Here's what your generous donation gets you:
For the last four weeks, I have watched nearly every aspect of my life get savagely attacked, go rabid, then turn on and maul every other aspect of my life until my entire existence was naught but a mewling orgy of blood and foam. I am a portrait of a man in mid-implosion, and there is no sign of change on the horizon. I won't bore anybody with a complete retelling of all the things that have gone wrong, but the short version goes like this: OW OW WHY OW MY BALLS STOP FUCK FUCK AAHAGLL*
What I need the most right now is either a lot of money, or to step in front of a bus and secure a nice, cozy, semi-permanent coma. And since being a contractor in this society means you're a subhuman with no rights or credit, and these goddamn LA bus drivers have reflexes like the motherfucking flash, I can't seem to get either. Somebody heard my tale of woe and jokingly said I should hold a fundraiser, the implication being that I had too much dignity to actually do it.
Joke's on them!
Welcome to ...
Here's what your generous donation gets you:
One word and its dictionary definition, which, if dropped in casual conversation, will make you look extremely smart (in front of idiots) and also like a total asshole (in front of everybody).
1. Excessively or ingratiatingly flattering; oily
- he seemed anxious to please but not in an unctuous way
2. Having a greasy or soapy feel
-"Hey, Bill, your mom's titties were downright unctuous last night -- I like the way that Vaporub feels on my dick, man, but tell that bitch to tone it down, hey? My dong smelled like Norway this morning."
Your own exclusive portmanteau of swears.
I will meditate with you for one full minute on the complete destruction of an enemy of your choosing.
Example: Focusing on Melissa Withers, that bitch from Payroll who ate your salad right out of the fridge last Friday.
I will write your enemy's name on a notepad and leave it by my bedstand when I go to sleep that night. I promise to slip into slumber with hate in my heart, so that we might metaphysically join forces in the dreamworld, then team up on your foe and end them in the space between spaces.*
*Results are not guaranteed, but methodology has been proven feasibly sound by Dreamscape.
Example: None (... yet?)
I will write a unique and personalized haiku about your penis (or the penis of your choosing).*
*No vaginas (that would be weird. Don't make this weird.)
Standing proud and tall
Bend like a reed in the wind
Samuel Pressley's Dong
I will draw a crude sketch of you sucker-punching the historical figure of your choice.
Example: Eric Mattingly giving Sultan Abdulmecid wot's comin' to 'im.
I will write a short story (1000 words or less) about the time everybody laughed at you, then immediately paid for it with their lives.
Example: "Oh Tina Jeffries," said Melissa Withers, her mouth full of stolen salad, "maybe you should have put your name on it."
"I did put my name on it," Tina Jeffries replied, pointing to the black letters clearly visible on the top of the container.
"That's your handwriting?" Melissa Whithers laughed. "I thought somebody tripped an illiterate Parkinson's patient with a magic marker in their teeth and they fell into the fridge."
The room erupted in laughter.
Seconds later, it erupted in fire.
I will continue the aforementioned story, but it will now end with an excruciatingly graphic romantic interlude between the two of us.
Example: "Hey, sweet inferno," said the man with sandwich in his beard.
Tina Jeffries hadn't noticed him standing in the doorway when she transmuted her enemies' laughter into fire.
"I like the liberal application of hairspray," he added, then crossed the room in two confident strides, and pulled Tina Jeffries into his arms. As they kissed deeply, he lowered her onto the still smoldering ruins of the Payroll department. Finally, she broke the embrace and stared into his eyes.
"Ow," Tina Jeffries whispered sultrily, "these corpses are still really hot."
I will mail you a headshot of Richard Dean Anderson, in his crowning role as TV's MacGyver. On the reverse side, there will be a triangle drawn in my own blood, followed by a vaguely threatening biblical verse.*
*These will skyrocket in value when I inevitably sex-murder Richard Dean Anderson in some kind of pyramid. We all know I'm headed there.
You can claim every single one of my jokes as your own.* If their veracity is ever questioned, a phone call will be provided wherein I sheepishly admit that I have stolen everything from you, because you "are so funny and witty and look really good on a motorcycle."
*In a non-professional context only.
None. I can provide no genuine instance of this behavior, because I do not actually appreciate the humor and wit of others, and only respond to clever observations and quality writing with rage, seething jealousy and chair shots.
I will rename this column Robert Brockway: Word Puncher ... Presented by the Generous Donations and Quality Sexin' of [YOUR NAME].*
I will do whatever. Literally whatever you want. Turns out this is exactly how much my self-respect costs, and not a dollar more. You want to do the Santa Fe Sausage-roll? I'll do it, and I won't even cry. I'll look you right in the eye, the entire time.*
*A Santa Fe Sausage-roll, as far as I know it, is not an actual deviant act. But if you donate now, I'll invent something pretty fucked up for it to be, and then we'll do that a bunch of times until you're either bored of it, or the paramedics physically pry us apart.
You can buy Robert's book, Everything is Going to Kill Everybody: The Terrifyingly Real Ways the World Wants You Dead, or follow him on Twitter and Facebook. Or you could do him a favor and put him in touch with a morally lax bus driver with poor hand/eye coordination.
Be sure to check out more from Brockway in The 5 Current Genetic Experiments Most Likely to Destroy Humanity and A Typical Day at the Office, As Told Through Police Reports.
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