash a series of narrative editorials the likes of which have never been seen before. As Samuel Jackson so famously says in Jurassic Park, “hold on to your butts.”

I am Fluffy, I am here, and I am a horse. No, a centaur.


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