I Was A Target Of Assassination!

Not My Wife. Yet.

Not My Wife. Yet.

So, after my startlingly successful post over a month ago about Sarah Palin’s MAXIM cover, it seems like I dropped off the face of the Earth. No new posts since August 29 and barely a peep out of me otherwise. Speculation has been running rampant through the blogosphere, and as each day passes, the rumors get more and more outrageous. I thought I’d set the record straight on some of the more plausible, but still completely false, rumors. I did not, in fact, decide to retire after my highly successful 7-week run at humor blogging. Nor did I run off and elope with model/actress Gemma Atkinson. I did not, in fact, get a job with Carnival Cruiseline as a Morale Officer. I did not, in fact, return to college as president of the Delta Gamma Beta sorority (more specifically, I am not a 20 year old co-ed).

I should just leave it at that and be on my way, but it seems that the masses will never stop clamoring for more Free Soup With Purchase. So even though doing so may cause me to relive some emotional stress, I have decided to let everyone know where I have been. I will tell you in six words or less: I was a target of assassination! And while I survived, I have not done so without some scars to show for it. These past few weeks have been mentally and physically brutal, but I would say I am stronger for it. Without exaggeration, this has been the most harrowing and stressful time of my life!

The first attempt on my life begins six weeks ago this past Friday. While I was hard at work scanning and retouching my completely legitimate MAXIM issue that featured a sexy Sarah Palin on the cover, I enjoyed a hearty sandwich piled high with extremely American ingredients, including but not limited to delicacies such as orange cheese slices, Oscar Mayer bologna, and mayonnaise. It wasn’t until a few hours later on the racquetball court that I realized something was wrong. I doubled over in sudden pain after a particularly good volley, confused and worried that I was in my final moments of life. Fortunately, I was with my good friend, Broadway actor Anthony Rapp, who dialed 911 and got me to the hospital in time for an emergency surgery. Little did I know just how hearty that sandwich was; it contained a foreign substance that would have easily removed all stability in my digestive system. The staple of what keeps my health together was put in jeopardy, and I could have experienced a painful death. Luckily, the surgeons took care of me and said I would be back on the court in no time. Like with all of my celebrity friends, I do not mention Anthony on my blog, and he has always asked that I keep our association off the blogosphere. But I think it is more because I handily beat him in racquetball nearly every time we play.  Either way, I owe the man my life, and I must give credit where credit is due. He is my hero and I would not be here if not for him.

Assassination Attempt #1

Assassination Attempt #1

Now, you might think that the poisoning of my sandwich was an accident. I mean, it happens. How many times have you accidentally put some sort of office supply between a few slices of lunchmeat? “Enough,” you might reply, and so would I! That’s what I thought; this was just a simple mistake that turned deadly. I didn’t suspect assassination until days later, when attempt #2 occurred!!

I was released from the hospital after a few days to recover and I took a cab home. I stopped off for a quick walk through the park to take in the fresh air and reflect on my renewed value for life. Satisfied that I took in enough nature and annoyed at the stupid chirping birds everywhere, I set off for home. I arrived at my apartment on the second floor and unlocked the door. As I pushed it open, I noticed a few small twigs had become entwined in my shoelace during my walk. So I bent forward to pull them out and I pushed the door open wide to make room. That’s when I heard a click and suddenly three large arrows plunged into the door right where my face would have been. Now, I knew I hadn’t set that booby trap since Christmas ’04; someone else had to put that together when I was in the hospital!

Shaken, I called the police and they investigated but could not come up with any clues. I mentioned the sandwich incident and they said I may have become a target. It made some sense, but I couldn’t think of why. I had no known enemies, I hadn’t angered anyone recently who might seek revenge, and with my mounting debts I’m technically worth more alive than not. It was reasonable to assume no one stood to benefit from my demise!

I decided I would be cautious and more attentive, just in case the theory was true. And for two solid weeks it seemed like everything was fine. Nothing was different about my life. My highly successful part-time dog walking service was steady, all the regular gals showed up at Bingo night, my whore ex-wife was still dead. I managed to convince myself that maybe I really did set up the flying arrows booby trap before the sandwich incident. I’ve been known to sleepwalk and sleepdance, why not sleeptrapmaking? Finally after a few weeks, I could unclench and relax. Everything else was normal, so it was time for me to get back to my life without constantly looking over my shoulder.

Turns out, I was wrong. Dead wrong. After a particularly hazy night full of Midori Sours and LSD, I woke up early to start the morning walks. No matter how hard I party, my customers come first. Spot and Miss Periwinkle certainly can’t walk themselves! Hungover and with only one eye open to guide me, I made it into the bathroom. I reached though the shower curtain to turn the shower faucets on, looking forward to a hot scrubbing. Then I turned and took a look in the mirror and suddenly felt a cold gooeyness under my foot. I leapt backward in shock, remembering that I firecely vomited there after I got home the night before, and at that moment a large arm with a huge knife swung out of the shower. Had I not jumped backward, I would have been adding my own warm gooeyness to the bathroom tile.

Seeing only red, I leapt at my attacker and pinned him to the tub floor with the curtain between us. I pummeled him with the might of half a man in my blind frustration and anger. I began hearing a thumping beat as I swung wildly, and the noise became more and more melodious as I suddenly recognized it. It was the old A-Team theme song, and I realized it was coming from me. I was humming it to pump myself up as I laid waste to my assassin. Once he stopped struggling, my humming stopped and I peeled back the curtain to reveal a huge and unconscious German-looking man. I covered the tub drain and put some water in the tub. When he woke up, he saw me standing over him holding a hair dryer, which was plugged in the wall.

“One false move, and you’re fried,” I said with an added bit of gravel in my voice. He nodded that he understood. “Now start talking.”

He explained in his German accent that he was hired by some so-and-so crime boss in Latvia to come kill a man with my name. This man had stolen a ton of cash from the Latvian and now he was to die. One strong piece of intel he had was the target had once attended Lincoln Community College in southern Iowa. Well, I did in fact go to that school, but there was another guy with my exact name and we went there at the same time. Class registration was always a problem for us, let me tell you! Me in his Physics class, him in my Music Appreciation class, etc. I told Mr. Assassin that he screwed up his research and he had the wrong guy. I showed him an old yearbook, my bank statements, and my hilarious blog, trying to convince him of his error. He considered it, glanced around my apartment, and he concurred he made a mistake.

I told him that if he still intended to kill me because I saw his face, I was ready to defend myself. He quietly said he would not attempt any harm. When I asked him why he would let me live, he glanced over at my computer monitor and then looked back at me. There was a small sadness in his eyes. He patted my shoulder and slowly walked out the door without saying a word. Over on the monitor, the Sarah Palin MAXIM picture on my highly successful blog stared at me. Then it made sense. But when I recount this story to others, they tell me it was out of pity, and not the prospect of robbing the world of my incredible humor and talent, that the German spared me. I choose to believe my theory, and not the one of my bastard friends and family.

So, my friends, this last month and a half was especially tough, and you have all been great just hanging in there waiting for me to return. I am alive and well, and I will likely be spending much more time here to continue giving you the only gift I can.

You can thank the German for that.

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Gut Check Time!

Alright boys and girls, it’s gut check time! Get pumped! Get primed! Who-rah!

The battle is nigh, bitches! You heard me, I said nigh! In mere minutes our mettle will be put to the test. You need to give 150% at all times, do you understand!? There is no backing down! There is no giving up!!

Everything we’ve trained for is staring us in the face like a bengal tiger ready to leap up at us and rip us open! They leap right for the neck, but we’re ready for that! You duck and weave and strike! STRIIIKE!!!! DO YOU FOLLOW ME?! That tiger has got nothing on you, because you’ve just sharpened your bowie knife on some granite and you are going to SLICE and DICE a motherfucker from jugular to gentials!

Everybody, did you shotgun your Red Bull?! Lewiston, down that damn Red Bull before I come over there and put you over my knee! That’s right, Lewiston, I’ll spank you in front of the gang and you’ll be crying for your momma before I’m done with you! You need all the strength and energy you can muster! Find that determination and hang on to it! You need all the pistons going if you want to stand up and win on this night!

WHOO-RAAH!!! You are not stupid! You are not weak! You are better than any of those bed-wetting little girls out there! You are going to crush them under your boot and you are not going to feel sorry for them. They wanted this; they know what they signed up for! So you go out there and you give them what they are asking for! You all have your assignments and you all are the best at what you do! And at the end of the day, only you are responsible for your own survival out there! What did I say before? It’s gut check time, bitches, who-rah!!

Alright, everybody bring it in! Say your little prayers to the almighty Jesus or Vishnu or whoever the hell you think has to balls to care about you, because the shit is about to go down and you need to be ready! Let’s do this for our mothers and fathers and show them that you are not one of their many, many mistakes in their pathetic miserable lives! Let’s give each of our mommies one reason to stop crying herself to sleep every night!!

Let’s show those bastards over at Harry S. Truman High School who has the better debate team!!!! Go get ’em!!!! WHO-RAHH!!!

First of All, Your Mom Came on to Me

Listen, Marty, I know we haven’t spoken in twenty years. But I saw your name on that popular social networking site and it made me think about the old days. It’s been such a long time, but I remember when we met as kids that we immediately clicked, like we were brothers. We had so many good times together. Remember fishing at Manitoba Lake? Remember that time I hid out under your bed for two days because I accidentally set fire to my garage? Remember all the laughs when we’d pal around town after midnight, pretending to be badasses? We were children when we met but we became older and wiser as we grew up together, learning so much about life from each other.

Our old friendship still means a lot to me. Those were some of great years that I will never forget and I’m willing to bet it you haven’t forgotten them, either. And while they were great, well, things changed between us. Obviously, you know this. I swore to myself that I wouldn’t keep apologizing for it, but maybe that’s why we haven’t spoken in all this time.

So I’m writing to apologize again, hoping that the time since then has allowed the pain to heal. I’m sorry for what happened, I know it hurt you a great deal. I wasn’t thinking straight and I didn’t consider your feelings whatsoever.

The best thing I can do is try to explain everything. First of all, your mom came on to me. It was not the other way around; I wouldn’t have actively pursued your mom behind your back. I need you to believe that because we were best friends I wouldn’t do that to you. Second, it was only that one time; it’s not like we had this ongoing thing. There was no plan, it was just a heat of the moment kind of thing.

She looked at me like no other woman had. I was going through a rough patch and I definitely had some self-esteem issues then. Most of the time, I didn’t really feel like much of a man, but when she spoke to me she made me feel like one. Plus, that night started to get crazy, remember? Everybody was acting a little unlike themselves and things just got a out of control at your 8th grade graduation party. It was hard to resist what developed that night. Again, it just sort of happened and I’m really sorry about it and I know she was too.

Look, I know we’re adults and we’re probably so much different now that trying to resurrect this friendship may not even make a lot of sense. But I felt like I was part of your family back then, and I owe it to our history to try one last time to apologize and explain. My life would have been so different if not for your friendship. And I really don’t think I would have lost my virginity as early as I did, and that was a huge thing for me. Okay, that probably wasn’t the right thing to say there, but I’m trying to be honest.

You have to understand, I was a stud in high school from day one, and it was all because of your mom. Plus, the whole thing was colored with danger and mystery and edge because she died a week later. I was likely her last sexual encounter before she died. Doesn’t it give you some comfort that she had some happiness from someone who was so close to you all?

I guess maybe it woudn’t.

Still, I’d like to hear what you have to say about this. Write me back, tell me how you’re feeling. I can understand if you never want to speak to me, but I had to try one more time to apologize to my best friend for wronging him. Whether or not you can forgive me, I’ve done all I can to fix this. I hope your are well, Marty, and I hope to hear from you.

-Dirk

Survival Guide: Aunt Gabby

If you ever find yourself in Dubuque, you may run across the mysterious creature known as my Aunt Gabby. This survival guide is meant to prepare you for such an encounter. Below, you will find more about Aunt Gabby’s history, nature, and what you should carry with you for optimal protection.

Physicality:

‘Gabby’ is a short for Gabriella Morganstern, a 6-foot 2-inch biped that comes in at around 115 pounds. At one time considered a beauty and a creature that lived in harmony with her environment, Aunt Gabby is now considered by most experts in my family to be one of Nature’s Great Mistakes.  She shows surprising agility, coordination and mental acuity at 60 years old (she will say that she “turned 35 again” this year).

Environment:

During the daytime hours, Aunt Gabby can be seen prowling around newsstands, needlessly haggling with vendors over the prices of unfiltered menthols and MAD Magazine. She’s also been spotted in the aisles of various ‘big box stores’ in the area, comparing prices of detergent, cat food, and mouthwash. On Wednesdays from 11am to 4pm, she can be found at the Coin-Op Laundromat on Birch Ave, often without any laundry at all. Evening hours are altogether different. At dusk of each day, Aunt Gabby can be found dining at Popeye’s, The Olive Garden, or the local pizzeria, Mama Papa’s. She then retires to her ranch house located on Rural Route 31 just north of the 17 junction. Hours later she emerges, ready to “hit the town.”

Mobility:

Aunt Gabby uses a blue 1983 Toyota Tercel to get to the main streets of town, where she will then walk or take cabs to her other destinations. She was reportedly once seen on a stolen motorcycle fleeing the scene of a fire at McDonald’s in the late hours, but that is based on unreliable and unsubstantiated eye-witness accounts.

Reproduction:

All reports from my parents confirm that Aunt Gabby has never successfully reproduced, but that doesn’t mean she hasn’t tried. And while it is probable she can no longer bear a child, her sexual virility remains strong. In fact, data indicates that within the last thirty years, her number of sexual conquests has grown proportional to her age. Be wary, as most experts agree she is constantly “in heat.”

Behavior:

Most of Aunt Gabby’s behavior would be termed “unacceptable” by most social standards. She has been described as at once antagonistic, aloof, passive-aggressive, sarcastic, and sexually predatory. Others, including my mother, have said she is “without empathy,” “childish,” and “sociopathic.” She spends much of her evenings in local taverns, drinking heavily, dancing and encouraging others to dance even if no music is playing, and daring other people to kiss her and kiss each other for money. She indiscriminately insults everyone on the basis of their looks, fashion, heritage, religion, annual income, known associates, athleticism, genitalia size, who their father is, and ability to “hold their liquor.” She does tend to favor young Italian men who can “bench press at least 180,” so they are usually the first type she will focus on in a crowd. Any male is a potential target for — and most women are potential threats to — gaining control of the attention of the most amount of people in a room.

Defense Against:

Primarily in bars and resaturants: If Aunt Gabby notices that you have not acknowledged her presence or paid attention to anything she said, she will pounce. She often tugs a man’s crotch “just so’s you remember me.” To successfully evade her, you must demonstrate a passable level of acknowledgement. Occasionally laughing at her crude and racist humor or lighting her cigarette will keep you from her aggressive tactics. She was a track and field star in her youth and still has great speed, so she can catch up to and tackle most people who attempt to flee from her. Use zig-zagging paths, as her old ankle injury from getting into a barfight “with two dykes and a postman” in 1977 will prevent her from gaining much ground on you.

Everywhere else: Do not look her directly in the eye or speak to her for any reason, less she decides to “make friends” with you. She generally leaves strangers alone during the day, unless you are a vendor or a street urchin.

Other means of defense upon engaging her is to exploit her weaknesses. She has irrational fears of ukuleles and yo-yos, so she will avoid you if you pull one of these out of a bag and start playing with it. Any signs of aggression or frustration will be seen as a challenge and she will engage you further, often commenting on your “hook nose,” “flat ass” or “girly shoulders.” You can also drive her away by quoting Scripture.

If you have no business in Dubuque, it is advised to just stay away.

Duel!

Sir, you forget yourself! No man has been so foolish to challenge me to a duel in nearly a score, and that last fellow bled heartily, pun fully intended. You believe that you must defend your lady’s honor? Fie! She should be honored that I even lowered myself to notice her and pay comment! Like you, she is barely a dandelion seed! And like a dandelion seed, you flutter through the world, hardly conspicuous and certainly of no consequence to a man such as me. But the seed becomes a flower, you say? Imbecile! Dandelions are nothing more than weeds on my well-manicured lawn!

Were I not so amused by your brash and ignorant youth, I would have scoffed at your challenge and a dandelion seed you would remain, forgotten immediately! But, tis true, I did overtly speak in rude tones of your lady friend there. I am not surprised of your reaction. A young man does many a foolish thing for the chance to touch the milky soft chesticles of a stunning jezebel such as her. I nearly see a bit of myself in you, displaying your virility with your audacious attempt to do battle with me. The difference, young rogue, is that I knew my opponents and I knew not to pick a fight I surely could not win.

That said, let us discuss the duel. I am nearly champing at the bit to scrap with you. It shall be for me to choose the weapons. Pistols at dawn? A pistol is a man’s weapon, not a toy for a petulant children such as you. Crossbows at dusk? Perhaps, but I fear your waify arms could not handle the weight. Muskets at high tea? I suppose we can be less civilized; we may as well throw rocks at each other or combat with sledge hammers. No, we shall at duel noon, with the greatest invention of the modern era: spicy Italian hoagies.

You seem confused! You issued the challenge to duel, that means I choose our implements. Spicy Italain hoagies are they. In more ways than one, they deliver a death most delicious. Dost you refuse? Sir, I promise you, these will be the tastiest hoagies you will have ever had. Of course, the flavor explosion will come moments before you arrive at the River Styx, so bring some change for Charon. I have provided for him many passengers! You know, it is what makes death all the more cruel, knowing you will never again have a sandwich stacked of Genoa ham, salami, capicola, mortadella, and provolone on a soft Italian roll with lettuce, tomato, onion, pickled peppers and just enough oil and vinegar to noticeably stain your pantaloons.

You hesitate. Clearly you just issue challenges to men and boys alike, never considering the consequences until you suffer them. You are impetuous, unthinking. Now, faced with your mortality, you find regret in your life’s choices; you wish to take them back. Were I not faced with dishonoring my father’s name, perhaps I could overlook this. But a child like you needs to face his fate and answer to his mistakes. That answer comes to you as a foot-long of epic taste.

You ask this streetwalker to appeal for your life? That is nearly precious, if it not so desperate and pathetic. What say you, young harlot? Spare his life? Allow the father of your child to live?

Perhaps in death, this knave can teach his boy a lesson about minding himself and knowing his place in the world. Haha, the fable of his father can sit on the shelf next to Aesop’s! Every evening he can read about his father’s demise, brought on by his youthful boldness, by an appetizing sub!

Mmm, I do not discount your point. No one, even I, can be born with the wisdom I am trying to impart. It is possible I also learned the same lesson I seek to teach this scalawag, but clearly the circumstances were not so deadly.

It is done. I will spare you both humiliation and death, young man. This loose wench delivers onto you a second life. I pray that you do not squander it as easily as the first. Surely my father, of the house of Quizno, would see honor in granting you a chance at becoming a better man, instead of cutting you down like the wimpering scamp you are. Now, perhaps we can put this behind us and enjoy a frothy brew and share stories of conquests and lost loves, of adventures across foreign lands, and the savory sandwiches we have encountered. Haha, oh dear boy, the delectable spicy Italian hoagies I have seen!

One Potential Inner Monologue Before Getting My Ass Beaten

Ho boy. This guy is huge.

Okay, crap. Okay. Okay, his shoulders and arms are pretty big, so if he hits me in the face it’s really going to hurt. Okay, if that happens DO NOT CRY. Man up and take it.

His midsection is exposed, but I think he’s ready for that. Damn it to hell.

Jesus, it looks like I’m getting what’s coming to me. Maybe not with this guy, because all I did was laugh at him when I bumped into his girlfriend and she spilled her cosmo (was it a cosmo?) on his nice shirt. Sure, a dick move, but it’s not like I meant to do it. And he looked ridiculous; it was hysterical!

Maybe his neck? I just see muscle and veins, I don’t think his throat’s even vulnerable. Christ, this guy is a damn body builder.

Well, I guess I deserve this any way you look at it. This could be for all the times I took money out of the children’s cancer donation jar at the drug store. Yeah, it netted me only $18.45 over the course of 6 months, but that was pretty damn awful just on principle. Or it could have been for that 3 month stretch when I pretended to be blind at the YMCA just so I could “accidentally” walk into the women’s locker room. All that background and careful set up just to pull it off once. Taking away my membership and fining me $1,000 was not enough for karma, it seems.

Okay, stand up straight, let this guy know you’re not some cowering simp. Back up a little, he’s moving closer to you. Is his eye twitching? Gouge the eye, maybe? But if I tried that and failed, it would only enrage him further and I’d be in an ambulance in minutes. I’d pretty much count on bleeding all over the place. Oh, I could use some levity! Hey man, you don’t want to knock me around too bad. That cosmo will come out, but try getting B negative out of silk!

Yikes, I don’t think he’d find that funny, or anything else for that matter. Look over at the girlfriend, maybe she will sympathize. Hey, look over here! Christ, make eye contact with me, lady! Your man is about to smash me and you’re looking through your cell phone contacts! What the hell, a guy bumps into you and spills your drink and five seconds later you’re already calling one of your skanky friends to complain about it? You lousy bitch, I hope he beats you next.

See, there I go again. Making assumptions about people and just getting all ragey about it. No wonder this guy is going to rearrange my face, I’m a terrible person! I definitely have this coming!

Don’t you cry now, he hasn’t even touched you. All right, what are my options? The exit’s behind him, so I can’t run. Should I use this other guy as a shield? No, he’ll just team up with Johnny Roids here and then I’m doubly screwed. There’s always the kick to the groin, but that’s such a pussy move. I couldn’t do that to another guy unless he has a knife or something. See also my other point about enraging him further.

Okay, in the next life, don’t be so quick to judge others. Don’t talk suggestively to the Hooters girls and think you’re so damn clever, because they’ve heard it all before. Don’t make fun of other people, even if they have little Jew-y haircuts. Don’t pour water all over your neighbors’ walkways in the middle of the night in the winter. Don’t make calls to 900 numbers on your mom’s neighbor’s phone; just because she’s laid up and can’t move doesn’t mean you can sneak in and run up her phone bill. Don’t call your 11 year-old brother a faggot in front of his classmates when he brings you to fill in for “Father’s Career Day.” For chrissakes, you’re 32 years old! Rethink ever pulling a strawberry shortcake on your girlfriend. And don’t take your friend’s car without asking and return it with vomit in the back seat. Boy oh boy, I’m the worst person I know!

He’s cocking his fist back, this is it! Okay, make some fists, get ready to dodge this thing. Maybe he’s not that fast! He’s a lumbering monster, I should probably stay low.

“Let’s do this, retard.”

WOW, WHY DID I SAY THAT?! It’s too late to apologize for everything now! Oh God, here it comes! Remember, don’t cry! Just know you absolutely deserve this! Aaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!—*