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Enough About More Stuff by Ray Printer Friendly

I used to live in the same apartment as Trey, in case you didn’t know. He used to wander out into my room, sometimes sober, other times not so sober, and he would start up a conversation. You could tell he was sober when he started telling you nightmares. The nightmares he told usually started out something like, “You know—the weird thing isn’t that some people die young. The real mystery is that we all don’t.”

And then he would generally bust into a rant kind of like his last post—except for back in the old days, he didn’t generally expose so many of my secrets at one time. Yeah, buddy—you rag on my aluminum foil, but they haven’t gotten to me yet, now, have they? And I’ve told you—the raw meat in the hair is just a precaution. It’s not like I have to do it. I could stop at any time. I could.

Anyways, that guy can tell a hell of a bedtime story—it’s like he’s got a hard-drive full of horrifying events, statistics, and ways to die up in his head, and he can pull up any of them at will, depending on how bad he wants you to wet the bed that particular night. We won’t be discussing any of those, other than to say that none of the stories were make-believe.

I don’t know how many of you hung on to the end of his post, but if you made it all the way through, you were probably like me in thinking, “Sonuvabitch! You unload a garbage truck full of creepy on me and you can’t even take the time to find a naked picture of Jolie? Ass!” Also, I thought the picture of Brad Pitt should have been from 12 Monkeys.

Because monkeys are awesome.

But that’s just me. Anyways, I don’t like talking about shit like that, so I’m not going to. Except let me say that I’m not really surprised that they want to take over the world, and I hope they’re ready to fight Dr. Doom for it. That dude was always talking about taking over the world. He didn’t even do it Amway-style though, with some bitch-ass seven-step program. Doom was ready to rock, yo. “Ah, to hell with it—I’ve got wrist-blasters, and I’m brilliant. What else could I possible need in order to take over the world?”

This is old-school Doom we’re talking about, by the way—not anything from the movie or whatever. But enough about Dr. Doom.

I just got no steam tonight. I gear up to write about something, two seconds later I realize I’m playing with my magnetic Spider-Man action figure keychain thing.

What if you woke up one morning, and there was a complete instruction book to build a robot? But the thing is, the robot would be almost exactly like a real human—emotions, hunger, stuff like that. So you would have a robot, but it would act just like a kid, only it would be a billion times smarter than you. Man, that would suck.

Even my daydreams are sucking at this point. Because in my head, I’m thinking how much it would rule to build a robot, and then I’m like, “Yeah, but I wouldn’t be able to get him laser gun hands or anything because all my money would go towards feeding it and keeping it maintained. And then, when the robot turned into a rebellious teenager, it would build a ton more of itself and take over the world.” And I’d get killed. Even if they weren’t killing humans, I would get killed, you know I would. Because I’m a dick. It would be like, “Don’t fight me, father—we can live in peace.”

I’d be all, “Eff that. Go make me some pancakes.”

“See, this is why I moved out! You’re always bossing me around, you don’t understand me! I hate you! I wish I had never been built!”

Meanwhile, I’m all dumping saltwater on his super-tough metal exterior, and dumping rotten turkey bacon into his air vent sensors.

Anyways, enough about robots. Can you believe I just said that? What bullshit. I must be exhausted! My train of thought is covered in peanut butter and cancerous sores.

I’m outta here like some sort of wicked demon that just can’t be caught.


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