Tuesday, November 24, 2009
See this guy? A few months ago, I wrote this blog post:
This Man Could Be Your Father
Today I was watching the local news and came across this story:
Adopted Son Traced Biological Parent to be Charles Manson
I tried to put myself in this person's shoes.
It wasn't the best day in the world when you found out from your kid sister that you were adopted. And while you have accepted this information as fact, not a day goes by when you don't wonder who your real parents are. Eventually, curiosity gets the better of you and through a lot of hard work you are able to track down your birth mother and are able to get her contact information. One day you finally get the nerve up to reach out to the woman that put you up for adoption. It's awkward as hell at first but you strike gold, she wants to have some sort of relationship.
You exchange letters, emails ... finally your life is beginning to make a bit of sense. Reasons for why you act a certain way come into focus. You get pictures of family members and the face staring at you in the mirror every day starts becoming less of a stranger; I have grandpa's eyes, that cleft chin is from Uncle Tommy. The puzzle of you is coming together, however it's only half-way completed.
After finding out about your mother, you want to know a bit about your father. Mom knows who the guy is, but she isn't telling. You keep pressing to know, begging to know, demanding to know until she finally relents and tells you that you were conceived during a drug-fueled orgy/rape by none other than Charles Manson.
“The Charles Manson,” you ask.
“Yes. That Charles Manson,” your mother answers.
Rockford, IL resident Matthew Roberts, who is the spitting image of his infamous father, has predictably slipped into a depression about who has daddy is. And while he isn't the Zezozoze Zadfrack that I referred to in my original Blog post, it still must suck.
Sometimes ignorance is bliss.
Easy for me to say, I know who my parents are.
Tuesday, November 03, 2009
Every few days I get an email from the Underwater King of the Deep Aquaman begging for a chance to write for 19 Thoughts again. If you're a new reader to 19 Thouhts, Aquaman used to write for the Blog at a pretty regular clip. You can see some of his examples in some of the earlier posts, beginning with August of 2004. He was a pretty good writer, but a tad bit caustic. I've decided to give him another shot and without any further adieu, here is Aquaman:
Thanks, asshole. It's me, it's the A to the Q to the U to the A to the man and I'm back where I began. Kickin' it old school with a rhyme, that's just how the AM rolls.
First off, I have no idea what Byron is talking about. Caustic? What does that word even mean? If you're saying that I write in the nude, you're wrong. Dead wrong. I always write with my pants on. Always. Or at least most of the times I do. Anyway, I'm not here to talk about that mouthbreather Magrane, I'm here to drop a little Seven Seas knowledge on your asses.
The other day I was swimming close to the shore and looking at some of the finest bathing-suited ladies when I stopped cold in my tracks by a familiar sound that was coming from the beach.
“Argh matey! Tis a fine ale you brought me and reminds me of me favorite kind of socks ... arggggh-yle!”
Then there was a gale of laughter. But to me, this was no fucking joke. There were pirates on the beach and only one person could stop them from their raping and pillaging, Aquaman!
I quickly pulled up my pants, got out of the ocean and ran up the beach. There was the foul-mouthed pirate himself taunting his victims with cruel jokes about “Aargh-rated movies” and how his favorite TV show is “Aargh-rested Development”. I thought that was strange because I am a gigantic AD fan and I had no idea that they had a show. Have you ever heard that song “Tennessee”? That song kicks fucking ass, shit where was I? Oh yeah, the pirate.
I grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and said, “Listen here, you barnacle-balled dog, I'm in charge of the ocean and I won't have it befouled by you or any of your rapscallion bunch!”
A quick aside: you have to talk like that to a pirate because those motherfuckers don't understand nothin about the street, which only makes sense because they don't have streets in the ocean. They have straits, but not streets ... gigantic difference there, my friends.
Anyway, this guy turns around and says, “What the fuck are you talking about? Who the hell are you? Why aren't you wearing any pants?” I told him that I'd ask the questions in this little play and he was to tell me who he is now or risk a beat-down that would humble Poseidon himself.
The pirate's prisoners sat agape and then began chuckling. “I know who you are,” one said. “You're Aquaman.” And the chuckle turned into a deafening laugh. It's always a plus when your legend proceeds you and people are aware of the good times you bring. I was glad to have found a group of sympathetic souls but there was to be no Zima to be chugged until after I saved them from this merciless pirate.
I saw the pirate say something to one of the captors who then said to me, “Aquaman, it's a good thing that you're here! The pirate Mike Nessmith was about to dig a sand pit and bury us up to our necks! He said that the seagulls would have a fine time feasting on our eyes!”
I told them not to worry and that I was there to save them. “Since you were going to bury these poor people, I think that you should be the one to be buried! An eye for an eye, that's how we do on the seas. That's why seamen say 'Aye-aye', that's a nice piece of trivia for all of you.”
And with that, I began digging like I've never dug before. After about three hours, I had dug a hole deep enough to fit this Mike Nessmith up to his bastard pirate head. Gentle reader, I have heard of Stockholm Syndrome but I had never actually seen it before. The pirate and his prisoners were playing volleyball, when I announced to them that I was through with the hole.
Nessmith and walked over to the pit and said, “Tis a fine pit, Aquaman, but I don't think it will hold me.”
He and I were about the same height, so to assuage his fears I jumped in to show him that the pit was indeed deep enough. Just then his prisoners started scrambling like mad and began to bury me—their hero!—in the very pit that I created for their captor! I was so angry I couldn't move as the shovels of dirt fell on top of me.
“Aquaman, you're a chump,” Nessmith said. “I'm not a real pirate. I'm just a guy who likes to make shitty jokes and wear a bandanna. I don't even have a ship.”
He was right, I neglected to look for a vessel. God damn it, this always happens to me , which is probably why Hawkgirl won't return my phone calls. Fuck her though, she's a bitch and so are her stupid wings and pointy nose.
“But you're a moron. Good luck trying to use your ocean telepathy to get you out of this one, dick squeeze. Oops, looks like the tide is coming in! Let's go guys ... back to the streets.”
Fuck! It's one thing to be fooled by a person who was pretending to be a pirate, it's another thing not to recognize someone from the streets. I've spent my entire life on the streets, how could I not recognize that this guy was from the streets? Cocks and starfish!
As they sped off the water began inching closer and closer to my face. I can breath under water, but the salt water ravages my beautiful skin. This is a fate worse than the time Apache Chief decided to become Jewish and tried to perform a circumcision on himself. Though, I will admit that I managed to stay a lot drier this time.
I summoned forth all of strength and was able to break out of my own pit and not a moment too soon as the waves came trickling in! The bad news was that I was fooled and humbled by a bunch of punk kids, the good news is that there are no pirates raping and pillaging on this beach (because that's my job, mofos!) so I jumped back in the water and went to tell my wife Mera, Aqualad and my walrus buddy Tusky about how I saved the world from pirates.
Don't tell anyone the truth, ok?