Well, well, well. Look who thought he could just wander over to my corner of the Internet, disagree with me for a total of three seconds, and flee into the night like some sort of feminine girl-woman in a dress. Well, sir, you just signed yourself up for a world of intellectual hurt. Attacking my honour isn't something I take lightly--and, yes, I threw an extra "u" into that word just to let you know how serious I am. As a real, true, man, I only have one way to settle this issue.
That's right. I've been powering up these logical brain lasers for hours now just to tear through your fallacies like so much tissue paper. Let me set the stage: my house, seven hours, a webcam, and you and me, duking it out with truth-fists. A jury of my choosing, made up of my peers. The loser gives $10,000 to whatever charity deals with the most tragic of cancers. Oh, what's that? You're too busy repainting the yellow streak down your back to pay for a child's chemotherapy? Well, during that kid's final days, when he's hanging out with one of the many actors who played Batman, I'll let him know he could have had enough time left to also meet Star-Lord if not for the absolute chicken-shit coward who dared to challenge my beliefs.
Wow, what's it like being so obsessed with me? I'm sorry, but that's the only conclusion I can come to, seeing as I was one of several hundred online interactions you made today. Buddy, I'm living rent-free inside of your head, and I'm starting to like it in here. I already put all kinds of holes in the drywall, and guess what, fucker? I'm not even going to fill them with toothpaste before I move out! And every night I climb out of your ear and stand on your neck and have a few smokes while I stare intently at the fixated stalker who's dedicated his life to my absolute downfall.
Or don't you have the balls? That's right, everyone knows the male testes contain the concentrated masculine essence needed to form pure logic energy. It's the reason I have abstained from all sexual contact--by choice, I assure you. Buddy, my logic lumps are swollen, painful, and ready to unleash sticky ropes of white-hot arguments all over you. When I'm ready to bust, you better stand back. Sometimes it only takes 20 seconds for me to finish, but I've been told that's completely normal for a man who's too busy owning fools like you to stand for more than five minutes a day.
And you know what the kicker is? How much I don't care about all of this. How much I'm actually laughing and not even mad at all. Online, even. Who even are you again? Because all I see is a pathetic manchild too afraid to say it to my face like all of those girlfriends who broke up with me via text or nothing. But they were clearly wrong, and so are you. I assure you I absolutely don't need this. My life is full and happy and I honestly don't have to spend hours asserting my dominance and supremacy over one of the several thousand people currently screaming at me on the Internet. Yet still, for your own sake, I must insist.
After years of being misunderstood, I had hoped we finally had "our" story. I was wrong.
He had a yellow inflatable tube around his waist, the kind with a comical duck head. There was a tiny fish in one of his hands, and a trident in the other. In the background a squirrel wearing shades was water skiing.
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