absolutangel64

As much as I would love to, I can’t kick anyone’s ass. I just don’t have the requisite body type for it. I’m 5’6″ and 110 pounds of stuff other than muscle. I can’t do anything except maybe cut you with my clavicle. What’s even more depressing is that, despite being Asian, I can’t do any martial arts. I know it’s hard to believe, but I’m actually one of four Asians who were born with this genetic deficiency. To my credit, though, I try to hide it by carrying a bo stick around…even though it’s really a broom stick…with the broom still attached…but I call it the “Soul Sweeper”…hey, it’s got a name, and that makes it a weapon, okay?!

To make up for my lack of ass-beating talent, I learned to improvise at a young age by using the next best thing to physical combat: Mortal Kombat. That’s right, b*tch: I don’t need fisticuffs because I’ve got Fatalities.

Therefore, my way of calling people out was by inviting someone over to my house, pushing an SNES controller into their hands, uppercutting the sh*t out of their character for two rounds until I heard “finish him,” and then pulling a “Toasty!” After that, I’d usually say something cool like, “you got burned!” or “charred sphincter says what?” Too bad no one ever realized the message I was trying to send through Mortal Kombat—and why is that anyway? Hello! Fatality = I hate you. How much clearer can it be? Not much, but I nevertheless ended up having to explain why I didn’t like this person, and that I kicked their ass in Mortal Kombat because I was physically incapable of doing it in real life. Talk about super awkward silences…

I haven’t played Mortal Kombat since then, but it’s never far from my mind because there are a lot of stank c*nts in this world. And every time I meet a new one, I fantasize about opening up a can of Fatality and kicking their asses with it. I’ve even come up with my own Fatalities–Syltalities–because some people are just so incredibly stanky that getting chomped on by a dragon is not enough punishment.

For example, there is this girl at my school named Greasy–that’s not her real name, but I call her “Greasy” since that’s the constant condition of her skin. So not joking. There are volunteers in Hazmat suits following her around because they think she’s a victim of an oil spill. B*tch is greasy and zitty, and caked in so much pink makeup she looks like she cooked her face in a rotisserie oven. I’m grossly understating it, but there is only so much the English language can do.

Greasy’s grease face makes it hard for her to get dates–because if she gets too close to heat, she will burst into flames. However, the risk of getting severe burns isn’t necessarily a deal breaker: I’d still hit that if she had a hot body and a decent personality…but she doesn’t. She is flabby and a b*tch, so she’s not getting any lovin’ from me…or anyone else, for that matter.

That being said, you’d think she was accustomed to rejection–but she’s not. And thus, she screwed someone very dear to me out of an academic accolade (which everyone knows he deserved) simply because he didn’t reciprocate her advances when she tried to get on his nuts. Now, I don’t have a problem with revenge, but f*cking with someone’s law school career is totally unacceptable. I take that sh*t personally.

Seeing as how Greasy’s stank c*ntiness started because of her poor skin, I thought I’d help her out by giving her some Proactiv.

That’s right: those are Proactiv shanks!

Oh! And then there was an asshat who was tailing me on the freeway one night. I was going 80 mph, which was already pretty fast, and the lanes around me were clear so he could have switched into one and passed me. Instead, he followed my car so closely that I could barely see his headlights.

Now generally, when I see someone speeding unnecessarily I assume it’s because they really have to go to the bathroom–something I can definitely relate to. I was once in the middle of traffic when my bowels decided it was the perfect time for me to take a massive dump. It did not care that I was in my car or moving at snail speeds: the poop wanted freedom, and it was going to get it regardless of my inconvenience. I ended up going to a gas station–which I won’t describe, but let’s just say it would have been way more sanitary for me to crap my pants…and then roll around in them…and then eat a sandwich without washing my hands beforehand.

Anyway, the point of that flashback was that I usually don’t care when people are speeding. And I had initially given the guy tailing me the same benefit of the doubt–until he high beamed me. Oh hell no! Hell no! Did you just give me the car equivalent of a b*tch slap? I think you did, you stank c*nt, and now I don’t care what your reasons for speeding are. I’m kicking your ass anyway!

Eat sh*t and bricks, b*tch!