Post Number Eight

“Elbows of Steel”

It’s a hard thing to admit this, but recent “shit”– having “happened”– has shaken my faith (if you believe in that sort’a thing) in the Miracle Narrative. When– on the one hand– you witness (Jehovah-like) a chick being wrenched out of a size extra-medium top hat you have to accept a hidden Mystery World out there which is much more occulty-lookin’ than scientificky-lookin’.

Yet on the other hand, when you discover how the (quote) “great” (end-quote) Authentico is not quite the miracle worker that gullible folks have pumped him up to be, then you have to accept a different sort’a thing, sort’a. That thing is called “responsible-ness”. And so it fell upon me (like bits of exploding pigeon) that I was “responsible” for telling those gullible folks whose hopes were (somehow) gotten up that there was now officially NO HOPE for them at all.

NO HOPE for the Ganoosh Boys, waiting by the phone (like I told ’em to) as they telegraph their sniffles ‘n’ twitches down their shared hairlines, from nose to nose.

NO HOPE for Aunty Beryl, whose Impossible Tap-Dancing Feet will never be seen in front of a Live shoe-testing audience.

NO HOPE for that poor Blind Guy, as he (probably) still fumbles around, looking for the dog I borrowed off him.

Hope is dead for these folks now: DEAD!!

Although… if I didn’t actually tell them… I could maybe prolong the life o’ their Hope indefinitely… Yes! That was now the plan. “Stay waitin’ by the phone, Ganoosh Boys!” (I cried, secretly.) “Tap-dance until your heels bleed, Aunty Beryl! Keep lookin’ high and low for that Smelling Nose Dog, Nameless Blind Guy! Hope alone may not make you fine folks “well” again– but it most assuredly will… y’know… stop you from hassling me when someone else tells you it’s dead.

Meanwhile, I was needing a hobby to distract me– and sure enough a highly distracting hobby has been found. I’ve discovered that “gettin’ sportay is my fortay”. Because, y’see, I’ve always been more of the athletic, beefcakey-type than one o’ them (note the devil-may-care grammar) eggheads who dabble in “science” and “The Occult”. So I felt it was time to flex a certain muscle much more bigger than my brain. I speak, of course, about my bulging bi-cep which I planned on putting to good use in that rough ‘n’ fumble sport called CYBER ARM WRESTLING. This is how it’s played: first you must register as a wrestler. You do this by logging on to the Wrestler Registrar. After you’ve registered at the Wrestler Registrar, you should then scroll down past the words “Jelly”, “Mud”, “Greco-Roman”, and “Romo-Greekin” ’til you find the word “ARM”. Right Click on Arm. Once you’ve done that, you must provide the registrar with your vital statistics. What this means is you have to give the Wrestler Registrar certain private information re: height, weight, muscle mass, and arm-size.

Of course, it sounds at first glance as though the system is open to abuse. Most people would grossly overstate the size and shape of their vitals. Or at least that’s what “they” (at the Cyber Arm Wrestling Federation) expect you to do. But it’s a ruse.

Y’see, as with every other sport, Cyber Arm Wrestling is not so much about the muscles you’re packin’ below your neck as it is the muscle you’ve got between your ears. And the smaller that muscle is, the better. That’s right. Even though the C.A.W.F doesn’t come straight out and cawf it up, the biggest advantage an athlete will have when competing in their sport is basically known as “bein’ stoopid”. Like in every other sport. And so, to test your stoopid-ness, they have devised a sneaky little sham-quiz called “The Mental Toughness Test”.

This quiz allegedly tests you in brain brawniness– and yet when you look at it more closely, it’s obvious that high marks in mental toughness will not be handed out for getting your answers “right”, but rather getting ’em WRONG. Counter-intuitive? Perhaps. But it’s the best way they have to trick you into revealing yourself (or not) as dumb– an’ therefore sporty (or not).

So I worked out a plan to out-“smart” the system by out-STOOPIDING it first, in order to blitz my opponents, who (I’m guessing) are all too stupidly smart to be smartly stupid (like me). Then– having taken on and conquered all-comers– I shall win the tournament and the grand prize: a free cyber arm wrestling video download called “ELBOWS OF STEEL”.

That’s just how D.D.T operates, kids. He makes the system his bitch.

It all comes down to giving the “right” wrong answers in the quiz, which of course is one of those multi-choice “never/sometimes/often/always” things. A sample question: “Do you cry when you can’t finish Sudoku puzzles?”

Now, the key word here is actually two words: 1) “can’t”; and 2) “finish”. When these words are welded onto that other key word (“puzzles”) we get right down to the real (but hidden) “question”, which is: “Can’t-Finish-Puzzles” dot-dot-dot? Which means, if we join the dots, the answer must be “always”. Get it?

But just in case you need more proof of their trickery, here’s another sample question: “Do you faint when you pass within ten yards of someone you merely suspect of being a Dentist?”

Hidden words: “Ten yards”. Because– without being an expert on backyard fencing or anything– I’d estimate you’d need the X-Ray vision of a fucking HAWK to even see a Dentist through ten yards. Therefore the answer (again) is “always”.

And so, having “failed” (read “passed”) the Mental Toughness Test by always answering “always”, I had my maiden cyber arm wrestling bout with… I dunno… some nine year old girl in Shanghai. Or somethin’…

There’s no reason to go into the details of this little miss-match, because clearly the result came as a result of only one thing: this nine year old kid outsmarted me by out-stupiding me. I’d also like to say that I did go into the bout with a nasty sprain to my cyber-elbow. And while I’m not using that specific injury as an excuse for “losing” (but what IS “losing” anyway? I mean, really) there’s another thing that surely would have sapped my cyber-energy. It’s also given me a Golden Rule for future online arm-related sports: No “Porn Hub” the Night Before.