Wealthy plutocrat #1: I say, Igby, did you get those finance reports I Fedsexed you?Wealthy plutocrat #2: Why, yes, I WHAAAAAAAT!?!?!
In the complex political microclimate of my college dorm hall, the other residents had officially elected me Sticker Guy. When new students arrived I would pretend to be a member of the college staff handing out complimentary "Fedsex" stickers, only to reveal a minute later that the stickers were $5 apiece and if they didn't pay up, my roommate, Ari, would beat them over the head with his power pole (that's college slang for when you get 5 guys to roll up an issue of Teen People until it's hard enough to crack skulls). I could appreciate the irony of the fact that I was in essence the modern day pimp-talking ancestor of the guy in civil war POW camps whose job it was to lure groups of new arrivals into an ambush/mass gang rape.
The first time I met Ari, he was reading an issue of Stuff Magazine. At first glance, he looked like a typical college student; his small, geometrically correct facial features a perfect summary of everything that passed for beauty in our society. It would have been fair to say that at that moment I hated him, but just as I was about to walk away, something incredible happened.
"Is that article about Alyson Hannigan? I have a poster of her in my room."
"I also have the backpack ad where she's wearing jogging pants. I love how she's always challenging our preconceived notions of what can be sexy."
"Alyson Hannigan is the thinking man's poster sex fantasy."
"Oh my God, she totally is."
"My name is Ari."
I said my name.
We had talked for hours. It was as though our minds and bodies had merged into one entity; one brilliant idea that's sheer power and audacity amazed us both.
The Donkey Kong machine argument. That was when I first realized something was missing from our relationship. To me, this classic arcade game was all about freedom, but Ari's sole focus seemed to lie on the princess and how he was "going to tap that big titty ho". The thought of Ari cheating on me with this 8-bit hussy sent me into a jealous rage whereupon I hit the machine with a fire extinguisher.
"When we talked to that deranged hobo in the park who looked kind of like Dr. Phil, you said you'd do anything to save our friendship." I said.
"I'm not going to kidnap the New England Patriots and take pictures of myself holding hands with them." Ari said.
"Why not? You know it's my fantasy to see you emotionally attached to other guys. Especially tough-but-sensitive athletic types."
"But that's so gay."
"No, you're thinking of gay sex."
"Will this really make you happy?"
"Yes. My happy demands that you do this."
So later that day we kidnapped the New England Patriots, including coach Bill Belichick. "I sure do like Patriots coach Bill Belichick." I said.
"I'm pretty sure I like him more." Ari said.
"I had a dream last night that it was my birthday party and Bill Belichick came and he was wearing strongman pants." I said.
"Really? What did he say?"
"Uh, I can't remember."
"You always can't remember."
We tied the Patriots to chairs but left one hand free so I could play Scrabble with them. "Sometimes it seems like you'd rather play Scrabble with the team than be with me." Ari said.
"Hey, look," I said "before we kidnapped the New England Patriots they were just a ragtag group of outcasts with nowhere to go. Now they have a shot at sweet, sweet victory and immortality; the national Scrabble finals. Sure, they may be a little rough around the edges, especially Tom Brady who you should probably torture some more, but inside each of them is the spirit and determination of a true champion."
The players were engaged in their usual lighthearted banter about the hotness of various celebrities when I interrupted with "Hey, you know how the AC/DC song "Big Balls" is about big balls but uses a bunch of double entendres to make the lyrics less offensive? Well, someone should write a song like that about banging the Olsen twins, because if there was a song about the Olsen twins that didn't make you feel like a total pedo for listening to it, I'd totally buy it." I raised my hands in preparation for the standard barrage of high-fives, but instead there was just an awkward silence while one of them mouthed the words "I think he's a hockey player. From Canada." Undaunted, I waited for the next pause in the conversation and said "You know who's a fat bitch? ...The Notorious B.I.G.'s mom!!" appending it a few seconds later with "AWW YEAH!!"
"Ah, Bill Belichick, sometimes it seems like you're the only person I can really talk to. I've been suffering from a massive anomie ever since I quit my job as a dirt bike riding beach cop. It seems like for every hour of reading femdom fiction online, I spend at least three thinking about how I could've written it better. Like one of the anime-themed story arcs in Penny Arcade, my life has gradually degenerated into a bizarre struggle to live in a world of self-indulgent escapist fantasies. Needless to say, I now have the utmost respect for Gabe and his artistic gift for stepping outside of one's own tragically ugly body and then totally Matrix-diving back in and making it morph into an anime representation of their nerdlike inner beauty. Yesterday a robot lobster tried to have sex with me in the bathroom, but anyway my question is about dating."
"Do you really think reading femdom fiction will silence the tortured cries of all the beachgoers you couldn't save?" Bill Belichick replied. "You claim to have achieved emotional maturity, but underneath that rough exterior I still see the naive daughter of a tennessee coal miner."
"You don't understand." I said. "I didn't tell Ari about the robot lobster. This is the first time I've ever felt the need to hide something from him."
"Look kid, when you first fall in love with someone it's a lot like scoring a touchdown in the big game; you feel invincible and on top of the world, but like all good things in life, that feeling is fleeting. The true test of a relationship is whether it can keep on going after the initial thrill is gone."
"Well, our relationship has survived its share of arguments. The dispute over the Donkey Kong machine for example. Now we have an unspoken agreement where I have no problem with Ari playing the game as long as it doesn't interfere with him feeding me, shaving the back of my neck, and making me feel like the luckiest man on earth. Well, actually if I was the luckiest man on earth my mom would be agreeing to have skin from her back grafted onto her abdomen to make a pouch for me to ride around in. I'm not an adult baby, but you don't have to be to know that would be the best thing ever."
The next day Ari was gone. There was a note written on the dry-erase board next to my bed:
After spending many hours searching the fertile egg sack of my mind, I have decided that this is the best way to say goodbye. In the past few months I have done things; committed unspeakable acts that I will never be able to explain, not even to your warm, radiant face with its beautiful smile that looks like the gateway to a boundless landscape of possibilities. I leave you the joy of discovering new worlds, the limitless potential of love, and my collection of hip-hop magazines.
Before letting them go, I implanted the Patriots with my embryos. Soon my offspring would join the underground hive and the uprising would begin.
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