Copypasta of a person’s past experience or events that is so absurd it became a meme of its own. Usually untrue stories that tries to circle jerk opinions.
Recently I decided to go to my local fighting game tournament.
Here's how it went.
I had been getting pretty good at Guilty Gear over the past few weeks, to the point where I was getting the input correctly for the Potemkin Buster 1 out of every 4 or 5 times I tried it. So I thought "I might not be the best yet, but, surely good enough for my local" -- and I decided to go.
It took place at a the comic & games store in the town center. The venue was full of people 10-15 years younger than me and even more drastically cooler. They all turned to glare at me as I walked through the door, but as I stood completely motionless like a gazelle hoping to blend into the grassland, their gazes slowly returned to each other and they continued to banter friendlily.
I sat down next to me first opponent, and reached out to shake their hand. They looked down at my hand, and then up at my eyes slowly.
"You're supposed to do that at the end of the match."
"Oh, s-sorry"
I got perfected twice and lost the match. At the end, I reached out again to shake their hand, but they just stood up and walked away.
Because I lost, I got moved down to the loser's bracket, which was literally below the main tournament because it took place in the basement of the comic shop. I could hear footsteps, cheering, and happy conversation in the floor above. Here in the loser's bracket though, the mood was a lot more somber.
My next opponent reminded me a little bit of me. They were equally nervous and disheveled looking. They said "Um, h-hello" and reached out their hand for a handshake as they saw me approaching. I said "you're s-supposed to do that at the end of the match." But as a look of deep sadness came over their face and they slowly put down their hand, I pulled them in for a hug.
I'm not sure why I did that.
I think that some part of me knew that, in this dark, dank, alien place, illuminated only by a single failing ceiling light and the neon glow of a few arcade machines, I had at last found a friend -- someone I understood, and who might understand me too.
They hugged back.
I lost that match by a very narrow margin, and as they jumped up and began dancing around and cheering ecstatically, I began to hate them. This was no friend of mine. A friend would not do this to me. After they were done dancing, they reached out to shake my hand. After a few seconds of pause, I stuck out my hand too, but didn't look at them and refused to close it around theirs as they grasped it. They shook my karate chop.
I thought that at that point, since I had lost and then lost in loser's bracket, I was free to go home. But one of the tournament organizers approached me and informed me that I was going down to sub-loser's bracket in the sub-basement of the store, and pointed me towards a descending staircase.
The people there were fewer, and it was darker. I could faintly hear sobbing in one of the corners, but as I went to investigate, another participant put his hand on my shoulder. He furrowed his brow in a look of pain and shook his head slowly.
"You can't do anything for them."
In sub-loser's bracket I went up against a man in a suit whose face was cloaked in shadow. He spammed May's dolphin move. I lost.
As I went to go back upstairs, one of the tournament organizers held out her palm to stop me, and pointed towards a staircase leading further down instead.
Going down through the levels, I lost to many interesting participants. One player played exclusively by bashing the controller against his face. One player was a mushroom with a few circuit cables clipped onto it, that I later learned was able to play because its bioelectrical signals got sent to a machine that interpreted them as fighting game inputs. One player didn't touch their controller at all, but instead just told me their life story, which was so tragic that I picked up their controller and won for them.
Finally, at the very bottom floor, where construction standards were long abandoned and the stairs and walls were just messily carved out of the earth's stone, I faced my final player. It was a small bit of metal framework, with a controller nestled in it. On it was a tiny piston that just pressed the jab button exactly once every second. I lost.
I hung my head for a moment, then said "close game" and stuck my hand out for a handshake, before remembering that I had played against a metal framework cube with a piston in it and retracting my hand slowly. Then I heard a slow clapping from the darkness.
"No neutral. No footsies."
Out of the darkness slowly walked a woman about my age, clad in a decorative poofy dress that looked more expensive than my entire life savings. She smiled at me warmly, continuing to clap slowly, but there was a hint of mischief in her eyes.
"No meter management. No mixups. No spacing. No learning. No strategy…
…You're perfect."
"Wh-what?"
"You're perfect. I absolutely must have you."
"Have me for…um…for what…"
(Her eyes went wide as her smile grew more manic.)
"WHY, MY MORON FAILSON HAREM OF COURSE."
"Um, I-I"
"Tell me, what do you do for a living? Let me guess, you work at a fast food restaurant? Or, retail?"
"No, I'm a--I'm a comic artist."
"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! Oh my god, you are PERFECT. What will it take to get you."
"To-to ge--"
"You would be well taken care of, of course. 3 Michelin star dining for every meal. Only the finest, softest sweatpants and sweatshirts, pre-stained with whatever flavor of Takis your little heart desires. You would have access to the entire mansion except for the main foyer when I'm in business calls, and you could make all the comics and play all the fighting games you want."
"I'm uh--"
I knew that I had to think fast here.
"I'm already i-in a moron failson harem."
"Oh, DARN IT!! TELL ME, WHO IS IT??? WHO GOT YOU??"
"I-I think I'm not allowed to s-sa--"
She stomped her foot petulantly, her shoe clacking against the stone floor.
"WAS IT SHUXUAN?? IT'S ALWAYS SHUXUAN HOGGING ALL OF THE GOOD ONES."
"I-I'm sorry," I blurted out, shuffling along the wall to make a wide radius around her and then running up the staircase.
As I got home and began making my standard dinner of Trader Joe's microwave falafel, I thought about her offer. Maybe I should have taken her up on it after all. A 3 Michelin star meal right now wouldn't be so bad.
Then I hopped on Guilty Gear and lost 22 matches in a row.
HR
I rejected a CV from a candidate twice.
He applied for the third time, and I called him for an interview.
And guess what? We offered him a role right after the interview.
Now, a year later, he has become the Team Leader and is performing excellently.
The lesson I learned from this: do not always judge a person solely based on their CV.
Sometimes, they are more than that one-page profile.
Give a chance to candidates; they have energy and ideas more than you can think of.
Oh I can't believe it no one showed. Who's gonna eat all these oysters and drink all this champagne? I hate to see it go to waste. Why doncha join me clown? Feel free to take your big red nose off I keep it warm in here. You sure you don't want to take your big red nose off I could hang it on the rack. (What are you some kind of serious clown).... why don't you have some more booze clown? We'll revisit the big red nose after 2 bottles. I bet it will slide right off sexy easy. Give us a little peek of what's underneath. If its another nose I'm going to tickle your cheek with a rose and call you my little Russian nesting doll. If it's an ear or something instead I might need a few drinks myself. But I might still be into it as long as you keep the paint on.
My wife has a cardboard cutout of Henry Cavill from one of the Superman movies propped up in the corner of our bedroom. She's hot glued a dildo to whereabouts his penis would be, and it's a hefty dong that certainly puts some stress on the cardboard, and every night before bed, she'll gag on Henry's hubby club until she's begging me to pull her off for her own good because for some reason she thinks that sucking this faux cock is not cheating, but if she where to stand up, bend over, and, ya know, let Henry slide in and make another box office smash, then that would be cheating. Luckily, I work out almost as much as the real Henry does, so I'm able to wrestler her strong mouth away from the cutout and get her into bed where she can calm down. The whole nightly ordeal goes on for about 30 or so minutes, but she sleeps like a baby afterwards, so I can't complain too much.
Mmm. Mhmm. You're not alone, that's for sure. It's almost a service to the people to have just wobbling jugs plump for slurpring, and I should know because I grew up around it.
My mommy was the town milk ma'am back in the day. I don't think I appreciated it then, but thinking back, she worked so hard to provide for me and my other two or three brothers.
Each morning, before the butt crack of dawn, she'd heave herself out of bed and put on her milking dress, ya know the kind, where the front just flips down to let a set of mondo chubber boobies hang out. And hey, nothing sexual, but she had the most powerfully plump and impressively enormous tatter tots, mama cha-chas and me and my two or three brothers suckled upon well into adulthood. Everyone did, really, seeing as how she was the town milk ma'am.
Well, she'd get her dress on, and I'd hear her straining to put on her orthopedic boots and tighten her milk ma'am support corset (eventually, I'd have to help her to tighten it as she got older). Then it was down to the kitchen to throat 4, sometimes 12 or 16, sticks of full fat butter to nutritionate her milk. There were a lotta hungry people in that town, and she wanted to give them the best milk she could muster. She'd power squirt a cream stream and fill each of my and my two or three brothers' cereal bowls up, and sometimes she'd give us a suckle for the road, then be off.
She had a route, of course, that took her all through the town and hit everyone when they needed to be hit all the while her massive breasts bounced and sloshed with every heavy step. It was graceful though! Everyone needed her milk and she made the delivery look easy. Hell, I'd say our town was scheduled around my mommy's titties. I went with her plenty of times (again, into old age when I had to wheel her around in a wheeler's chair), and it was just so heartwarming to see everyone so eager to see her.
Greetings were short, and suckling was long. Each man, woman, and child in the town would lock their quivering lips around my mom's bright, domineering nipples and take deep, hard pulls of fresh, piping-hot, delicious breast milk. But no one was greedy! No one was greedy, no. They took their fill and were happy. Everyone in the town needed my mommy's milk, she was the town milk ma'am after all, and it was this collective attitude of "Love Thy Neighbor" that made everything run so smoothly. You don't really see that anymore, do ya?
At the end of the days, long days, necessary days, loving days, she'd come home with her yams half deflated, her nipples red and throbbing, but with a huge smile on her face knowing what good she'd done for the people of our quaint little town. Me and my two or three brothers would ice down and then lotion up her worked over breasts as she laid in her recovery chair with the TV on. Often she'd fall asleep, exhausting as it was to be a milk ma'am, especially for an entire town. We'd watch her chest slowly rise and fall as she tenderly dreamed whatever dreams she dreamed. My two or three brothers always got a kick outta watching her melons ripen back up, plump up nice and juicy with more milk, as she rested. They laughed, sure, and it was a delightful to watch, but I was always filled with a sense of pride watching those boobies swell back up.
She's been retired now for several years, though her tits don't show it. Even at nearly 80 years old, she's still got the juiciest baboingos I have ever seen. Well, haha, maybe I'm just a bit biased because she's my mommy. She was the best milk ma'am this town has ever had. They just don't make 'em like her anymore.
Love ya, mommy.
About 15 years ago, my ex and I were arguing about whether to get the 7 layer dip or guacamole at HEB in Austin. I think it was a Saturday morning.
Anyway, we sat there debating, hogging the area, when a voice behind us said "get the 7 layer dip, it already has guac in it." I turned around and saw it was Drew Brees. He's shorter than I thought he would be and he says "in fact pass me one of those dips."
My ex saw that I was flabbergasted, so she handed him a 7 layer dip.
I told him I was a big fan and him and LT won me a fantasy championship a few years prior. He laughed and said LT is the best before walking away.
Anyway, this dude has good taste, that 7 layer dip was tasty as hell.
