Yeah, it's me, the Mansquito, the guy previously known as Ray Eriksson until that asshole "doctor" injected me with the mutant mosquito DNA crap. That's right, THAT Mansquito. You might think this is some kind of funny ha-ha joke, but trust me, I get mistaken for all the other Mansquitoes all the time, like that asshole Mansquito from Beloit who took out a $190,000 loan on a house and then never paid the thing back because he flew off to Miami Beach to suck the blood out of his ex-wife and her new boyfriend. Also there's a Mansquito in Palma Alto who likes to buy rental cars and then just absolutely trash the interiors. Thanks guys, you're really helping out Mansquitoes everywhere! Next time I run into one of you deadbeats at a Mansquito Family Reunion, I'm going to slap the compound eyes off you with my semi-functional hand.
That's why I can't get a damn credit card from Providian bank. I keep filling in their credit card forms with my sinewy, claw-like appendage, and let me tell you ladies and gents, if you've never tried to file a credit application with a sinewy, claw-like appendage, you'll never know how incredibly difficult it is. I spend like 20, maybe 30 minutes, just trying to stab and hold the pen with that useless brown stump growing out of my back. Then, once I've finally figured out a way to tape a writing utensil to me or strap it on with complex system of levers and pulleys, I gotta start filling out all that information like my phone number and home address. Home address? Give me a break! I'm the Mansquito! I don't have a home address! I'm the Dark Knight, prowling throughout the sleepy Gotham city.
No wait, that's Batman I guess. Sometimes I think it would be funny to fill in the application's "address" box with the words "RIGHT BEHIND YOU, STICKING MY GIANT PROBOSCIS INTO YOUR NECK!" But then I never end up writing that because, really, I need a $2000 credit line to buy this Harley I've had my eye on for a few years now. Plus I don't know how to spell "proboscis" without a spellchecker.
A lot of people ask me why I bother sucking the blood out of folks because I'm the Mansquito and not the Femalesquito and I guess some egghead scientists somewhere made up a rule that only female mosquitoes are supposed to suck your blood or something. I don't care what the so-called "experts" think. First of all, nobody that I know of ever got a degree in Mansquitology. Sure there was that one geek from I think the University of Pennsylvania who spent a year studying a chunk of my balls that a deputy in Oak Hills shot off, just so he could come up with some brilliant anti-Mansquito toxin that would make me keel over and cough up slugs until I croak, but I iced that guy like a year ago.
Here I am reciting some poetry at the local coffeehouse. I hate poetry, but there are usually some hot chicks there and they got the sweetest blood, IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN! And I mean I drink their blood.
I remember it too, I was sitting up in this tree over what I thought was his house, then I saw him come out the door so I leaped out and jammed my blood sucker right into his back. Haha, I swear, I had to have been chugging that guy's blood for a good 20, maybe 30 seconds before he stopped thrashing around like an electrified fish and I finally had a chance to look at his face. Then I realize this dude's like half a foot shorter. And black. I guess I had the address wrong because I was draining some 80-year old retiree with a wife and two kids, and let me tell you, old folks' blood tastes like shit. It's like licking a corroded battery covered in expired mayonnaise. His kids weren't much better, but I saw one of them had a Fender Telecaster so I flew up into his room and laid down some wicked chords on that thing for a couple hours. I tried reading the Korn tabs he had laying around the place, but it's nearly impossible for me to differentiate between different notes anymore.
Now that kind of pissed me off because I got this serious vision problem and I can't see shit too good after I turned into the Mansquito. It's like I can see shapes normally, just how I could when I was human, but everything is colored bright red for some unknown reason. I mean literally everything is bright red, I can't see any colors besides that one, they all show up as red. It's like God dumped a bottle of Nyquil into my skull and told me from that day on my entire world would be inside a giant irritated anus crammed full of Hot Tamales.
I'm glad I don't own a lawn because I would have absolutely no ability to take care of it. I'd just wake up and look out the window and say, "oh look at that, my grass still seems to be a healthy shade of bright red, guess I don't need to buy that expensive bright red fertilizer from Home Depot." This whole red thing doesn't even made sense to me. I mean yeah, I get it, I love blood and that's red too. It's all so hilariously appropriate, I know, but I really don't understand the whole reasoning behind it. If I got injected by some super secret mystery formula that was made from the DNA of a giraffe who eats leaves and grass, would everything appear bright green to me? What evolutionary purpose could possibly be behind this? Ooh, better yet, if those creeps produced some kind of serum made from mosquito and giraffe DNA, would everything look like a Christmas display? "Merry Christmas Mansquitoraffe, now please suck the blood of this guy who's standing on a platform 12 feet above you which can only be reached by your long, elegant crane neck."
|This is how stuff normally shows up as, right?|
Well this is what I see. WOW, THANK YOU SO VERY MUCH POWERS OF MOSQUITOVISION.
Hows about you, me, and five uncomfortable minutes in my basement apartment next to the dusty Christmas tree that's still up from my last visit with my estranged children.
The Upper Kitchen Cabinet Where Your Roommate Keeps His Food: You’ll 'need the footstool' to reach your roommate’s 'fine selection' of 'stale cereal,' but he'll never notice if 'only a little is missing from each box.' Feel less guilty by reminding yourself that Jeff 'acts weird around your girlfriend,' and always 'asks about her.' What a 'creep.'
This ain't your daddy's globe...! .... or is it?!
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