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Building Bad Karma With Interest by Ray Printer Friendly

I started a rant tonight, but it’s carrying on like you wouldn’t believe, about all kinds of dumb stuff that nobody cares about anyways, and I have to keep deleting and stuff. But I feel like I’ve left you all unsupervised for entirely too long, so I’m just putting in an appearance right quick, so that you’ll all remember about Big Daddy Alpha, leadin’ the pack and rockin’ your world. Was that a bit over the top, there? Sorry…I was listening to Van Halen. That happens sometimes, when I do that.

Anyways, so I felt like it had been a little too long since my last communication, and I didn’t want anyone to get sad or feel abandoned or whatever. I myself have all sorts of abandonment issues (I love to leave small children in the middle of public fountains—I don’t know, man, but there just isn’t much funnier in the entire world than a bawling kid in the middle of a water show), so I know how you feel.

Speaking of bawling kids: there’s this new toy called Robo-Raptor. It’s a remote control dinosaur, whatever. We opened one for display at work, and the thing sucks. I’m not kidding—almost nothing cool about it at all. You put batteries in it, you grab the remote, it does absolutely nothing that you want it to. You can’t even make it bite things, man. Why would you even want a robot dinosaur that doesn’t bite things?

I was all pumped at first, I was going to use it to attack customers.

“I bought this phone three years ago, and now it doesn’t work. I want to return it.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” I would tell the old guy that should have died eight years ago because he sucks and he’s all old and shit, but instead he’s still around, sucking and making the world a bitter place. “I can’t do returns after thirty days, just like it says all over the receipt, and all over the walls, and like it says on these mandatory tattoos they make all of us get on our foreheads. Just like it says on every single inch of space at this customer service counter.”

“I want to return this, and I’m not leaving until I get my money back.”

“Well, I didn’t want it to be like this,” I’ll tell him, as I reach for the remote control. “But you leave me no choice.”

“Listen here, son: you will give me my money back or I’ll take this to court and s-AUUGHHH! GET IT OFF MY THROAT! SOMEONE PLEASE HELP ME! IT HURTS SO BAD!”

“Yes sir, I understand that it hurts. That’s why I’m giggling like this. Bitch.”

Good times. And there would be a big wooden sign, all scary-looking with a message written in blood, “Be Ye Ware, Olde Myn. And Women.” And then under that, written in pen, because it’s too hard to write all this in blood, “You know what? Everybody. Old, young, men, women, whatever. Just leave me the hell alone or I will have you destroyed by my robot dinosaur. Don’t believe me? Then just keep walking, dead meat.”

But no.

Instead, the only thing it does is sort of stomp around, growling, blowing his nose, I don’t know for sure what the hell the thing is doing. The power button is right on his anus, though, so to turn it on, you have to push his asshole. How’s that for sick?

The only thing the Robo-Raptor is good for is making you feel like a pervert and scaring children. And I don’t need a hundred-dollar toy to do either of those things, if we’re being honest.

But it is sort of a nice break in monotony to see some kid just scared shitless, screaming and bawling, terrified of this thing that, incidentally, is sound activated. Like this:

The kid’s sitting there, being all pee-smelly and nose-runny and generally disgusting. The parent—usually the dad, but not always—says something like, “Look at that—what’s that? A dinosaur?” And then the parent starts messing with the remote, carelessly sitting the kid down on the counter, about two feet from the crappy robot dinosaur. That’s my cue.

I turn on the dinosaur (what I do is, I pick up the entire thing, one hand under the throat, one hand under the ass—that way I don’t look like I’m rubbing the robot dinosaur rectum right in front of the kid—and then I put it back down, right next to the soon-to-be-terrified child). It just stands there for a second, and then it roars. At this point, the kid starts shrieking.

Like I mentioned earlier, it’s sound-sensitive. What this means is, unless you turn it off, it mostly walks towards the noise from the numerous TVs, right off the counter, and then you have a hundred and twenty dollar pile of garbage sitting there, and a vein-popping manager asking you why you weren’t paying attention to it. But, if there’s a shrieking child to out-volume the hundred televisions in the store, this is a really cool feature for the robot dinosaur to have, because it’s suddenly lunging toward said shrieking child.

The shrieking child doesn’t like this. I generally don’t like having kids around, but listen: there is nothing more refreshing than the sound of a child screaming in terror. Really makes you feel alive. I’m not saying that I’m some sort of sick fiend that goes around doing awful things to children. But if their parents are stupid enough to scar them for life right on my front counter, I’m going to laugh. And laugh. And laugh.

And with that happy thought in mind, peace out, li’l homies. I’ll talk to ya’ll tomorrow when I’m feeling not so sadistic…unless I start watching Simpsons, in which case I’ll holla next weekend.


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