New comics Monday, Wednesday, and Friday!
Dee Yun: (contact-deleteme[at]-deleteme-direman [dot] com) 2007-09-17 05:01:30
Sorry about today's strip not being funny. Or maybe it is, and I'm too close to the source. I dunno. Whenever I call Microsoft customer service, Max is so cheery, and by the time I get a live representative, I just don't have the heart to yell at some poor guy just trying to do his job who probably gets yelled at all day long anyway. I wish I had a way of finding the person(s) responsible for taking five weeks to replace my broken Xbox 360 with another broken Xbox 360, so I could pee in their eye.
So, I don't have anything video game related to talk about. My replacement 360 passes out from intense fever, I haven't yet received my copy of Heavenly Sword for the PS3, and there isn't any game news I can rant about. I need some senator to claim that video game violence is the cause of an increase in cases of anal herpes among six-year-olds.
Instead, I will regale you with a tale of my own defectiveness. When I was a freshman in high school, I made the varsity 4x100 squad of my track team. I was fast, but retarded. I had major issues with the baton. I'd fumble hand offs, dropping the baton or outrunning the passing zone before my teammate could pass it off to me.
Typically, the lead off guy and the final leg are the fastest members of the squad. By this standard, I had no right to the position, but my coach placed me first for two reasons: I was lightning quick out of the starting blocks, and this way, I only had to hand it off once, reducing the odds of my retardedness in half.
We were running at a big invitational, with schools from other states and a huge crowd of spectators, so I especially didn't want to screw up. I repeatedly envisioned the race in my mind, from exploding out of the starting blocks, through every stride of my leg, to making damn sure I passed the baton off cleanly. And that's exactly how it went down.
I launched myself right with the crack of the gun, reaching full sprint while my competitors were still rising, struggling to accelerate. Knowing I had burned everyone in my leg, I concentrated on delivering the baton to my teammate smoothly. Willing myself to perfection, I caught him in full stride. Watching my teammate tear off to victory, I raised my hands to embrace glory. The next thing I know, some guy slams into me, cursing and gesticulating wildly.
I was so engrossed with watching my team's domination of the race, that I had strayed over into an opponent's lane, interfering with his progress. Our team won the race handily, but I, of course, in a masterful display of magnificence that only my retardosity could possibly muster, had disqualified us.
Now Playing - MotorStorm (PS3)