The Webcomic.

Otis looked blankly at the computer screen. Something was amiss. As the brightness of this page blinked into his eyes and his browser leisurely loaded the page, Otis could feel an awkward, almost disturbing sensation that pulsated across his body, tingling in his arms as it slithered down his back, a chill that can only be truly summarized with the feeling one gets sitting on Santa’s lap as he pats you on the shoulder in the mall after age twelve or something. You know, the kind of feeling one gets from true fear.

Otis was reading Megatokyo again.

dear_god.pngHe could not believe that he was still reading this comic strip. As Gallagher’s amateur pencil strokes stabbed at his tired, wearied eyes like a thousand graphite daggers and his body reeled against the horrible storylines and terrible anime fanart, Otis began to contemplate what he could do next. He could kill himself, thus making the world one mangatard less, and much happier to boot. Or he could blind himself with a sharp object, thus rendering his sad, pathetic obsessions moot.

But he did not.

He just… kept… reading.

The lamplight added shadow and light to the scene. As the sun set to the west, and as a light guitar solo played in the background, and as his mother slammed the door of their trailer as she went to get another beer, so did Otis read, munching on chips and salsa as he went, putting fire in his belly and slowly melting his mind on the senselessness of the webcomic. He could not quite comprehend what he was reading. He tried to look away, certain of his doom if he could not stop. He tried to fixate on some other thing, some wonderful, happy, magical thing that is not Megatokyo. Unicorns, or fairies, or Winnie the Pooh, or boobs. Nothing could work, particularly since the boobs gave him nightmares of visualizing the webcomic artist, Fred Gallagher’s, wife, naked, her sheer size and weight crushing his last childhoodseraphim.jpg fantasies of beauty and love. So did Winnie the Pooh, now that he thought about it. Also fairies and unicorns. He guessed that those kinds of things just did that to him. But especially Seraphim, or whatever the hell her real name was, after he found out that she didn’t look like she did in the comic. He had looked in horror at her when he realized that. You know how that goes.

He finally converged on thinking of geisha girls, and a soothing feeling rushed across him. There was just something about geisha girls. This wave of cool water cleaned the wounds of his mind, for just a brief moment, before he clicked for the next comic, and was thus rushed yet again into a world of pain and misery.

He could not handle the pure shittiness of the webcomic. It was beginning to infest his eyes and brain. He tried to read through “Piro’s” rantings at the end. It was even worse.

He knew what he had to do. He picked up the machete. He would have to do it.

He would have to KILL FRED GALLAGHER.

But then he thought, no, he couldn’t. He had been irrational. No, no, what was stopping him? After all, Gallagher was an architect–surely he deserved it! He flashed with rage, and threw the machete into the wall. He screamed with anger, burning inside while clutching his luigi_fireball.pngforehead in mental anguish, because he could not throw fireballs like Luigi could, going straight and true until they snaked into New York, setting Fred Gallagher’s computer on fire. His fire was on the inside. He realized what he had to do.

He boarded the plane for New York, knowing by instinct the path he had to take. He got off at JFK, boarding a taxi for a seedy low-rent hotel somewhere in Brooklyn, spending his time just as the Mario Brothers would have: In the plumbing.

alligator.png At that very moment, Fred Gallagher was using the restroom. As he was about to fish for a new comic from the toilet (where he always gets new material for his strips), and as he took some pocky off of his bathroom counter (because it is too far for him to walk to the kitchen to get food), he noticed something odd, and the water in the toilet began to bubble. He edged his face closer and closer to the bowl, until one of the infamous New York alligators, crimson with the flame of fireball, leapt from the fiery depths of the New York sewers and ate Fred Gallagher alive. And the alligator that Otis had trained to slink up that sewer, and which he had fed the pure New Mexico chile that gave a fire to its belly, was never seen again.

Wisdom Tooth Removal: As Painful As Pulling Teeth

On Sunday, we made our historic trek back from the mountains. Yet the worst was to come. We made our way to the Quarters, a local barbecue grill, as my last meal before evil was to come to my poor mouth. I ordered a shrimp sandwich with salad and the like.

I could not enjoy my sandwich.krystal_humor1.png

The next day, I awoke, knowing, deep down inside, that I had not gotten any sleep, and that something odd was about to happen, because as I awoke from my slight slumber I began to make little howling noises for no apparent reason. Evil was to befall me, and soon. I became entrapped in the hands of Fate, knowing that I had to have my wisdom teeth removed. It was not negotiable, because wisdom teeth, like anything pertaining to wisdom in our society, simply cause trouble. If we wanted “wisdom” in our society, we would buy a medium-sized regular Coke, instead of a Gut-Buster 52-ounce Diet Coke filled with carbonation and Nutra-Sweet.

Although, to be fair, those teeth were becoming little bastards, causing me undue pain and frustration. They had become the Juvenile Delinquent Youth of my mouth, putting peer pressure on my teeth, trying to get them to do crack and smack and marijuana. They regularly performed drive-by shootings in my mouth, causing tiny cavities to form in my poor teeth. And, worst of all, they created these little pink lumps at the back of my mouth that got in the way when I tried to eat. If God had wanted us to have pink lumps at the back of our mouths, He would not have invented dental surgeons to take our money.

So anyway, we went to the doctor. Like the Beverly Hillbillies, in our family, everybody (that means me, my grandmother, and my mother) travels everywhere together. It should, of course, be no surprise to anybody that we drive a Ford pickup truck, and the only thing that is even remotely foreign in our yard is a Ford Escape, which is actually a rebadged Mazda. So, on this trip, we all packed in and made our redneck way to the dental surgeon’s, which was owned by a man named Dr. Wheaton.

I was escorted to the back by a woman wearing a very cute lab coat, one with Snoopy on it. I think all dental surgeons should do this. It made me feel very calm, to the point that my blood pressure was only about 140 beats a minute as I wet myself going into the operatory.

Note: The only reason I know my heart rate at this point is because I could feel my heart beating in my chest. Also, I didn’t wet myself. That was only hyperbole. I think.

So, anyway, they strap my arms down, and put on all this equipment and electrodes and a mask on my nose, and I’m scared to death. I begin asking questions as they stick the IV in my arm.

“How are you?” the doctor asks.

“Fine, but… I thought I was supposed to be under general anesthesia”, I say. “So why am I still awake?

“Because we haven’t given you the anesthesia yet,” the doctor says.

So, anyway, in a couple minutes, I’m completely out. And whenever I come back through, we all pack back up into the car, and take me home, where I sleep for the rest of the day. Oh sure, I read webcomics a little later. But realistically, I didn’t play Dance Dance Revolution, and still have not, meaning that I’m pretty much wasting time. This is sad, but someday I’ll get back.

What I have been doing is surfing the Internet endlessly, as well as playing guitar and researching things I probably shouldn’t. Of course I have not prepared for college. There are more important things to do. Tomorrow, I’m going to get a new game for my Wii, and I’m going to eat some soft Chinese food, and I’m going to continue to not prepare for college, and I’m going to continue to research horrible things I shouldn’t be researching. Why? Because I’ve lost my wisdom teeth, which were what made me wise.

Although, to be fair, I did the exact same things before the surgery.

A Fishing Trip In New Mexico: From Hippies To Fish-Goths, A Look Back In Terror

This weekend was a magical one for me, although unfortunately not in a sexual manner. It was more the kind of weekend you get wherein you go up to the mountains, and make yourself one with the trees, and can’t sleep for even five minutes because your mother is in the same bed as you and is snoring at approximately the same decibel range as a jet airliner on takeoff, constantly making HONK Pssshhhhhh HONK pssshhhhhhhhhhhh HOOOOOOONK pssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh noises, over and over again, until you have to take the pillow, easing it closer and closer to her face until…

Um, wait. Sorry, I’m just on edge after the magical weekend I had. Let me explain. It began at the Village Inn, where we ate breakfast. I will not mention what happened in the bathroom, excepting that this one dude apparently got something that definitely did not agree with him, and his anal regions were making this fact quite clear to everybody in the restroom. I myself had trouble eating after hearing this exchange, to the point that it took me a full thirty minutes to eat everything that had been placed in front of me by our well-meaning waiter. This was the most entertaining portion of our trip.

Perfect for HippiesSo we drive up to the mountains, as my mother shows off her impressive mastery of the local terrain by saying she didn’t know that the “fry bread” place was as close to a town on the route as she had thought. Then, we went through Jemez Springs, a beautiful city right downriver from the main foresty part of the trip.

TRUE FACT: When we stayed at the “Giggling Star” Hotel in Jemez Springs, the guestbook had an entry that read “Rub-a-dub-dub, three women in a tub.” My mother is still frightened at this thought.

ANOTHER TRUE FACT: Right across the street from the “Giggling Star” hotel is a cafe called the “Laughing Lizard.” I am still frightened at this thought.A room from La Cueva Lodge.

Anyway, we stayed up at a nice little motel south of a big lake called La Cueva Lodge. It’s usually pretty nice, and I know that the “Bear” room has cute stuffed bears all over the place that I will never touch, because God alone knows what kind of evils could inhabit them, and it’s not like you can ask the people at the hotel whether any of the guests had plushophilia (assuming of course that you WANT to know). We stayed in “Bluejay”, although I don’t think it really matters. What does matter is that there’s a little river behind the lodge, where you can fish. It is of course separated from the lodge by a steep cliff, assuring the wise angler that there will be no old people with stories at the bottom.

I didn’t catch a fish until my mother and I drove out far beyond the fish hatcheries, beyond the survivalists, and beyond everything else that was not directly tree-related. There, I caught a fish within ten seconds. This was the dumbest fish in recorded human history. I mean, seriously, I was in fact using a worm, which generally guarantees a fish of some kind, but it was like this fish wanted to commit suicide, and I am not for a moment suggesting it wasn’t. I think it had probably lost its fish girlfriend, and was attempting to become a Goth fish by getting a fisherman to stick a hook in its side, the same way human Goths go to body piercing shops.

Goth Body Piercings are the Devil’s fishhooks.

Oh sure, other things happened involving extreme bodily functions and gaseous emissions, and I eventually realized it was time to go once I hit on the idea that fake wolf ears would make excellent places to stick fish hooks, assuming that one actually wanted to wear them, because they would blend into the surroundings. But I think that this trip can be summarized in the way we left the mountains: Quickly, with me trying to figure out how to draw a wolf for no apparent reason.

It was a magical trip.