A Programming Note

No, not that kind of programming note. I mean the kind where you're informed ahead of time about changes to your regularly scheduled programming. Like this:

The Colbert Report	Mon - Thurs 11:30pm / 10:30c
Sign Off - Richard Dawkins Will Be Here Tomorrow
www.colbertnation.com
Colbert Report Full Episodes Political Humor & Satire Blog March to Keep Fear Alive

See, with Eric embarking and, to my mild annoyance, seemingly intent on completing his marathon 333 Top 3 Lists, my stated aim of responding in kind to each of his posts with daring feats of textual mockery is in danger of being overwhelmed by the likes of "Top 3 Ways a Robot Can Remove the Brain From a Living, Breathing Human Baby," or "Top 3 Risk Games Eric Walkingshaw Has Played, In Order of Smugness of Victory." And while my wholly original (and in no way a shameless rip-off) compilation of 111 Top 1 lists may stem this tide somewhat, it appears I may have been too clever for my own good, seeing as how long after I've completed that list of lists, Eric will still be only one-third of the way towards Ultimate Victory.

This I cannot allow to pass.

So I am given a choice: change course and post my own marathon list of Top 3s, in order to match Eric at every turn; dive deep into the murky waters of my creativity and counter each list with a post of such awe-inspiring wit that Eric will wail to his robot masters in protest; or simply change the parameters of victory and thus ensure that I will have to muster no extra effort at all.

I am sure that my choice is obvious.

So from this moment on, I will not be trying to match Eric list for list; I will complete my 111 Top 1 lists, as I am a man of my word, but in-between, in order to not Hare my way to defeat against Eric's lumbering Tortoise of lists, I will pepper this blog with non-listy items with which to battle Eric's web-based hubris. Many of these will probably contain mangled metaphors based on old children's fables, but that is the price one pays in such a taxing mind-battle. The end result will justify such illiterate means, I can assure you.

So let me commence this slight change in course by simply pointing out this old video game, wherein you control a cyborg who literally kicks lumps out of rebellious robots (and, as pointed out in the below video, that is literally all you have to do):





Also, I'd like to counter Eric's boyhood fascination with Venus with this documentary footage chronicling my own visit to said planet, long before it was anything but a glittering gem in Eric's mind's sky (no, I don't know what that metaphor means, either). Try to ignore those wisecracking schlubs down front; they certainly didn't make our mission any easier.

Top 1 Gifts I Received This Christmas, In Order of Usefulness Against Possible Undercover Robot Eric Walkingshaw

1. The Evil Robot Memory Eraser, via Bitchin' Brad McLaughlin (I hereby nominate "Bitchin'" as Brad's official nickname, a la Savage Steve Holland).



The Evil Robot Memory Eraser was a surprise gift from friend of P. and fellow anti-evil robot crusader Bitchin' Brad McLaughlin, who stopped by my home on what I can only assume was a rare Northern Excursion to battle the ever-increasing robotic hordes here in the Pacific Northwest. Purchased in his home turf of Greater Los Angeles, where undercover robots can be difficult to detect under layers of silicon, colagen, botox, and spray-on tans (you didn't think these were just anti-aging devices, did you?), the Evil Robot Memory Eraser is deceptively simple in design, but dreadfully effective. In fact, upon receipt of this gift I discovered that my own dear laptop computer, formerly thought to be an obedient and reliable mechanical slave, was actually an undercover Evil Robot Sleeper Agent! At least, this is what I assume, as my new Memory Eraser, as if propelled by some supernatural force, swiftly attached itself to the laptop and proceeded to purge its memory of all the surveillance data it had collected. I am forever thankful to Bitchin' Brad and his wonderful gift, as who knows what dastardly deeds my robot enemies could have perpetrated with their knowledge of my Netflix queue, copies of numerous failed novel and screenplay attempts, and video footage of me picking my nose while watching soccer highlights. I shudder to think.

If Eric Walkingshaw ever shows the cojones to travel up this way again, I can assure you, my devoted reader, that I will set upon him at once with this wonder device, and watch with glee as his bulbous face grows blank with the disappearance of all his binary knowledge, and he is rendered but a useless husk of synthetic flesh and simulated bone. Not too unlike my harem of provocatively-dressed love dolls, come to think of it. Thanks again, Evil Robot Memory Eraser, for preventing that embarrassing personal detail from becoming public knowledge!

That is...erm...oh. Uh oh.

(2 0f 111)

1 of 111

So Eric is embarking on what seems to be a marathon blog-making session, documenting 333 of his patented Top 3 lists (patent pending). He seems to think it some sort of challenge, a gauntlet thrown down, a slap across my face with some kind of wimpy, sequined glove. As if I'd ever be drawn into such a petty pissing match, a meeting of the minds worth no more than the skin off a leper's toes! 333 Top 3 lists? You'll get no such malarkey here!

Instead, may I offer you 111 of my patented Top 1 lists (patent pending)? More direct and to the point than Eric's 3-item diatribes, I think you'll find my 111 Top 1 lists (patent pending) a suitable and pleasantly brief diversion to your normal Internet-browsing schedule. Which is to say, you now have 66% more time for Facebook-stalking girls you had a crush on 15 years ago. I'll win you yet, Shelley McDougall!

Without further ado:

Top 1 Deadly Robots That I Just Thought Up While Remembering That One Time Shelley McDougall Might Have Looked At Me Across the Gym During an Assembly:



Johnny Five!

Yes, that's right. Oh, sure, he's cute and all, winning the heart of the foolish Ally Sheedy. But lest you forget, all that winning curiosity and childlike naivete hides the capabilities of a cold-blooded killer. This is a war robot, designed to kill its fleshy targets and render them into consumable foodstuffs. Okay, maybe not so much that last part, but it does have rockets on its back for Christ's sake. Why are you playing Pictionary with it!? Get away! Away!

I would elaborate more, but Shelley McDougall just posted some pics of her nephew's birthday party, and I have to scour the photos for a moment of quiet reflection where she might have been thinking about me. I bid you all good night.

In Which I Rebut Eric's Philosophical Rebuttal

While I can't fault the argument laid out by your cold, calculated, logical mind, I can offer some context for the philosophizing in question. Sure, this little piece of pithiness--

Happiness is a pause between 2 moments of suffering.

--might not be the greatest or most profound thing ever uttered by a human being (that would be this). However, I feel there is a little bit of context here that you are neglecting to consider; namely, the location of said philosophizing--the "2nd floor bathroom stall of the Kelley Engineering Center."

While I am unable to account for the personality or intelligence of your average restroom-occupant at the Kelley Engineering Center, based on the fact that one Eric Walkingshaw also seems to be at least a sporadic user of said facility, I can assume that they likely have a) an above-average intellect, b) a profound disregard or even open-armed acceptance of the threat robots pose to humankind, and c) possibly a large, wide-nostrilled nose. None of these things necessarily imply a lack of philosophical thoroughness, but they do point to a mindset that is probably focused more on numbers and data than the nuances of human suffering. Were this a bathroom on the 2nd floor of an English Department, on the other hand, you would hope to find a more accurate assessment of the state of sorrow, seeing as those miserable bastards quite honestly would have little reason to enjoy anything, or even live.

But even if we are to assume that the user of this stall and author of this sentiment happened to be a passing philosopher or lost and scared English student, the fact that it was written on a bathroom stall also leads us to conclude that more than likely this observation was made while said author was emptying their bowels, which as you may no doubt be aware is not the ideal state for profound thinking. Even the greatest minds and keenest truth-seekers can be forgiven for errors in thought as they take the train to Deucetown, so to speak. There is perhaps no philosopher who could be expected to make a sound observation on the travails of human existence in the midst of evacuating the citizens of Sphincterville. I would argue that there is perhaps no one in history whose best work and greatest ideas were accomplished while in the midst of an excremental excursion. Except maybe Arthur Schopenhauer.

Perhaps good Mr. Walkingshaw, given this context, should do what the author of the debated philosophy was clearly having trouble doing themselves, and simply give this one a pass.

In Which Eric Tries to Sneak Under My Radar

And fails. Fails!

Did you think I would not notice, Walkingshaw? Did you think that your long hibernation would lull me into a sense of security and--dare I say--victory? Well you were wrong. Wrong! Unluckily for you, I cannot ever accept victory or success for myself. It is just one of many undesirable character traits that will keep me forever vigilant in my quest to let no Internet-based forum for your self-expression go un-countered. It may be dirty, unglamorous work, but the sheer unnecessariness of it ensures my undying devotion. It is a determination which is, ironically, un-prefixable.

So you awaken from your slumber and end your hiatus with two seemingly innocuous posts, about a month apart, like the clever little robot-monger you are. "Victory by degrees," you likely thought to yourself, and then you also likely thought, "That would be a good slogan for a brand of roll-on deodorant." Yes, Eric, I am in your head. And the accommodations are disappointing, I must say.

Santa Fe? Santa Fe? Santa Fe has been on your "to-visit list" for "years?" Santa Fe? Not Albuquerque. Not Carlsbad Caverns. Not even Roswell. Santa Goddamn Fe. What was it about the capital of New Mexico that so attracted you? The Georgia O'Keeffe museum, and its prized collection of vaginal-themed paintings? Were you simply stopping by on your way to Los Alamos to continue your side career in funneling secrets to Chinese robots? Or maybe just to gawp in wonderment at the awe-inspiring beauty of the Palace of Governors, which in no way resembles a 16th-century adobe strip mall? Whatever reasons you may have had, there are few words that can describe the type of person who would be so desirous to visit such a humble little burgh. "Lame" springs instantly to mind.

But the food! The food! As it warranted your first blog post in a year-and-a-half, it must have been something else, that authentic Santa Fe cuisine. Something exotic and far-fetched, that inquiring Internet passersby would no doubt be flabbergasted by its very existence. Something like...enchiladas, beer, and soup. Color me intrigued by these fascinatingly unique dishes!

Well, you're not the only one enjoying the fine dishes of some exotic locale. Just this evening I myself had quite the ravishing meal, traveling as far as the gas station down the road to acquire it. I don't have a fancy camera of the picture-taking variety to document it, but I do have the Internet and a search engine, so here is a close approximation of my Elegant Wonder Meal:









And don't think I didn't notice your toki pona cards, neither. Nena suli, Walkingshaw. Nena suli.

Schadenfreude

I have nothing to say. This says it all.

In Which I Am Dragged Kicking and Screaming From the Womb of Inactivity

So, at last, Eric makes his return, only to waste the world's time with sports-talk. Here we are in the midst of a global financial crisis, with barely-stable nuclear regimes threatening to collapse and bring down all of society with them, and Eric decides to respond to all this fear and uncertainty by making a definitive list of how much he likes the respective members of the Portland Trailblazers. And as if that were not enough, he goes on to present his predictions for how the upcoming base-ball season will pan out, although the voices clamoring for such input amounted to pretty much just one: his own.

But I will grant him this foray into idle speculation, if only because as I have mentioned before, the blog is indeed a tool of self-aggrandizement. Eric himself has even copped to this. Who am I, a Blog-Master myself, to pass judgment on he?

A hypocrite, that's who, and judgment I shall pass. You, sir, are a self-obsessed fool.

Ah, that felt good. It has been many months since I have been presented with material to mock and deride, and it thrills me to no end. At this very moment strange stirrings are being felt in my nether-regions which I will have to attend to shortly. But first, there is one small matter to deal with, and that is my own version of self-aggrandizement, which is inextricably linked to the peg-taking-down of one Eric Walkingshaw.

Eric's post on baseball got me thinking: it has been some time now that I have been under the spell of that grand game called football in most parts of the world, and soccer here in the good old U.S. of A. For the last seven years or so I have become completely seduced by it, seeking it out in whatever form I can find and reading about it in as much detail as I possibly can. With the arrival (or re-birth, some might say) of the local Seattle Sounders, I have become irretrievably entangled in its web, and it can easily be said that in many ways, there simply is no other game for me.

Even as the new baseball season opens with all its pomp and circumstance, I have been too busy following the Sounders and indeed the whole of the recently-opened MLS season; I have, after many a year of fruitless efforts, finally fully embraced its hard-tackling, mistake-ridden ways. Couple the Sounders' surprising successes with Liverpool's sudden resurgence across the pond, and I simply have no time nor inclination to pay any heed to the Mariners and their haphazard ways, awesome Japanese superstars or no. And, over the weekend, as I spent hour upon hour watching various soccer matches and their attendant highlights on the Internet, I had a eureka moment that I never previously thought possible: in many ways, the average baseball game, in comparison to the average football match, is, quite honestly, boring.

This is only a big deal in my mind because one of the key arguments of football (see how readily I slip into the more sensible nomenclature?) detractors is that it's so slow, and boring, and nothing happens, and blah blah blah whine moan piddle. Yet these same people will extol the virtues of baseball, that timeless pastime, with its...three-hour snoozefests replete with constant stoppages in the action and pauses for increasingly annoying commercial breaks.

Don't get me wrong; I still much enjoy the sport of baseball itself, but as a spectator? I much prefer the constant ebb and flow of a football match, punctuated by the scoring of a goal, and interrupted only by half-time and the occasional on-field injury. I still watch and will still watch the odd baseball game, but only in bits and pieces; even at the stadium my attention is diverted by conversation or food-gathering. But for football I will park myself in my seat and watch intently, with no inclination to do otherwise.

In all honesty, I know Eric to be "soccer" fan as well, and so this may not in any way offend him or push his buttons. But it has been a long time and perhaps this gap between mind-duels has softened my edges. Perhaps it is not annihilation and domination I seek but simply a victory on my own terms, a common realization of differing ideals and opinions. There is even the slight possibility that my previous incarceration by his robot-loving hands has defeated my spirit. Whatever the case, in this instance, there will be no gauntlet-throwing, no wild accusations or fist-shaking declarations of anger. There will only be my semi-dismissal of his chosen sport, an off-hand crack about robots (stupid heartless machines), and most importantly, a few paragraphs where I get talk about myself for once and not His Large-Nosed Majesty.

And by-the-by, Travis Outlaw? Fears and distrusts robots with every slam-dunking fiber of his body. Also, if I recall correctly, loves chalupas.

In Which I Am Given Precious Little to Work With

Don't call it a hibernation.

Or do. I don't care. It is true that I have been away for some time, and by "been away," I mean "right here, doing nothing."

In my defense, however, I must say that Sir Walkingshaw has not taken full advantage of this opportunity. A full three months or so of consequence-free blog-posting? It's like the Summer of Love, and poor old Eric is stuck inside learning how to play the flute.

It has indeed been awhile; my double-entendres have gotten rusty.

I would go into detail to explain/justify my absence, but I find there is no need. Beyond UN-style non-binding resolutions and something called a "Wordle," it seems Eric has also spent some time alone in his own lair, doing God only knows what (assumption: training attack robots to focus their laser-beam eyes on a crude effigy of yours truly). I would return triumphantly with an incisive, witty take-down of Eric's recent postings, but alas, what could even the greatest of wordsmiths do with a "Wordle?" It is, in its own inimitable way, beyond reproach. And far be it from me to discourage Eric from his promises to occupy his time with activities other than plotting the downfall of mankind.

And yet, I cannot proclaim victory (actually, yes I can--victory is Mine!). No, no, it is hollow, meaningless, a husk. I have won nothing. Our mutual disappearances are, at best, the blog-battle equivalent of a 0-0 draw, minus the excitement. I have a heavy suspicion that Eric's time away from this blood-stained, metal-strewn battleground has been far more productive than my own, that he shall emerge, whenever he chooses to do so, a much wiser and stronger man than myself. And this fills me with a bitter rage that burns hotter than the glowing embers of a dying robot's energy core.

But what am I to do? Without my foil, I am at a loss. I am a balloon untethered, adrift from the finger of its owner. Where, and at whom, shall I direct all this dangerous energy?

The short answer is myself. The long answer is also myself, I just say it really slowly.

This is a blog, after all, and while I fought the good fight valiantly, I cannot tame this beast much longer. A blog yearns to be narcissistic and introspective. A blog's natural state is one of navel-gazing and self-aggrandizement. While I have ridden the coattails of Eric's blog rather successfully, his recent scorched-Earth policy has left me with no choice but to resort to cannibalism. That is a pretty sketchy metaphor, but in this blog's new era, that will be par for the course. There is no room for petard-hoisting in the Theater of the Self.

There is a shred of decency left in me, however, that resists the urge to head down this ugly path. It wants instead to grasp onto something--hope, is it called?--and await our nemesis' return. And since I am such a weak-willed (and weak-armed) man, I relent, to a degree. What shall follow in the days and weeks to come will be about me, as it must be, but it will be about me as I stand in relation to that dark, devious being down Oregon way; how I came to be the way I am, in such stark opposition to him and all he stands for (except baseball, which we are both rather fond of).

It goes without saying that robots will have much to do with it all, as they do with so much else.

Two Can Play That Game, Smart Guy

Nice Halloween costume. Too bad you totally stole that idea from me and my totally real, totally non-imaginary girlfriend.

Here's a picture of my costume. And here's one of my girlfriend's.

Not be immodest, but I think we totally owned you guys.

In Which I Once Again Play Catch-Up With the Nefarious Mr. Walkingshaw

Three more posts.

Perhaps it is time to admit that my foe is winning this battle. It is increasingly hard for me to muster up the motivation to denigrate him on the Internet, seeing as how all my previous attempts to discredit, capture, eliminate, or even simply momentarily sadden him have all failed miserably. Perhaps I should just change the name of my blog to "Some Miserable Douchebag Tries to Heap Said Misery on Another Human Being, but Being the Miserable Douchebag That He Is, Fails Miserably." That would be a long title, and difficult, I imagine, to slip past the Blogger character limits. Ah well.

So maybe I should just get back to work; put my shoulder to the grindstone and try, once more with feeling, to knock this wide-nostriled evildoer down a peg. But really, I must admit, my heart is not in it. I mean, look at the material I have to work with here: Jack Zduriencik? I have to waste two of my three obligatory posts talking about Jack fucking Zduriencik? Is this what my life has boiled down to? Debating about/sharing opinions on the newly-hired general manager of a baseball team that happens to call the local metropolitan area home? Why have a blog? Why not just call in to sports talk radio?

Christ. I mean, I have no real strong feelings about this man whom I've never met, will never meet, and who I would probably honestly not give two-and-a-half-shits about were it not for his present occupation. But apparently Eric does. Such strong feelings, in fact, that they are indeed mixed, and we all know that mixed feelings are the strongest feelings of all, and the kind most worthy of devoting words to on the Internet. Nuance and equivocation--those are the hallmarks of bloggerdom, and what truly every websurfer is looking for when perusing the wilds of public sports opinion. It comes as no surprise, then, that such thoughtful and non-reactionary sentiments are inspiring a virtual wildfire in his comments section. Despite the din, I do wish to offer up my own half-inspired opinion, if for no other reason than to keep this increasingly irrelevant and unnecessary little enterprise going.

First: Whatever Jack Zduriencik may do--and this includes running over Felix Hernandez with his car--it is rather unlikely that he will be a worse evaluator of talent and implementer of reason-based decision-making than the previous general manager.

Second: I base the first assumption on the assumption that Felix Hernandez does something worthy of being run over by a car, like deciding to continue "establishing his fastball." Not saying it was his decision to do that, just saying if he keeps on doing it, I mean come on doesn't the kid have a mind of his own and realize he is infinitely more talented than the hacks telling him what he should be doing? Just sayin'.

Third: Eric keeps talking about holes springing up in dikes, and while I understand the analogy, I also find it amusing that such an enlightened and technocentric person like himself still falls back on folksy Dutch wisdom.

Fourth: Thanks for the pronunciation guide! And to think all this time I was pronouncing his name wrong and nobody gave a damn.

Fifth: I agree that his firing of Fontaine was a downer, but I also understand that the guy probably wants to have (and now does have) his own team, of his own guys, to help him reach his goal of building this team in his own way. Whether that way ends up being fruitful or not only time will tell, but at least he won't be able to fall back on blaming it on holdovers from the previous administration. If he succeeds, he does so on his own merits and on the backs of his own decisions--and the same goes for if he fails.

Sixth: Also, any decision he makes that infuriates Eric makes me a little happier. Just a little. Is that a little smile forming at the corners of my mouth? Someone take a picture!

Seventh: Zed--can I call him Zed?--Zed and I are going to be fast friends, I can tell, and I'm sure he'll give me a good listen when I try and explain how valuable a player like David Eckstein can be to a team. And how we really miss the heart and team-oriented approach of Ryan Franklin around here. These issues should be addressed tout de suite.

Eighth: Eric probably disagrees with the last statement, but I'm afraid me and ol' Zed are having trouble hearing him from way down there in Corvallis. I'm sorry, Eric, but you'll just have to shout louder! Preferably in the middle of the night and directly at your burly, irritable neighbor's open window!

In Which Eric Hates On Australians

There are times in life when one must take the good with the bad. For example, today, when The World's Greatest Company and Friend to All Mankind sent back my 4th-time's-a-charm repaired gaming console in time for me to fritter away my weekend hours without having to interact with other people. This was good. The bad came when I got home, and found myself on the receiving end of a two-pronged assault by everyone's favorite curly-haired, bulbous-faced robot sympathizer, Eric Walkingshaw.

The opening volley came via e-mail, where Eric gleefully flaunted his capture of Darryl Strawberry, a former fantasy baseball associate of mine who had undertaken a secret espionage mission against my former captor and sworn enemy. My perennially underachieving imaginary baseball team had, a few years back, provided an alibi for Darryl during one of his many run-ins with law enforcement, and by way of paying me back good Mr. Strawberry had agreed to snoop around Eric's home and work for a while and see what he could see. Unfortunately, as Eric's e-mail graphically made clear, things did not go so smoothly.

The e-mail in question was brief; two bravado-filled sentences accompanied by a photograph of Eric's beaming, cartoonishly-proportioned face. Next to his face, held up by one of his assumed-still-human hands, was poor old Darryl--captured, posed, and then somehow turned into either a three-ring binder or giant baseball card (it's hard to tell, given the extreme closeness of the photograph). There was nothing else--no ransom demands, no details on Darryl's health, no potential release dates--just unabashed, childish gloating. He was like a dictator holding aloft the severed head of a dissident, awash in the glow of his own self-satisfaction.

I have to admit I feel at least partially responsible for Darryl's likely demise, as a tall, pock-marked former Major League All-Star is a fairly conspicuous agent of espionage. But irregardless of Darryl's lack of stealth (which he should have enhanced by wearing that Cloak of Concealing I gave him, acquired after much toil under the watchful eye of the High Lord Razelmayne), Eric's cruel treatment of this one-time American hero is downright barbaric. Turning a man into a three-ring binder? What foul robot magicks my adversary must possess!

But before I get too depressed by imagining the details of this horrid transformation (just where did Eric acquire a miniature replica of a 1988 New York Mets uniform, anyway?), I must address Eric's other action against me--updating his blog. After working for nearly a whole hour to catch myself back up with Eric's sporadically-updated web diary, I now have to set fingertip to keypad for yet another foray into mockery? I am not a machine, Walkingshaw! I have my limits!

But in keeping with the theme of taking good with bad, the bright side is Eric's entry today was mercifully brief, and thankfully very bathroom-centric. I am well-versed in bathroom commentary, having honed my skills at the venerable Washington Institute of Juvenile Humor, and I am confident that my turd-riffic ability will have you all urine-ing for more--it is, after all, a highly sought-after commode-ity.

Eric's bathroom complaints center around the plumbing, which unlike my bowel movements is highly irregular. He pooh-poohs the faucet arrangement, noting that they're aligned backwards and control their opposite functions. Normally, I wouldn't give two shits about this kind of insignificant wankery, but one must answer when doody calls.

There is also a complaint about the wiring inside the bathroom, which leads to this wonderful moment of semantic brilliance:

Finally, there are two light switches which control two lights...

Genius! Oscar Wilde, eat your heart out!

And then, just when you thought he'd exhausted his supply of mind-bending comments for one day, he drops the A-bomb:

Maybe our apartment's construction crew was Australian?

I have to admit, even given my inherent disregard for Eric's personality, I was dumbstruck by this closing comment. In this day and age, to revert to such inflammatory and quite frankly bigoted speech is genuinely shocking. After all the torment that Australians have had to go through in this country--being sent to separate schools, forced to talk with a funny accent, dress up in kangaroo outfits and take their children and belongings and go live and work in Australia--Eric has to add accusations of incompetent apartment construction? Why? Is it really necessary to perpetuate the stereotype that Australians are foolish, no-good layabouts, concerned only with waltzing their matildas under their billabong trees and surfing with kookaburras? Uncalled for and unnecessary, in my book. How dare you, sir?

You should be ashamed to derive happenis from such bigotry. There was no need to go that fart.

In Which Eric Goes to Germany (While I Do Not), Which Conveniently allows Me to Catch Up on Several Blog Posts with One Unnecessarily Long One

As you may know from reading Eric's blog (and don't expect any in-text linkage to his blog, either, especially since I've devoted the entire right side of my blog for that nefarious purpose), recently the curly-locked mecha-fetishist spent some time in Europe--Germany in particular; Munich in particular particular. Ostensibly he was there for some kind of computery conference-type thing, but I think I know Eric well enough to say that the real reason he journeyed halfway around the world was to get some nice, up-close sightings of Buxom Bavarian Babes, which I have capitalized because that's the way Eric tends to say it. I, as a human male of the heterosexual proclivity, cannot blame him for this. Nothing gets the blood a-boiling more than a Buxom Bavarian Babe, with the possible exception of a cannibal's cooking pot.

However, it goes without saying that Eric's adventure in the land of lederhosen and dirndls left me feeling, well, left out. My current lack of educational funding (or, for that matter, desirable intelligence) leaves me out of the loop when it comes to this computer-science-brainbox-conference-trips-to-lands-with-high-populations-of-traditionally-dressed-and-attractive women business. Now I could take the "high road" and simply congratulate Eric on his successful trip and his wonderful foreign experience, but that's exactly what Eric and his robot pals would want me to do. Instead, I will thumb my nose at their elitist snobbery and instead take what I call the "low road," where I passive-aggressively mock his trip by focusing on my very own "staycation" and the wonderful adventures I myself had while he was away. As an added bonus, this allows me to stop talking about Eric for a while and start talking about myself, which any of my imaginary friends will tell you is my (and, incidentally, their) favorite subject.

So away we go:

Part One: Landing

I land here in Lynnwood not via plane, but via waking up in my bed in the morning. How's that compared to a ten-hour flight, huh?

Part Two: Day One

Upon venturing outside, I am awestruck by the beauty of the local skyline. Not every city has the vision to make all its buildings look exactly the same. It is a bold statement of solidarity, of the true unity of our people; these buildings represent our collective squareness and mundanity. Surely Munich, with its centuries-spanning architectural designs and elegantly crafted exteriors, suffers from a massive internal conflict, unsure of its true identity as a city. I revel in the dulling simplicity of this town's architecture; it's a reassuring breath of conformity in a time of great global upheaval, filling me with a strong desire to retire to my sleeping quarters and spend this wonderfully sunny afternoon mindlessly shooting at computerized space-villains with my video-gaming box. Which I do.

Part Three: Day Two

I will admit that Lynnwood is sorely lacking in Buxom Bavarian Babes, but what we lack in that department we more than make up for in unwed teenage mothers. Also sketchy-looking streetwalkers. Though the latter really only tend to appear sporadically, and in very specific locations. Still, not all the world can have Buxom Bavarian Babes; and every indigenous culture is just as valid as any other.

I do spend the better part of this day trying to engage the afore-mentioned locals in conversation, but my attempts are either rebuffed completely or misinterpreted--as either "bein' all nosy an' shit" about their bulging, pregnant bellies; or, more unfortunately, as some kind of solicitation. Which, also unfortunately, lands me in the local jail.

Part Four: Day Three

I am in the local jail. They are kind enough to lend me a pad and some very sharp pencils, which I question, given that prisoners aren't supposed to have anything they can kill themselves with. Upon my questioning, they also supply me with a short strand of rope, a loaded revolver, and several shards of broken glass. They are a strange folk, these local police. Especially the one who keeps taking "bets" on which "implement" the men around the precinct would rather watch me do myself in with. I say, not very professional behavior, in my book.

All in all, the jail is made up of the same sanitary drabness that seems to be prevalent in this area; no narrow staircases or lavish, ornate Bismarck-era ballrooms for us, no sir! From what I can gather, the typical day in the life of a Lynnwood law-enforcement officer consists of writing speeding tickets, teaching D.A.R.E. classes, confiscating minor narcotics from teenagers, and then "disposing of the contraband." I notice they tend to giggle a lot and congregate in unseen areas of the station while they do the latter. Must be some kind of local custom, probably going back to those heady settler days of the early-to-mid 20th century.

Perhaps not as exciting as having to calm down excessively ebullient Buxom Bavarian Babes, but these fine law enforcement officers are serving the public good in their own special way. Also they appear very red-eyed and somewhat paranoid a good deal of the time. This might require further looking into.

Part Five: Day Four

I try to take my mind off women, especially their relative levels of Buxom Bavarian-ness, by indulging in the vast array of local cuisine at my fingertips. For breakfast I had deep-fried egg product with the finest ground sausage patty, all sandwiched between a delectably moist biscuit bun and rounded off with a side of deep-fried pressed potato substance. Also I had a Coca-Cola--straight from the fountain! How many eateries in Munich have Coca-Cola fountains? Probably not too many, I'm guessing. They're too busy with their "fine beer" and "cognac" and "uncarbonated non-tooth-rotting beverages." Neophytes!

The choices for food here are astounding. Feel like teriyaki? Just walk five yards and look in a random direction! Poultry on the brain? Enjoy a bucket of fried chicken! A whole goddamn bucket! Or perhaps you're more into a hearty beef concoction? We can either slap it in a bun with some ketchup and cheese or put it on a plate with some other high-cholestorol products! It's your choice!

The air is truly fragrant with the mixed smells of the many small local eateries here. There is even, I hear, some kind of underground, subterranean place where you can have something called a "subway sandwich" made for you. I don't know what that entails, but it sounds like some good deep-fried deliciousness. I shall seek out this "sub-way" at another time; for now, I must scarf down my lunch of beef-pattie-on-beef-pattie-on-beef-pattie-on-piece-of-stringy-lettuce-on-ketchup-on-mustard-on-thick-gooey-cheese-on-bun. Yum!

For dinner, I had a triple bypass operation. The street doctor was very courteous and delicate, and only mugged me after he'd completed the procedure. Highly recommended!

Part Six: Day Five

I have a grease-and-heart-failure hangover. Thankfully, the quaint grocers nearby have an ample supply of foodstuffs and medications to get me through my day. Is that a fresh copy of
2 Fast, 2 Furious I see in the DVD aisle? For only six bucks? Looks like I've found my cure!

Part Seven: Day Six

I take a walk around town again, and realize I am running out of things to do. Bowling?

Alright. Christ. Bowling.

Part Eight: Day Seven

Buxom Bavarian Babes.

Buxom Bavarian Babes, Buxom Bavarian Babes, Buxom Bavarian Babes.

Eric, you propitious fiend!

Part Nine: Day Eight

Okay, so maybe things aren't looking so exciting right now. But maybe I'm just not digging deep enough. I must dig through the surface of fast-food joints and convenience stores and strip malls and unveil the thriving, idealistic, artistic underground of this fair town! Surely there is something here to rival the literary works of Bertolt Brecht and Thomas Mann, or the revolutionary artwork of Gabriele Munter, or the classic, mold-breaking films of Rainer Werner Fassbinder and Werner Herzog. All I need to do is find it.

And here, here on the south wall of this old school building, I believe I have stumbled across the canvas of the inspired youth! It's a drawing that is simple, yet evocative; inscrutable, yet somehow...oh Lord. Oh Dear Lord. That is foul. Loathsome. To draw that...on a public structure...oh, dear Lord.

But what is this, floating in the breeze? A scrap of paper...perhaps a romantic poem, a paean to a lover lost? Or an eloquent yet forceful diatribe against the power-that-be? Or...Oh. I see. Apparently the young lady mentioned on this scrap of paper "doesn't give it." Short, to the point.

Well, then, I suppose it's up to me. Let this hate-inspired blog stand as the pinnacle of Lynnwood's artistic endeavor! Let me carry the torch for for our grassroots arts community! Allow me the honor of being our, if you will, Laureate! And if this shall come to pass, then...well...in all honesty, that's kind of sad. I'm going to bed.

Part Ten: Day Nine

To cheer myself up, here's another Buxom Bavarian Babe.

Well played, Walkingshaw. Well played.

In Which Eric's Betrothed Becomes a Fencing Champion of Sorts

Point 1:

Haha! Eric, you are the inferior fencer in your household! Looks like it's pretty clear who wears the knickers in this relationship.

Point 2:

As excited as I am that my dream of an Allison-induced Eric-stabbing closes in on realization, my joy is somewhat tempered by the fact that her grand victory has come over a man who swordfights with children for a living. Perhaps not the highest level of competition around.

Point 3:

On the other hand, I don't remember Eric saying he defeated The Instructor, so by the transitive property of fencing skill, Allison > Eric. How's that for pseudo-math, robot boy?

Point 4:

"Robot boy" is a childish, unimaginative insult. My aims would probably be better served by making some kind of snarky comment about the largeness of Eric's facial features, predominantly the nose.

Point 5:

Big-Nosed Robot Boy? Yes, that's much better.

Point 6:

Allison, if you are reading this and if your hangover has subsided, might I request that when you inevitably slay your collaborationist husband, you do so while declaring "From Hell's heart, I stab at thee!?" I'm sure Herman Melville would approve.

Found Data Structure

I got your missing data structure right here, pal.

Right here.

Diary of My Discontent, Part 2

I acknowledge that once again there has been a gap in my correspondence. I would take full responsibility for this, but as you may well know, that is just not my nature. So instead I'll lay the blame at the feet of the real culprits: court-appointed psychiatrists. As if I am somehow a "danger to society" who "harbors deep delusions about his fellow citizens" and "cannot be trusted with a toothbrush, let alone drive a car or ride public transportation." First of all, that toothbrush had it coming; secondly, do you realize how long it takes to walk everywhere in the suburbs? Rather a long time, I can assure you. The local grocer is open 24 hours and I still have to leave my house an hour early to get there before it closes.

Anyhoo, enough about my legal troubles; back to the action, eh? Just how did I intrepidly escape the clutches of that curly-haired nasal monstrosity called Eric Walkingshaw, and return to my less-than-grateful community? Well, read on:

Day 8

Depression. My escape is at least good two weeks away, if my calculations are correct; it is indeed difficult to register the days properly in my darkened prison tower/apartment bathroom, especially given the fact that I have adopted a few traits from my feline roommates and began sleeping at irregular intervals. Also I've begun combing my hair by licking my palms and running them across my scalp--which isn't all that bad, actually, since I'm beginning to resemble a Bunnyman. In any case, the grand Walkingshaw moving adventure will not be happening for some time, and I have two options: rack my brains to find an alternate solution, using all the willpower and ingenuity that I can muster to find my way to freedom; or, on the other hand, whimper and cry.

Day 9

I choose option two.

Day 10

Having nearly dehydrated myself with my weeping, I saunter over to the water bowl to find it empty. Strange, I think; then I realize that I haven't been fed for two days either. I also haven't heard the strange, deep-throated caterwauls that often wake me frightfully from my catnaps until I remember it's just the sound of Eric talking, and not some extra-dimensional monster creature bent on devouring my life-force. Have I been abandoned by my captors, left to rot in this large-laundried, racquetball-court-having apartment complex? The kittens are eyeing me hungrily. I meow threats at them, but they just cock their heads as if they can't understand. I can't help it if I have a thick accent! I was born human!

Day 11

At last, information! I heard the front door open today, and Allison rather foul-mouthedly celebrating a victory she had over someone called "The Instructor." I ask you: is it at all lady-like for a woman of such fine breeding to refer to male genitalia in such a derogatory manner? I submit that it is not.

There is a large amount of movement and rustling noises coming from the bedroom area. I fear the worst; thankfully, it is revealed that Eric is simply packing for some kind of trip, and it was not the audio portion of what I had assumed to be some kind of unclean co-mingling, if you catch my drift. As if my presence here wasn't horrific enough...

Anyway, Eric is apparently heading off to Germany for a while. Strange; I was not aware that the Germans were robot sympathizers--this may force me to re-think my love for gigantic unhealthy sausages.

No, wait--I can't help it. Robot-lovers or no, them Germans make some damn fine sausages. Herzerkrankungen!

Day 12

I yearn for gigantic unhealthy sausages. Instead, I am fed all the leftover bulk foods that Eric has left behind. I instantly gain 27 pounds.

Day 13

When all seems lost, hope, like the Terminator disappearing into a vat of molten steel, warms the cold, cynical insides of my heart. Allison's three-day-long bender following what I now understand to be a fencing victory of some kind has opened the door to my escape. Literally: she has left the bathroom door open after feeding the cats and I, having passed out on the floor, bottle of Jagermeister nestled in her hand. I slowly peer out of the open door, into the world that I left behind nearly two weeks ago; it is strange, for I feel almost reluctant to leave this place, as if it has become like a home to me. The two kittens I've spent so much time squabbling with stand awkwardly behind me; I cannot tell if they are wishing me farewell or pleading silently for me to stay.

Allison emits a loud unconscious burp. There is a widening pool of drool on the floor next to her face. Clearly, I have overstayed my welcome.

I step out of the bathroom and into the apartment proper, which is littered with empty bottles, all beer and liquor of German origin: St. Pauli Girl, Jagermeister, Warsteiner, and a variety of schnapps. It appears her victory celebrations have morphed into a self-destructive pining for her absent husband. I feel a tinge of sympathy, and then I smell something that eerily resembles the aroma of the litterbox, and I beat a hasty retreat.

The crisp autumn air smacks me in the face like the welcome-home slap of a jilted bride. I am free! Free! I do a cartwheel. I blow kisses at passers-by, shouting pleasantries at them, but they all look at me with a combination of fear and disgust. In my joy, I confuse this for wonderment, but upon reflection, I should have realized that when they were whipping out their cell phones and dialing hurriedly, they were not in fact calling friends and acquaintances to "get a load of this guy," but were instead informing the local police about the crazed man running in torn rags through the the streets of Corvallis, meowing like a kitten and looking oddly like he once belonged in a seminal 1980s rock band from Liverpool.

Day 14

The Corvallis jail is rather well-kept, I must admit. And the beatings are relatively gentle. If you're going to get arrested for indecent exposure and just generally being a transient crazy, might I recommend doing so in Beaver country?

The Diary of My Discontent, Part One

Day 1

My plans of launching an electronic attack on Eric's cyberspace defenses has been derailed by the fact, unbeknownst to me, that Eric has lost his Internet connection. Whatever am I to do with these downloaded photographs of extreme fecal discharge now? Perhaps there is some adventurous college student with a score to settle that I can sell them to. Also, I appear to have dropped my lucky ten-dollar bill--probably in that dumpy town I spent the night in. Hopefully this development will not come back to haunt me in a bitterly ironic fashion.

Further complications arise when my plans to surprise Eric at his front door using my clever "Chloroform Salesman" disguise is thwarted by his insistence on not being at home. His friendly neighbor, possibly alerted by my incessant pounding of Eric's door and high-pitched wails of frustration, informs me that Eric and his missus are out apartment-hunting. I thank the young man for this information by chloroforming him. His face sure does look funny with a penis drawn on it!

I decide to take a more guerilla approach and, prying open Eric's balcony door, set about enacting Operation Kitty Kidnap. The results are disastrous: the kitties are in no mood for kidnapping, and express this via sharp clawing of my face and arms. I am tearing the black one from off my eyelids when the front door opens and, much to my surprise, Eric is not keen on my uninvited visit. Currently, I am occupying a closet in his bathroom area, which reeks from the unkempt litterbox placed nearby, as well as my own fearful perspiration. Thankfully, my captor has allowed me to keep my handy notepad and pen, which helps me occupy the time inbetween crying fits.

Day 2

I awake to a domestic dispute, which in this household consists of Eric and Allison talking reasonably and calmly through their disagreements. Eric seems intent on keeping me prisoner at least until someone named "Robby" is consulted, whereas Allison seems more interested in not having an abductee mucking up their moving plans. I attempt to voice my own opinion on this matter, but the two of them either ignore or cannot hear my demands to find my mommy.

For lunch, I assert my evolutionary dominance and manage to steal some bits of Meow Mix from my feline roommates. I wash it down with a few laps of toilet water, which is surprisingly pleasant.

It appears Eric won the argument, as I hear the doorbell ring and Eric greet the mysterious "Robby," whose true nature becomes apparent as their conversation proceeds thusly:

Eric: pleased, Wookie-like groan
Robby: Bleep bleep blorp!
Eric: confused grunt
Robby: Blorp! Bleep blorp blorp!
Eric: conciliatory walrus wail

From the cadence of his groaning, I take it I am to remain a prisoner for quite some time.

Day 3

Doing your business in a litterbox: why have we humans not adopted this practice? Possible answer: getting litter nuggets out from under your toenails is a bitch.

Day 4

Eric came home today griping about some pear that hit him on the head. Note to self: recruit more pears! They appear to be sympathetic to my cause, unlike those treacherous, backstabbing pomegranates.

Day 5

Confound it all! I had been hoping that my presence, not to mention my increasingly offensive body odor, would have Eric on a razor's edge by this point, and hopefully cause him to slip up, security-wise. But alas! Today he came home in good spirits, and celebrated by once again refusing to feed me. From what I gather, he was able to repair his car for free, acquired some tasty squash (squash! A pox on that collaborating vegetable!), and found himself a ten-dollar bill sticking out of the mud.

Wait a minute...lost ten-dollar bill...Albany...mud....

Nooooooooooo!

Day 6

Recently learned fact: flaky skin fragments are good for peeling, not necessarily for eating.

Day 7

The Walkingshaws have found a new apartment! My opportunity for escape may be near. Surely in the tumult of moving house, they will neglect their abductive duties and allow me to slip free. The time has come for a plan of some sort. Hours of neck-craning eavesdropping has allowed me to glean a few details, which may yet prove useful:

--There is no second bathroom in the new apartment! Oh, sweet smile of grace, you shine upon me! No more will I be relegated to sharing my existence with cat feces and toilet water! Perhaps I shall be confined to a nice, comfy utility closet, or simply beat about the head with a hammer and left to bleed to death. The flame of my hope has not yet been extinguished!

--A smaller on-site laundry. Does this mean my rag replenishment will become less frequent? But where will I get my nutrients?

--No racquetball court. Ha ha! Victory for the non-paddle-sport enthusiasts!

--Ping Pong table? Rats! Victory snatched from the non-paddle-sport enthusiasts!

--Bigger kitchen. Wait--bigger kitchen? Meaning to say they've had a kitchen all this time? Lying fiends! And here I am eating my own toenail clippings!

--Gigantic walk-in closet: Hel-lo, roomier cell!

--Right next to WinCo. Great. Even more frequent, overly enthusiastic testimonials about their bulk foods section.

--They'll be moving...I can't quite hear that...the moving date is...October 15th. October 15th. October 15? October 15!!??

Noooooooooooo!

...to be continued...

In Which I Explain My Unnoticed Absence

It has been quite some time since I last posted, and quite some time since I have been able to sit comfortably in a chair, fully clothed, and enjoy all the wonders of modern computer technology. The reason for this is twofold:

a) I went on a journey a short while ago
b) Said journey developed into unexpected incarceration and mental degradation at the hands of the fiendish Eric Walkingshaw

Roughly three weeks or so ago, I decided that all this anti-blog blogging foolishness was just that and that I needed to undertake something more tangible, more hands-on, if I was ever to expose to the world the mad menace that my colleague/arch-enemy Eric Walkingshaw truly is. So I packed up a few supplies, drew up some rudimentary plans, and set off for the great wilderness of central Oregon, uncommonly referred to as "Beaver Country," which I can only assume is in relation to some kind of ritualistic, backwoods sexual depravity.

When I arrived things went smoothly at first: I found a cheap hotel with a one-eyed attendant who gracelessly showed me to my room and assured me the hidden camera that I heard whirring behind the bathroom mirror was not a hidden camera at all but simply "noisy insulation." From this impromptu and cockroach-ridden HQ I was able to study my plans, diagrammed to the finest detail on Denny's napkins, and prepare for the kidnapping, assault, or execution of Eric Thomas Walkingshaw, whichever came first and whichever proved easiest to accomplish with a belly full of peppermint schnapps and Mr. Goodbars. I then proceeded, as I had planned, to ingest copious amounts of peppermint-flavored liquor and peanut-inhabited chococlate bars, before passing out on the floor to the sounds of the motel proprietor chuckling perversely from within the wall cavity.

It was when I awoke that everything started to go awry. I kept a short journal while I was away on my mission, and in the ensuing posts I will reveal my entries to you, so that you may better understand the horrors I endured in that godforsaken savage-land.

In Which Eric Takes a Step Towards Umbilical Freedom

More often than not I use this blog as a means to tear Eric down off his pedestal, or at the very least make petty insults about him. But today I find myself applauding Eric's efforts, since in this case he has shown himself to be selfish, childish, and unreasonable; shown himself, in fact, to be human, more so than he has in a long long time.

I've never known Eric to be much of a whiner, but given the natural tone and cadence of his speaking voice, I can only imagine that when he does whine it is well-near unbearable. So I could forgive his wife and friends and family for caving to Eric's demands to move his date of birth further from Christmas, as apparently all the love and adoration and material wealth he gained from his birthday and Christmas being so close together was not enough to sate his desire for acceptance and monetary manifestations of love. After all, surely it is easier to fork over the dough for a bloated DVD set of fantasy-film goodness than to listen to Eric gripe about it for hours on end.

But as much as I understand, or pretend to understand, his loved ones' plight, I am on Eric's side in this matter. As far as the subject of birthdays is concerned, I have long been opposed to their clockwork tyranny. Once a year, every year, the date never changing; as if we are not men of independent thought and free will, but slaves to the machinations of the Gregorian calendar. Fie, I say, Pope Gregory XIII, and to you as well, Aloysius Lilius! You spent your time devising and decreeing a restrictive, oppressive calendar system while the Incident at Honno-Ji was occurring? Have you no shame?

But I digress. Eric's fight against the might of birth-celebration convention is a worthy one indeed. I can't claim to have the same feelings about birthdays as Eric does--he being of the liking variety, while I find them to be inconsequential and overrated exercises in self-affirmation--but I fully support him and his second birthday, even though I won't actually celebrate it or send him presents or, for that matter, even really think about him. Even though we are enemies, there is no reason for our differences to impede our march towards a better world, a world where we are not slaves to the actual date of our vaginal expulsion.

I realize that perhaps some of you found that previous sentence offensive, and for that I apologize. I did not in any way intend to demean or ignore those of you who were born via Cesarean, or via test-tube; just because you weren't ripped from your mother's womb through her cervix and labia, with placenta and birth fluid dripping off you like gravy, doesn't mean you are any less of a person, though I am rather surprised at your ability to read this.

That said, I applaud Eric and give him kudos; although I would much rather see the practice of celebrating birthdays abolished altogether, simply changing the dates arbitrarily and even adding second or third birthdays is a great leap forward in the quest to undermine and devalue this absurd tradition. For the moment, Eric, we are brothers-in-arms.

And the card I bought for you must have been lost in the mail. Probably eaten by dingos. Curse the wild beasts of the Willamette Valley!

In Which Eric Plays a Shitload of Tetris

So Eric played a bunch of fucking Tetris recently. He seems to think this is a really big deal. Meanwhile, a panda ate a whole bunch of fucking bamboo and some douchebag said a bunch of ignorant douchey things.

Also, Russia invaded Georgia...wait a minute....

Eric, are you controlling Russia's army with your Tetris!? You must stop! Or at the very least Allison you must improve because that means you're Georgia and all those deaths are on your hands! Your hands!

Actually, it turns out that Eric simply played a shitload of Tetris. Whooptee-goddamn-do.

In Which Eric Sucks All the Joy Out of Everything

Do you love to play board games?

Neither do I. But Eric Walkingshaw does, and he has done for as long as I can remember. Back in those halcyon days, before he turned against his own race in support of the covert robot plot against us, Eric would often try and get his friends together for a bit of Risk, or maybe some Skip-Bo, or even try and lure us into his family's lair and spend the evening boring ourselves to tears with Settlers. So enthralled with tabletop gaming was Eric that he didn't even realize Skip-Bo was more of a card game than a board game, and when he finally did learn that distinction he plunged headfirst into that sordid, quadruple-suited world, wasting his teenage years sitting by campfires and playing pinochle and canasta and all manner of other games that sound like sexually transmitted viruses, often in the company of unsavory fellows like this one.

I will admit that I did engage in such chicanery from time to time, usually when the Risk train rolled into town and derailed my dreams of having everyone gather and discuss our favorite Tupperware products. But unlike dear Eric, I played to lose. The game itself was of little fun to me; the only enjoyment I got out of it was the backstabbing and frustration that boiled to the surface as friends and sometimes siblings took their dice rolls a tad too seriously. Also there was one time when someone started goose-stepping around the table. But Eric proved rather adept of this game of mostly chance, a fact he wasted much breath reminding us all about, gleefully celebrating his prowess with the kind of bravado and swagger normally reserved for American football players.

So I suppose I should have seen this board game post of his coming. All the signs were there from an early age that he'd get involved in some kind of maniacal boondoggle such as this. Also, there were his constant verbal affirmations that yes, he loved board games, and in fact liked to analyze them and figure out why he enjoyed them so much, and intended to write about them on his blog. And also the first post of said blog, where he mentions specifically that he'll probably write about board games at some point. Still, when I opened up my Microsoft-developed (and perfected, I might add) web browser (Go Microsoft!), and saw that long treatise explaining his pseudo-scientific process for evaluating his own enjoyment of board games, I was stunned. Eric Walkingshaw is many things, but one thing I did not take him for, despite his pro-robot leanings and disturbing sexual inclinations, was a soul-crushingly antiseptic stick-in-the-mud.

Although I hold many grudges and differences of opinion with Mr. Walkingshaw, I've never once denied that he is a man who enjoys things. From his glee at beating arch-nemesis Stallings the Elder at Risk or NBA Jam or Tip-21 or Goose-Hatchling-Smashing, to his enthusiastic love for the gastronomically-challenging eatery Izzy's, Eric's shit-eating grin is a common sight for his friends/wives/accused-but-never-officially-charged-stalkers. But as it turns out, behind that grin--a grin that could melt the face off the most innocent baby--is nothing but the turning gears and dull, mechanical musings of a killjoy.

Rather than just embrace board games--the games he loves, not I--for what they are (to him, as I hate them, you understand); rather than simply accept the magic and wonder that fills his heart as he claims a hexagonal piece of grassland or whatever the hell it is that he does; rather than give in to the moment and let his heart be captured by the character cards and the 16-sided die and the muted smell of Doritos and ginger ale; rather than do that, Eric has instead gone all scientific, ripping the heart out of the pastime he so adores and replacing it with analytic nonsense and introspective tomfoolery.

So Eric can talk about "compelling decisions" and weigh them against the importance of "creative play," can analyze and try to quantify the push-pull relationship that exists between the two concepts, and can aspire to devise a formula that will help create the "perfect" game according to his arbitrary standards. He is free to do so. But I wonder if perhaps the little boy that lives inside of him--that lives inside all of us, especially those of us who have mental handicaps, not that I'm saying that there's anything wrong with that or that I'm somehow unaccepting of such people--I wonder if that little boy is gasping for air, feebly wasting away as Eric's scientific endeavors draw the life from his frail little body, as his inquiries and computations stamp out the last remnants of imagination and wonder that linger in his soul. I've known for quite a long time now that Eric was losing his way--choosing computers over the arts, siding with robots over humans, refusing to admit that The Princess Bride is not nearly as good a movie as he protests it is--but I've never known, until now, how perilously close he was to abandoning the simple pleasures of ignorant, uneducated joy. Will he never again watch a butterfly float on the wind and giggle? Will he never again be surprised by an erection in the bath? Has he already forgotten the excitement of biting into a Mr. Sketch marker, believing it would taste exactly how it smelled?

If so, then the Eric Walkingshaw I once knew and somewhat tolerated is no more. If board games can do no more than elicit a curious, analytical response in him, then all hope is lost. It is only fortunate that when the day of reckoning finally comes, I will feel no remorse when I reprogram his robot bride to attack instead of seduce him, although in all honesty Eric could have made it a lot more difficult by not putting those two switches so near each other, and labeling them so clearly.