Staring at my Chest

5 12 2006

Two things bother me about people.  (Not just two, but for arguement’s sake, let’s just say two)

Numero UNO. Their insistiance that I look like someone that they know. I recently uploaded an image of myself to my profile.  I don’t know how you would go about accessing it but if you answer three riddles correctly and can trick the wily fox to give you a ride across the river on it’s back then you should be able to see me and re-affirm that indeed, the only person whom I look like is… me.  Not Sean William Scott, Not your cousin’s best friend, Not Wilford Brimley without a mustache, Not the guy who kept grabbing your butt on the bus… *ahem*   You get my point.

Second thing.  Ladies,  Stop staring at my chest.  My eyes are up here.  Sure, I have a nice body and I like to wear shirts that accentuate my rippling pectoralis muscles, but I am a person not a pair of beautiful, albiet, massive and powerful set of pecs.  Even when I wear low cut, V-neck shirt and go out on the town, and even though your eyes are naturally drawn downward like they were being pulled by a tractor beam, you must not disrespect me by looking at what I deep down, secretly actually want you to look at.  Dont do it!  For I will yell at you and call you a creep.

Finally heres a cautionary tale of something that happened to me recently.  Recently I was in Singapore brokering a 57 million Yen deal for breeding rights to the world’s only shadowcat, when my personal bank, I won’t use their real name, lets just call them Mells Margo, starts  a hostile takeover bid on my personal accounts.  The begin with a diversionary lateral assault by my insurance company followed immedately by a series of brutal overdraft attacks.  Feeling well protected by my hired overdraft goon squad, I waited for the enemy to come to me.  But to my own horror, the goon squad was actually high trained enemy agents in the employ of… duh, duh, daaaa!…. MELLS MARGO!  They had been playing me this entire time waiting for their opportunity to strike.   My account was hemmoraging funds faster than a guy with a pitchfork in his jugular, I had to act fast.   A quick wire transfer to my swiss account stopped any futher depletion of funds and  to repay this evil corporate giant I would need to go to the source.   I went to my local bank, which is located in in a boggy marsh, I realized how much it resembled a cave, and how I never noticed the smell of rotting flesh there before, or how i could have missed that giant pile of human skulls along the walls.  I travelled down into its sulfurous depths and there they were the bank’s board of directors.  Hitler, Pol pot, Darth Vader, Jimmy Stewart, and the chairman,  Mephisotpheles.   I quickly sprayed them with Holy water flavored Powerade and they screamed in agony.  They agreed to give back half of the stolen money in exchange for my soul.  I told them…ok.  
And thats my story, with minor embellishment.

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One response

10 12 2006
Mark Wilson


(BTW It’s like three posts in one! I really only want to link to the middle bit – about the ladies looking at your chest).

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