Allow me to Introduce myself
I kind of think of my life like a film sometimes, don't you? Except, because I am clearly superior to most of the population, my film is superior to most films, and is one of those crazy, artzy, David Lynch type movies, in which you don't really know what the hell is going on, but you sure as hell know it deserves critical acclaim.
My life is always bouncing all over the place, from point to point... It seems like time doesn't matter to one such as myself. I am a knight to the potato chip. I serve the one and only king, Frito-Lay. My lifeblood is the salty, tangy goodness of a Tostito dipped into the prepackaged dipping you can purchase with them.
I am a hero.
Cut to three years ago- one of those blurry, black and white shots with simple cinematography. I am standing in my living room, and my sister, who is one year older than me, is preparing to go to the Prom. She smears her lips with make-up that probably tastes like candy. I will not be at my Prom that year, my junior Prom, because the women have foolishly cast me aside in favor of men with large, round muscles, or else men with lisps and died hair who wish that they were members of the Backstreet Boys. But oh, don't cry for me, Internet, for beneath my acne encrusted face and flabby exterior, there was lurking a mighty force simply waiting to be unleashed. A force that shouldn't be reckoned with. A force more bad-ass that Clint Eastwood squinting into the sunset. Within me was a power so great, I am only now beginning to truely understand.
And this day, the day my sister prepares for her Prom and puts on a dress that costs enough money to lipo-suction me into thinness, this day is the day that power is going to come to the surface.
Cut to two years before then- black and white again, but with elaborate, sweeping shots from unseen helicopters and cranes. You see a beach, and all around are attractive, scantily clad women. I wish that I could touch them all, kiss them all, be with them all, but even back then they are accompanied by those round-muscled men, or the lispy ones. One of these women is my sister. I do not want to touch her, except to strangle her to death. She is yelling at me because I am eating Doritos and getting nacho cheese all over the towel I borrowed from her boyfriend. I am ashamed and wish that I could bury myself in the sand like an ostrich, exposing my flabby, speedo clad rear to the gull's for devouring. I am sure I would taste like garbage.
Cut to after the incident that day, with my sister screaming and trying to actually hit my fat belly. This is a color shot, in slow motion. I am laughing.
Back to the beach, with a close-up of my face, still plunging nacho goodness in there like nobody's business. My sister tells me to at least eat something that isn't going to make a mess and hands me a small package of Pringles. I notice that they look like chips, and perhaps they might even taste like them, but there is something wrong about them. They are so organized and symmetrical. They form a neat little pile, unlike the jumble I am used to in a bag, and while I detect salt, I cannot feel any grease. I put one of the chips into my mouth, and while I find its taste deplorable, I have to eat something.
Cut to the hospital, an ER-like shot of me being dragged down the hallway on a stretcher. An allergic reaction to the chips has left me bloated. My sister is crying on her boyfriend's shoulder, probably becase it gets her even more attention. Even when my tongue is swelling up and cutting off my windpipe from the fiendish devil chips, she is getting more attention and drama than me. That organized, symmetrical cleanliness is only poison to me. I hate the sterile smell of the hospital. They give me some medicine and I get better. My sister looks disappointed.
Cut to the Prom day, where I am sitting and sulking about all the beautiful girls who will never even look at me, lest they lay their eyes upon a monster. And I am with my only friend, the one I've had for so long through the years, with a bag of Lay's potato chips. And can I eat just one?
You bet I can't.
My sister is screaming out of her beautiful pie whole, which every round-muscled/lisp-ridden brat has explored, that I had better be careful with what I'm doing, because if I get any of that "nasty grease" on her Prom dress, then I will be "wearing my guts for garters." Something about her tone offends me. It's as if she is insulting me only friend.
That's when I realize: she is. And I have to defend him.
"I'll eat what I want," I say. "This is who I am."
"Well who you are is disgusting," she says, and laughs a bitter, evil step-sister laugh. If she weren't so pretty and I wasn't so ugly, I would be Cinderella. My Fairy God Mother is just contained in a small, simple bag with "Ploids, the official currency of fun" in a little cut out stamp on the back. She's probably so warty, she's actually a Frog God Mother.
"Disguting?" I say. "You're disgusting, you pretentious, Victorian whore!" I don't know what Victorian means, but it sounds insulting. I start to rub the grease on my hands into her pretty dress, and she is screaming for me to stop.
"How do you like it?" I said. "Me rubbing my world in your face? You do it all the time. Well, welcome to salt city, you worthless whore. Greasy not fun, uh-uh, uh-uh, uh-uh!!"
Cut to now, when I have my own private army built up, and we are going to crush the competitors to my only friend. Cut to a Wise factory burning down. Cut to a slow motion explosion and a crispy, burned can of Pringles spouting from the window.
And cut to my victorious face, and an executive Frito-Lay woman kissing it. All of this will happen. You will see. I am a hero.
And I will bring you every detail as it happens. Starting soon, my friends and I will strike.
My life is always bouncing all over the place, from point to point... It seems like time doesn't matter to one such as myself. I am a knight to the potato chip. I serve the one and only king, Frito-Lay. My lifeblood is the salty, tangy goodness of a Tostito dipped into the prepackaged dipping you can purchase with them.
I am a hero.
Cut to three years ago- one of those blurry, black and white shots with simple cinematography. I am standing in my living room, and my sister, who is one year older than me, is preparing to go to the Prom. She smears her lips with make-up that probably tastes like candy. I will not be at my Prom that year, my junior Prom, because the women have foolishly cast me aside in favor of men with large, round muscles, or else men with lisps and died hair who wish that they were members of the Backstreet Boys. But oh, don't cry for me, Internet, for beneath my acne encrusted face and flabby exterior, there was lurking a mighty force simply waiting to be unleashed. A force that shouldn't be reckoned with. A force more bad-ass that Clint Eastwood squinting into the sunset. Within me was a power so great, I am only now beginning to truely understand.
And this day, the day my sister prepares for her Prom and puts on a dress that costs enough money to lipo-suction me into thinness, this day is the day that power is going to come to the surface.
Cut to two years before then- black and white again, but with elaborate, sweeping shots from unseen helicopters and cranes. You see a beach, and all around are attractive, scantily clad women. I wish that I could touch them all, kiss them all, be with them all, but even back then they are accompanied by those round-muscled men, or the lispy ones. One of these women is my sister. I do not want to touch her, except to strangle her to death. She is yelling at me because I am eating Doritos and getting nacho cheese all over the towel I borrowed from her boyfriend. I am ashamed and wish that I could bury myself in the sand like an ostrich, exposing my flabby, speedo clad rear to the gull's for devouring. I am sure I would taste like garbage.
Cut to after the incident that day, with my sister screaming and trying to actually hit my fat belly. This is a color shot, in slow motion. I am laughing.
Back to the beach, with a close-up of my face, still plunging nacho goodness in there like nobody's business. My sister tells me to at least eat something that isn't going to make a mess and hands me a small package of Pringles. I notice that they look like chips, and perhaps they might even taste like them, but there is something wrong about them. They are so organized and symmetrical. They form a neat little pile, unlike the jumble I am used to in a bag, and while I detect salt, I cannot feel any grease. I put one of the chips into my mouth, and while I find its taste deplorable, I have to eat something.
Cut to the hospital, an ER-like shot of me being dragged down the hallway on a stretcher. An allergic reaction to the chips has left me bloated. My sister is crying on her boyfriend's shoulder, probably becase it gets her even more attention. Even when my tongue is swelling up and cutting off my windpipe from the fiendish devil chips, she is getting more attention and drama than me. That organized, symmetrical cleanliness is only poison to me. I hate the sterile smell of the hospital. They give me some medicine and I get better. My sister looks disappointed.
Cut to the Prom day, where I am sitting and sulking about all the beautiful girls who will never even look at me, lest they lay their eyes upon a monster. And I am with my only friend, the one I've had for so long through the years, with a bag of Lay's potato chips. And can I eat just one?
You bet I can't.
My sister is screaming out of her beautiful pie whole, which every round-muscled/lisp-ridden brat has explored, that I had better be careful with what I'm doing, because if I get any of that "nasty grease" on her Prom dress, then I will be "wearing my guts for garters." Something about her tone offends me. It's as if she is insulting me only friend.
That's when I realize: she is. And I have to defend him.
"I'll eat what I want," I say. "This is who I am."
"Well who you are is disgusting," she says, and laughs a bitter, evil step-sister laugh. If she weren't so pretty and I wasn't so ugly, I would be Cinderella. My Fairy God Mother is just contained in a small, simple bag with "Ploids, the official currency of fun" in a little cut out stamp on the back. She's probably so warty, she's actually a Frog God Mother.
"Disguting?" I say. "You're disgusting, you pretentious, Victorian whore!" I don't know what Victorian means, but it sounds insulting. I start to rub the grease on my hands into her pretty dress, and she is screaming for me to stop.
"How do you like it?" I said. "Me rubbing my world in your face? You do it all the time. Well, welcome to salt city, you worthless whore. Greasy not fun, uh-uh, uh-uh, uh-uh!!"
Cut to now, when I have my own private army built up, and we are going to crush the competitors to my only friend. Cut to a Wise factory burning down. Cut to a slow motion explosion and a crispy, burned can of Pringles spouting from the window.
And cut to my victorious face, and an executive Frito-Lay woman kissing it. All of this will happen. You will see. I am a hero.
And I will bring you every detail as it happens. Starting soon, my friends and I will strike.