Barbara and Jack: A Tail of Two Assassins January 15, 2010Posted by Who? in Funny.
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Barbara and Jack: A Tail of Two Assassins
The year was 1991. Bush is in the White House, Reagan was creating international turmoil with the Iran Contra affair and Jefferson was single footedly running this country into the ground…
A monkey walks into a bar in Detroit on a snowy winter day. (Isn’t that how all tragic love stories start?)
The bartender says “Hey, there is a monkey cover charge of $5 and we don’t validate.” The monkey, being a monkey and all, just continues making his way towards the bar. Why should he care? Monkeys can’t even drive. He, the monkey, is dressed in the finest bright blue polyester tuxedo monkey money can buy. He whistles an eerie tune as he saunters defiantly from the door to the bar. He swings his cane lazily. The other patrons scattered around the room look on with intrigue and jealousy. They couldn’t put their finger on it, but something juuuuuust wasn’t right about this tuxedo wearing monkey. A mystery indeed…
Suddenly and without warning, he, the monkey, performs a dazzling spinning jump kick and launches his monkey person on to a bar stool next to said bar and proceeds to suspiciously order a scotch on the rocks. “Scotch…dramatic pause as he spins around and looks at the room…on the rocks,” he says to the bartender because that is what he wants to drink and that’s what it says he ordered in the previous sentence. PAY ATTENTION! The bartender, shocked at this brazen display of monkey disrespect, slams his hammy fist onto the bar and says “Listen up Chimp,” he says, “we don’t” he says “serve” he says,” your kind here.”, he said all that. The air is thick with smoke, tension and molecules. So thick in fact one could cut it with a knife…if one so happen to have a portable molecular knife. HA! You idiot, there’s no such thing. Anyways, Monkey, he goes by Barbara, gasps in shock and awe at this brazen display of bartender disrespect but remembers his training and calms himself by repeating ancient haiku poetry in his head.
Monkey, monkey up in the sky.
Monkey, monkey finish your tuna on rye.
Monkey, monkey focus your shit and smoke this guy.
Monkeys don’t like poetry you might say and it might sound something like this. “Monkeys don’t like poetry.” you would say confusedly to yourself out loud but silently under your breath under a chair. And to that I would say, nay. Nay sir indeed. Monkeys love poetry, they hate interpretive dance.
And then, in a blinding flash of fabulousness, a single parade float VROOOOMS!! by the front window doing like 94 in a 15 and the driver is yelling something about “no taxation without retardation” while a Spice Girls track blares over the vehicles PA system. “So tell me what you want what you really really want. I’ll tell you what I want what you really really want. (high kick) I wanna I wanna I wanna what I really want. (sexy head snap) If you want my future, better forget my past. (Spin and arm flare showing generous boobage) If you wanna get with me, better make it fast. Now don’t go wastin my precious time. Get your act together and we can be just fine. (suggestive hip thrust (ask Harry to show you w/ his walker (Ugh Ugh Ugh))) (is that the right amount of parenthesis? Its so hard to remember order of operations, PEMDAS.) (Algebra joke: check).
The monkey doesn’t even know what the driver meant by that. Lost in thought, he ponders to his monkey self. Taxation? Retardation? Speeding parade float but no parade in the dead of winter in Detroit? Not even his blazer sharp assassin-mind could derive any meaning. Suddenly, he shoots the bartender a stupendous look of love, confusion and bean burrito. He is a master assassin, surprised you didn’t know that, not even an out of control parade float doing almost a Benjamin down main street with the tight beats hittin hard can distract him from his objective.
“My name…dramatic monkey pause as he looks around the room again… is Barbara A. Monkey. I’m here…for my tuba lesson, new Jack.” Jack is the bartender’s name but he is not really new. He is more of an old Jack. Stupid monkey. Old Jack is caught off guard by this brazen display of secret information revelation and freezes for a split millisecond. Jack always knew that his day would come; a man can’t run from his history forever. He never enjoyed his work, but he was good at it and besides monkeys are overpopulated in this region. They’re decimating the grub worm population!
New, but actually old, Jack, quickly remembered his counter-monkey-assassin training and regained his composure. But, this was not this monkey-assassins first rodeo and Barbara saw the fear in new/old Jack’s eyes. Hoping to not tip his cards, Jack quickly but carefully pulled his tuba from under his navy blue petticoat and proceeded to engage in a jolly rendition of “When the Saints Go Marching In”. I fucking hate that song.
His only chance for survival was to dance his face off…and he knew it. It was game time. Jack was hopping around like an A.D.D. frog stuck in one of those sticky mouse traps with his lederhosen flapping in the wind. Tuba-afuckin-blarin! (Ugh Ugh Ugh!) Just as Jack is losing himself in the music, Barbara pulls an oversized Battle Axe (think BattleToads for NES) (Author’s note: are there any normal sized battle axes cuz I kind of feel like they are all oversized. Know what I’m saying? I feel like that is one of the weapon’s strong points…mental domination brought on by its lack of proportion. You have to win mentally before you can win physically. Anyways, I digress) So he pulls the oversized/relatively normal sized Battle Axe from his monkey trousers and raises it high into the air. He braces his monkey lungs for a mighty battle cry…but it never came…
Just as Barbara began to bring the axe down, something tugged on her monkey heart strings and she hesitated for a monkey moment. (shake your head in disgust at this flagrant violation of assassin protocol. Pffft. I’m disgusted.)
You see, Barbara was at one time in her life a man. That’s right, she was a he/she. A transgendered chimpanzee-assassin named Barbara A. Monkey. All his/her life all Barbara had ever wanted was an overweight, tuba playing bartender from Detroit to love him/her. And now his/her job had placed him right in front of him/her. All these years of ruthless killing for monkey money and Chinese take out for 1 could end right now. Could it be true…after all these years…was this love?
Barbara was lost in her thoughts. Not that Lost you idiot. Lost like this. Her assassin instincts have taken a backseat to her infatuation with Jack’s sick tuba skills. She notices his thick sausage fingers (that’s hot) masterfully manipulating the tuba buttons (is that what they are called? I don’t even know.). She shudders as her surgically altered man/lady parts get in on the action. YAHTZEE! A monkey in lust. All thoughts of her murderous task at hand were gone. His/her ballgina was in the driver’s seat now and they just bought a one way ticket to Funky Town. He/she didn’t know it yet, but this would cost him/her his/her monkey life. Unlike cats, monkeys only have one life to live. Again, surprised you didn’t know that. She was truly up a creek without a paddle.
While Barb was lost in her tranny lust, Jack snapped to. (C’mon…just click it. Don’t be scared. Did you click it? GOTCHA! You’re a pervert.) He pooped his pants, but only for a second, as his eyes took in the medeival weapon about to be dropped upon his person. This was his chance to end this once and for all. But first he had to finish the song. Jack was a little OCD and would have a fucking melt down if he didn’t finish it. Luckily for him, Barbara was pervin out something fierce and all like “Oh yah, do me do me.”
He picked up the Tempo and brought it home. The last note seemed to hang in the air like a really bad fart. Just sitting there and lingering. Five minutes went by and it was still there…hovering…lounging…
THEN in a blinding FLASH, Jack raised the instrument high above his head and brought it down with great vengeance and fury. SLOW MOTION SHOT. FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCKKKKK YOUUUUUUUU MONNNNNKKKEEYYYYYYY RAWWWWWRRRRRRR!!!!!! A blur of blue polyester and monkey brains splashed about and richocheted off the jukebox. Barbara was dead. The coroner would later offically record the cause of death as smooshed by a tuba.
The deadly instrument came to rest on the floor. Jack had painted his masterpiece. The final chapter in a long and storied career as the worlds most notorious monkey assasin. Stories would be written about him (See: this email).
He breathed deeply. It was finished. He stepped over the smooshed monkey-assassin lifeless body and headed for the door. He needed to beat feet before the 5-0 showed u and started asking a bunch of irrelevant questions like “Does anyone know where I can buy a blue monkey tux?” or “Who manufactured the tuba?”. Jack was a professional. He didn’t have time for stupid questions.
Jack adjusted his top hat and pulled his petticoat tight as he opened the door. The cold winter air rushed in the door. As he stepped through the door, Jack stopped and reached into his inside pocket because inside pockets are badass and Jack is straight old-school BA. He pulled a tobacco pipe out, placed it in his mouth and lit the delicious fodder contained within. He turned his head slightly, one foot out the door and spoke quietly over his shoulder.
” I told you”…dramatic pause…”we don’t serve your kind here.”
He shook out the match and disappeared into thin air like the smoke from his pipe.
Quotes October 28, 2009Posted by Who? in History, Life, Philosophy, religion, Science.
Tags: good quotes, History, Life, Philosophy
‘There is frequently more to be learned from the unexpected questions of a child than the discourses of men, who talk in a road, according to the notions they have borrowed and the prejudices of their education.’
‘You can tell whether a man is clever by his answers. You can tell whether a man is wise by his questions.’
‘To raise new questions, new possibilities, to regard old problems from a new angle, requires creative imagination and marks real advance in science.’
‘Millions saw the apple fall, but Newton was the one who asked why.’
I’m still trying to wrap my head around this next one-
‘Man’s “progress” is but a gradual discovery that his questions have no meaning.’
Florida cops lose 2-gram bag of cocaine… October 23, 2009Posted by Who? in Funny, News, the condition our condition is in.
Tags: cops lie, floride cops lose cocaine, you've got to be shitting me
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By Associated Press
The veteran pair checked out the kit to train their police dogs, but the one who usually handles the drugs was called to a scene. (Couple holes here- if they were in a rental car at a hotel, they were probably off-duty. Off-duty cops don’t get called to scenes unless they are part of a special unit. Again, call me crazy, but shouldn’t both officers be fully capable of watching the agile bag of inanimate white substance.) By the time she returned, the dogs were energetic and destroying the room. (Energetic? So are they implying that the dogs ate the cocaine? They are seriously trying to play this off with “my dog ate my homework”?)
The officers said they were focusing more on straightening up the hotel room than collecting the drugs, so the bag probably got left. (The cops got flustered because the room was torn up and as a result completely forgot about 2 grams of powpow? Isn’t staying poised and collected under pressure part of what cops are supposed to be above-average at?)
They weren’t reprimanded — supervisors say it was an honest mistake. (Really? That’s it? Ok then. Good enough for me…as long as they both promised they were telling the truth.)
Captions October 5, 2009Posted by Who? in Funny, Random.
Tags: Michael Jackson, Michael Jackson's book
The Condition Our Condition Is In #1 October 5, 2009Posted by Who? in the condition our condition is in.
Tags: american, fat guy screaming, fat guy screams for mcdonald's chicken, Funny, Humor, McDonalds, State of the Union, the condition our condition is in, what it means to be american
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Fat guy screams for McDonald’s Chicken. Update: I don’t know why I capitalized chicken.
The caption pretty much says it all.
Retards, Hookers and Society September 30, 2009Posted by Who? in News, Politics, religion.
Tags: hookers, Lakewood, News, prostitution
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There have been a lot of stories in the news lately re: prostitution – Everett coffee stand bust, Lakewood coffee stand bust, etc. The latest out of Lakewood troubles me though. Seems that the girls are sharing trade secrets and playing a crafty entrapment card; ie “If you’re not a cop, touch my tra-la-la. Article here.
And here is the troubling part, the Assistant PoChi is asking the Council for a new ordinance that would allow officers to arrest/cite women for prostitution/soliciting sex for asking that question. This is a problem. Generally it is not a sound policy to arrest, cite and try a citizen/hooker for a crime that they have not committed. As much as it may be a prereq, the statement above is not soliciting sex for money.
One of my professors used to say that “hard cases make bad law” and this is a perfect example. Should we keep pretending that arresting women for prostitution works? Or should we reevaluate our strategy?
Furthermore…we need to back this train way back up…do we want cops requesting changes to laws? In theory, citizens elect representatives to make those kinds of decisions for them. Cops proposing laws is backwards. They take an oath to uphold the law not to influence or create the law. Now that I think about it, this issue is just as big, if not bigger, than the prostitution element.
I wonder if people will ever figure these kinds of issues out. Prosti, weed, assisted-suicide…We should have the right to regulated choices as long as they don’t hurt other people.
You know what is really retarded about the current approach towards prostitution? It creates a downward spiral and ultimately promotes it. When a woman gets charged with or convicted of prostitution, that shows up on her record. If she wanted to try to change her life and get a 9-5 job, she has to explain that. Think about how hard it would be for a woman in that socio-economic position to overcome the shame and then explain that in an interview – I think there is a movie with Charlize Theron that plays out that scenario. The current model pushes them to society’s margin where drugs, pimps, crime and violence reign supreme and hold them prisoner. Citing women for prostitution does nothing to fix the underlying problem.
Legalize. Regulate. Tax.
I’m tired of ranting about retardation.
Update 10/7/09- The City Council passed the change with a 6-0 vote and acknowledged that they are in “uncharted territory”. The article includes more of the details (they need circumstantial evidence as well) which is good but I’m still not sure how I feel about this.
Random Quotes September 22, 2009Posted by Who? in 1356.
Tags: Ignorance, Mark Twain quotes, stupidity
Anyway, no drug, not even alcohol, causes the fundamental ills of society. If we’re looking for the source of our troubles, we shouldn’t test people for drugs, we should test them for stupidity, ignorance, greed and love of power. ~P.J. O’Rourke
Before we work on artificial intelligence why don’t we do something about natural stupidity? ~Steve Polyak
Only two things are infinite, the universe and human stupidity, and I’m not sure about the former. ~Albert Einstein
It is impossible to defeat an ignorant man in argument. ~William G. McAdoo
The trouble ain’t that there is too many fools, but that the lightning ain’t distributed right. ~Mark Twain
And my all time favorite-
The trouble with the world is that the stupid are cocksure and the intelligent are full of doubt. ~Bertrand Russell
IDMS – Part Trois September 16, 2009Posted by Who? in 1356.
A 40-year-old white dude didn’t like the answer he got when a Kapowsin bartender refused to serve him more alcohol. How this guy made it to 40 is a wonder in itself.
As he walked out of the Kapowsin Tavern on Saturday, he pulled a loaded gun and pointed it at the bartender. A witness threw a pool ball, hitting the man right in the back of the head. Yes really.
In addition to a splitting headache, the man now faces a bevy of charges including one count of second-degree assault, one count of damaging private property (he chipped the pool ball with his skull) and one count of being a fucking idiot. Kevin J. Valentine was charged Tuesday.
An employee at Kapowsin Tavern told Pierce County sheriff’s deputies she refused to serve Valentine more alcohol because he was already drunk and didn’t say please. Valentine got upset and proceeded to act out a scene from Tombstone.
“He threw a glass into a cooler located behind the bar and fell off his stool,” charging documents state. The defendant’s attorney has a different story. “This is all a misunderstanding. My client was simply helping the bar staff clean up. He gently lofted his glass over the bar and then was tripped up by the poorly maintained seating device. Whether or not my client may have had anything to drink that night is not really important. The bottom line is that I’m a liar, my client was tanked and we’ll beat this on a technicality.”
Valentine had started to walk out but stopped at the door, his good sense getting the better of him, and pulled a gun from his waistband which he then pointed at the employee.
A witness told deputies he saw Valentine pull the gun and then clocked him with the 12 ball. The witness preferred not to give his name to The News Tribune but said it rhymed with Mrandy Bhronson. “It was getting pretty late and we had some people playing darts with no one covering the juke box.” Bhronson said, “The bartender called for help but I don’t really know that pitch so I shook it off and went for the junk. Batters really have a hard time seeing that pitch, especially when they’re not looking.”
When deputies arrived, Valentine was lying on the ground in front of the bar, bleeding. Like a bitch.
“Defendant claimed he had been shot in the head,” charging documents state. “He was slurring his words, reeked of alcohol and had very red watery eyes. He was obviously intoxicated.”
“Erroneous! Erroneous on all counts! My client, a dedicated family man and IAM union representative, has a speech impediment, wears Jack Daniels for cologne because the ladies love it AND has horrible allergies. These all clearly explain what officers so racistly interpretted as “being” “intoxicated”. What does “being” “intoxicated” really mean anyways? I think the real question here is, who shot my client in the head.”
New Term: Buffalo Catcher September 15, 2009Posted by Who? in 1356.
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Gather round, for I have created a new term. It is the latest term created by yours truly. You may or may not recall- PAFR or people are fucking retarded (rhymes with laugher (yes I’m aware that laugher is not a word(and yes I’m aware of that it might not make sense to use a non-existent word as a frame of reference))). The new, and wildly improved, addition is buffalo catcher. As in “what a buffalo catcher”.
It is an American Indian term that stretches back to the earliest times and is strangely tied to the long lasting success of their culture and society. The story of its origins goes something like this…
Once upon a time in an undiscovered land far, far away… Well it wasn’t actually that far and it was already occupied, but that is neither here nor there. (Back in ’97 near Sumner Tapps Hwy just doesn’t have the same ring…)
The people of this land lived in relative peace and in harmony with nature- Eden, Shangri-la, Heaven on Earth. A veritable utopia filled with bountiful cornucopias, if I might be so bold. A good life indeud- food aplenty, no traffic, no shitty reality tv and…no (EDIT). Life was gooooo-ooood (said like Cousin Eddy from Christmas Vacation circa 1981.)
These “primitive” people flourished and thrived in a land that “only the bravest of pioneers could survive in”. But wait a tick young Billy might protest, how could they be pioneers if they just moved into an area that Native Americans had occupied for many moons(that means long ass time)? Doesn’t that make them more like over-active squatters? Thieves? Trespassers?
But little Billy needs to shut up because winners write history and we gave them casinos and let em fish with nets so shits kosher. Anyways, back to the story. Twas 1997, and like 126 days before Christmas, when Lewis and Clark first set out to cross “the Lake Tapps”- they came upon a tribe hunting buffalo just outside Sumner in the strangest of ways.
This region was once home to an egregiously large buffalo herd; the only remaining remnants of which are the two buffalo housed in their native habitat where the old putt putt place used to be by the pawn shop. Lewis and C-dizzle, as his friends called him, were amazed by the Indians and their society. They watched in awe as the entire tribe participated in the buffalo hunt. These two crackers had never witnessed the hunting technique being employed by the wild savages. Lewis was all like ” I do say old chap, this technique is strange and erotic. Shiver me timbers.” And Clark texted him back on myspace and was all like “ur a fag ttyl”.
Lewis, being the ever inquisitive bastard he was, approached the chief and asked him, “How it worked”. This worked to Lewis’s benefit as he unknowingly greeted the mighty chief with the traditional Indian greeting.
The gregarious chief proceeded to explain their gentle and subtle hunting technique. Members of the tribe would spread out and form a half circle around the herd. Then, upon a wild shriek from the hunt leader, everyone would begin making a greate (historically accurate spelling) and terrible sound while charging the herd and lighting fires. The half circle formation funneled the herd towards a cliff and,ultimately… (pause for effect) their death (organ music from Casio 8915 Electronic Keyboard- overspent and had to trim the budget). They walked to the edge of the cliff and spied upon the floor 1,000 feet below.
Lewis got scared, cuz he’s a fag, and Clark was like “jesus christ!”. And the chief laughed and was like ” Who?”
The chief continued, “Yah shitz (he said it with a z) pretty cool to watch a buffalo drop from a thousand foot cliff”. He lol’d.
The herd was fast approaching.
Just as Lewis stepped back from the precipice he stopped- was that a person running around at the bottom with something on his right hand. He strained to listen and swore he heard “I’m ready der da der”.
“Chief! Chief! There’s someone down there.” Lewis exclaimed with a lisp.
“Calm down fancy pants. (His pants were quite fancy and this was a compliment at the time) I know. He is supposed to be there.”
“What!? What do you mean? We’ve got to stop the herd.”
“How do you propose to do that Einstein? Just chillax, it is his time to fulfill his purpose.”
“I don’t understand.”
“He is a ri-tard. Like Rainman.”
“What? Are you high?”
“Yes. You’ve never seen Rainman? Movie with Cruise and Hoffman. I have the Laser Disc back at my teepee if you want to borrow it.” He turned, eager to display his vast wealth contained in his movie collection.
Dozens of buffalo hurdled over the cliff. Amongst the raucous and carnage, Lewis swore he heard again “I got it der da der! YEAY!!” just before the deadly rain of buffalo poured down. The rest of the herd diverted and headed along the cliff and headed for the Old Country Buffet (herd is now fat people). All that could be seen was a pile of dead buffalo and a baseball glove sticking out. (Author note: I realize that a baseball glove might be hard to distinguish from 1,000 feet above, but I’m driving this choo-choo train so just go with it or get out of the kitchen.)
Lewis dropped to the ground, wept and shouted at the Chief. “Why?” Clark was confused but more than that, he disappointed by his flaming friend, “Dude, seriously? I thought we said no crying”. But Clark knew with a name like Merriweather, you had to expect shit like this.
The Chief sighed and explained. “Your people, The White Bread, are always trying to deny the truths of Mother Earth. Stupid people will eff your society’s sauce and must be dealt with. If ya know what I’m say-innnnn” Twisting his torso and arms while raising his left knee for emphasis on the last word.
Clark knew, but Lewis wasn’t listening. He sobbed and sang “Like a Candle in the Wind!” while playing an imaginary piano in the dirt.
Clark thought this was harsh but he slowly began to understand the method behind the madness.
The chief went on “Pimpin aint easy but someones got to crack a few eggs if you don’t want idiots fucking up society.”
Clark wanted to point out that the chief was mixing a couple saying that didn’t really fit. He quickly decided against it as he noticed the Chief’s intense, gel-free mohawk and battle hardened tomahawk on his belt next to his beeper. Some things never change and you just don’t correct a man sporting the “double-hawk” (couture in ’97) And besides he knew what the Chief was getting at.
Merriweather Francis Lewis wailed as he brought home the chorus and focused more now on the saxophone (still imaginary), “”YA CANDLE BURNED OUT LONG AGO (sniffle sob sniffle) (much quieter now) but your legend nevva wi-hillllllll”.
The Chief looked and at Lewis and shot a glance to Clark like “Is he serious?”. Clark rolled his eyes, shook his head dismissively and flopped his wrist out towards the Chief.
The Chief nodded. He motioned over the cliff with his thumb and raised his eyebrow as if to say “want to give him a push?”.
“I’m just Frank’n you, Clark.” (Historical note: Indians didn’t have anyone named Josh yet.) This again seemed confused but Clark didn’t say anything (see above: double-hawk rule).
Clark peered over the edge again. The bloody baseball glove seemed to stand out even though it was almost the same color. It was brutal, but like the Chief had said, pimping truly was not handled with ease.
“I see what you’re saying Chief.”
“When in Rome.” Clark confused, but again, double-hawk.
“Let’s go smoke some grass and sacrifice some virgins,” the Chief suggested. Clark thought this was a dumb ass idea, not the grass part, but again, I really can’t stress this enough, double hawk.
As they walked back to the village, Clark asked “what’s with the guy wearing a baseball glove?”
The Chief chuckled as he picked at his teeth, “You know how retards love baseball. Buffy was all ‘tard in that regard. Hey! That rhymed.” Chief was proud of his sick flow but Clark didn’t seem impressed. Lewis is way the fuck back there and not really a part of the story anymore so it’s not really important if he heard or not.
“Buffy? Like from that shitty show on WB?”
“WB? No, who the fuck watches channel 22? It was his nickname. Everybody called him that.”
“No shit? Same channel for you guys too? Small world. Clark paused, then said, “What was his name?”
The Chief replied, “He comes from a long line of his kind” Trying the rhyme thing again but this time wasn’t as good and Clark gave him no props. He continued…
“His name was Buffalo Catcher.”
Immature Decision-Making Skills Part Deux September 15, 2009Posted by Who? in 1356.
BALTIMORE (AP) — A Johns Hopkins University student armed with a samurai sword, no seriously, killed a suspected burglar in a garage behind his off-campus home early Tuesday, hours after someone broke in and stole electronics.
Some shocked neighbors said they heard bloodcurdling screams in an area just blocks from the university. Police held the student, a junior chemistry major who turns 21 on Sunday, for several hours causing the amateur ninja to miss his Dungeons and Dragons clan meeting. He was not charged with any crimes Tuesday, but he was uber-pissed about missing “Clan”.
Around 1:20 a.m., the student heard noises behind the home and noticed a door to the garage was open, Guglielmi said. He grabbed the sword, mounted up (see below) and confronted the intruder — identified by police as Donald D. Rice, 49, an upstanding citizen and noted logician who had just been released from jail.
Rice was crouching beneath a counter trying to blend in (?), police said. The student asked him what he was doing and threatened to call police while basking in the full glory of his samurai ensemble including a black wig complete with a ravishing top knot, flowing robe and some faggy Asian sandals with white socks. I know, right.
”When he said that, the suspect lunged at him, kind of forced the kid against the wall, and went all Tom Cruise and slashed that fool” Guglielmi said.
Rice’s left hand was nearly severed — Guglielmi described it as ”flopping around and shit” — and he suffered a severe cut to the abdomen, chest, thorax and dome. He died at the scene. There is some speculation that the cause of death may have actually been shock from getting beat down with a god damn sword in the year of our Lord 2000 and fucking 9.
On Monday, two marbles, a used Chia Pet and a Sega Dreamcast were stolen from the student’s home, which he shares with three other students, but police were not sure whether Rice was responsible, Guglielmi said.
Guglielmi did not know why the student kept a sword, but whole heartedly commended the geek and is thinking about running for mayor on the “an ancient weapon in every pot” platform.
Rice’s criminal history includes more than two dozen arrests for burglary, breaking and entering, attending a Clay Aiken concert and rabbit theft. According to court records, he was charged in 2007 after he pulled a gun on a police officer, though prosecutors placed those charges on hold because the officer started it.
Rice was convicted in 2008 of unauthorized removal of property (is that like stealing?) and sentenced to 18 months. He was released Saturday from the Baltimore County Detention Center. Proof positive that the modern penal system does promote rehabilitation.
Michael Hughes, 43, said he was getting ready for a good Dutch Rudder when he heard the screams.
”There was fear in the voice. I could tell someone was scared,” Hughes said. “He was all like ‘I’m gonna cut you sucka! Is that a fucking samurai sword? No! Shit! Fuck! Gurgle gurgle…”
”You take kids who are paying borrowing $50,000 a year (in tuition, beer money and STD screenings fees) and then put them out in a very dangerous city environment, it’s almost like a clash of civilizations,” he said. Hence, a fucking Katana.
Susan Boswell, the dean of student life at Hopkins, said in a statement that she was ”relieved to report that the student was not harmed,” but she also advised other students to follow the swordsman’s example.
”If you ever suspect that there is a prowler in your residence or on your property, call 911 only after you run out of your house swinging your sword blindly in the dark,” Boswell said. ”Experts advise that you confront the intruder, while yelling straight bat-shit crazy so as to confuse your would-be-attackers-come-victims. Popo’s can’t prevent your shit from getting messed up; they just show up later and push paper.”
For Immature Decision Making Skills Part Uno <—– click here and scroll down