Epic Friendship: Melting Hogzilla Heart

Damn! Shouldn’t have signed onto my blog.  Moments later, the bobbies were all over me like mud on a pig – only this pig had tusks, like a boar, a bristling razorback, like the swine, and a near total immunity to small arms fire, like the Hogzilla boss in Cabela’s Dangerous Hunts 2.  Let me clarify that I am the pig in this analogy – kind of a superpig.  The cops are the mud.  Now, I know that the cop: pig analogy is the typical aspersion, but if you’d spent two hours trying to beat Hogzilla on your PS2, you would understand my heightened admiration for the genus.

Still, somehow those damn coppers knew what my next move would be. They’ve been on my (curly) tail nonstop ever since I busted out of the joint… I just can’t figure out how….

It’s exhausting, all the running – constant adrenaline, frequent danger, occasional naps – your only companions the sound of gunfire and the touch of bloody gauze… oh, and of course my friend Stooly, the guy I escaped from prison with. I don’t know where I’d be without Stooly. He’s such a nice guy, always right there whenever the law catches up with me, always making phone calls to his mom after we escape to let her know we’re okay and where we’ll be staying, always calling his mom “Sir” and asking “will there be anything else?” Such a respectful young man.

Oh, Stooly says hi. Yeah, plus he wants me to list a few of my most exploitable weaknesses along with a recent photo or sketch of myself. Oh Stooly! He’s just got some of the worst ideas. Aw, but he knows I can’t bear to see him pout. Fine, here’s a pretty accurate image:

I could use a haircut.

You might accuse Stooly of being a burden to a fugitive, the way he uses traceable credit cards at stores and leaps around in front of security cameras, how he runs towards the cops yelling stuff like “this wasn’t part of the deal” and “I can’t stand another minute with this psycho,” that time he accidentally stabbed me when he clearly meant to stab the guy behind me. I used to think that, too. But now I understand he’s just another product of this mixed-up world, incapable of surviving without a hero like me looking out for him. Sure, sometimes I have to track him down when he tries to escape, but it’s for his own good. The poor guy’s got a neck so frail my kid sister could kick it in.

Anyway, we’ve been on the lamb together for over a year now. Stooly says it’s been the most hellish year of his life, but he’ll say anything to get a laugh. It’s been bliss. Manly, totally hetero bliss. I have the whole Rambo series on my iTouch, it’s first gen, so we have to share earbuds, but I believe it’s vital to Stooly’s survival that we watch them together every night. Someday he’ll thank me.

It’s nice to finally have a minute to update my blog without constant—

Sonuvabitch! Here they come again. Look, it’s been too long since I last blogged so I’m going to finish this post while fighting these guys off. Deal? Hopefully my wi-fi doesn’t cut out.

So I (punch clean through two dudes) really think that if I can (catch a bullet with my eyelids) make Stooly into a (boss guy with a really big gun in one hand and a sword in the other) more capable person, then the whole world will (dodge Hogzilla sized ammo while blogging and blocking with my titanium-backed laptop) be a little less hopeless. In fact, I’ll personally (take a sword stroke to my massively muscled neck) invest a lot more of myself into (getting a hail of bullets to the chest) reforming these billions of (gallons of blood spilling out) wussies if I find out (he thinks I’m done for, which makes him sloppy) that they could all be completely (unaware of the scything kick aimed squarely at his you-know-what) awesome like my best friend (Stooly tries to get away but I trip him).

Here’s (me, nodding over the fallen approvingly) hoping.

Epic Arrested: Don’t Fuck With Liberty

I haven’t updated my blog recently because I’ve been in prison. Now I know what you’re thinking: don’t they have internet access in the clink? Of course, but you only get an hour per day on good behavior. It’s a nightmare.

Sure they have magazines, conjugal trailers, and all the weights you can lift. Sure there’s the constant excitement of gang violence and rape (or is it the other way around?). Sure it’s the first time I’ve lived rent free with three square meals and full medical coverage since childhood. But come on, one hour of internet? And the server’s so slow you barely have time to watch Future Weapons highlights and a few porn clips, and bam! Game over.

Plus, who’s on good behavior in the crossbar hotel? Isn’t our lack thereof what gets us imprisoned in the first place? Let’s face it, you take one look at me — 5 foot 6, wiry like a weasel, pale as silk — I might as well have trouble tattooed on my forehead. Then it gets around the jail-yard that I’m the guy who took out Mecha Godzilla and suddenly everybody wants a piece.

That’s how this whole thing started, really. Remember how I tore out Mecha’s heart and had it recycled — pretty cool finisher by the way, you should learn it — well, the thing is, I was kind of drunk off rage and blood loss… and alcohol after the fight and I accidentally mistook the Statue of Liberty’s head for Chumpzilla’s heart. They’re both big, metal, and covered in spikes, how was I supposed to know?

The story goes they found me in a coma with the old lady’s giant head sitting outside my apartment covered in my blood and fingerprints. Kind of hard to alibi your way out of that one. No sooner had I snapped out of my coma than they were slapping the cuffs on me. I only had time for one epic blog entry then that mystery nerd started gaying things up again. One of these days I’ll make him pay for using my blog to express his feelings…

First thing’s first, though. I had to get out of statesville. Don’t get me wrong, I’m going to miss Yoga Thursday, and I was actually starting to put some money away with their work program, but without my digital life I felt like only half a man. Nobody ever tells you about the dark side of prison… you just have to live it for yourself.

So I kicked prison’s proverbial neck — in this case being the actual neck of a nearby prison guard — grabbed some keys, took a few measly bullet wounds, and made good on my escape. Then, like every man fresh out of the cooler, I followed temptation and got inside the nearest, nastiest internet café I could find.

Epic Interrupted: My Bitch of a Coma

Man, that was one bitch of a coma! Looks like some loser was littering my blog with girly poems about how hard it is to masturbate when you’re crying all the time. Think that’s hard? Try giving yourself a hand when you’re two weeks into a coma. I don’t know how he got my Epic password but I assume it involved his nerdenheimer skills and a lot of one handed typing.

Wherever you are kid, one more pussy-ass post like that and I’m going to go around kicking some nerd neck until I track you down, then I’ll kick yours extra hard with my surface-to-neck nerd kicking boots. They’re some kind of hide; I don’t even know what, probably bear. I got them on sale in the meat-packing distract. Whatever.

So I got this coma, couldn’t even believe it, hit me like a ton of poisoned axes, or like a rockslide, but the rocks were grenades. Now I know you hear about comas all the time, but this was really a bitch of one, like a double coma at least. It was a hard battle to win because my eyes were closed and I couldn’t see who to fight, but fight I did.

They say I struck three nurses and whacked off half a dozen times, at which point they didn’t think I was in a coma anymore. Turns out they were right. I don’t know if comas have necks, but if they do then I kicked my coma’s neck in.

How I did it: my Coma Request Form. If you haven’t filled one out you’d better do it soon, otherwise, if you hit a rough spot and go coma, they’ll just let you lie there. Me, I had them dress me up in my best pair of wind pants, my sickest Cougars hoodie (Go Cougars!), and, of course, my nerd kicking boots. The way I figure, a coma’s the worst kind of nerd, it sits around all day not fighting or doing chicks—probably thinking about video games—so I knew my boots would be a big help.

Also, I requested that they constantly play a copy of the motivational CD I made for myself. It was the sound of that voice, I think, that finally pulled me through.

The Epic Begins: Mecha Chumpzilla

There are no weight classes in the Toughest Living Creature Competition. That’s Mecha Godzilla’s first problem. His second problem, the main one really, is that on March 30, 1984, 8 lbs. 7 oz. of fury came into this world, bawling for oily robot-monster blood. Sure, I never got that big, but every inch of me was designed to kick that fire-breathing kaiju’s metal throat in.

You see, ever since Mecha took the TLCC, people in my circle have debated whether or not he’s considered “living,” and if he should really keep the title. Unfortunately, the organization’s first tenant, “Winners are always right,” as well as their second tenant, “If there are two winners, both of them are right, but the tougher one is more right,” have allowed Mecha to maintain his dominance over the league for decades.

Until today… I fought him, just now, at midnight, and I have just enough time, vital fluid, and unbroken fingers left to finish this blog before my next battle: with this bitch of a coma I feel coming on.

If you didn’t hear us fighting I’m surprised. Your delicate psyches probably just told you it was traffic or something because you couldn’t conceive of how epic our battle was. The dude smacked me with the Statue of Liberty, which would have been fine, except I wasn’t looking. After that I pretty much let him have it.

Let’s just say that that Tin Man will need more than an oil can to get him started again. Nor will he have an easy time finding his heart, because I tore it out, made it into a car, drove it home, and then stuck it in a big blue bag by the curb…

Tomorrow’s recycling.

So in a month or so, when you’re having your can of Coca-Cola or PBR, give it a tilt in remembrance of Mecha: you might just be sipping out of his heart.