They Let These People Use Computers?
I mentioned it yesterday and the time has come to reveal to the world that, for as crazy as you think you are, your family is or that one guy who lived in the single down the hall in your freshman dorm was, there will always, ALWAYS, be someone infinitely more batshit insane than that.
Now, whether you know it or not, people write fantasy stories involving other people, be them celebrities, personalities or even fictional people (and if you haven't, keep scrolling down because you soon will). It makes sense to read something about, say, the Brad Pitt-level of star or someone equally as "big" in the grand scheme of things. And I'll even allow for the possibility that on the Internets, one can probably find anything about anyone. But really - who has the time, energy, imagination or wherewithall to create a fantasy story about a minor character from, what we have established, an awful (if not entertaining, and screw you, Paul, for thinking otherwise) trilogy of Disney movies? The "people" at The Velvet Hammer, that's who. The following is an excerpt from a possible autobiography of Guy Germaine (center of the Oreo Line (still my favorite overtly racist name to get past the Disney censors)) and recounts his exploits, post-Ducks:
You see, when I was 22, I had a girlfriend, by the name of Connie Moreau. I'd
been dating her since we were ten, and seriously since we were fifteen.
We did everything together, from playing hockey to doing homework. I was with
Connie. Ninety-eight percent of my life I spent with Connie. The other two
percent? One was spent in the bathroom, the other sleeping. And even that
changed once we were older. I spent ninety-nine percent of my life with
Connie. We were together all the time.
"'Connie and Guy' shouldn't even be considered three words anymore," my old buddy Goldberg used to joke. "It should be considered one big word, and when you look it up in the dictionary, it should show your pictures. If they don't create a new word for you, they should at least have your pictures under the word 'attached'."
That Goldberg…he was such a joker.
Hockey continued on, and Connie continued on her job, and began spending most of her time on the job, even when I was home. Now I knew something was wrong. She'd never avoided me before. One night when I came home from a late practice at about 1:30 AM, that guy she'd been working with since her first day was there having a drink with her. I found out his name was Billy (yes, after two years I didn't know the man who worked with my girlfriend's first name) and that he thought Connie was great and that I was a lucky man. This made Connie blush and giggle.
A chuckle came from the other end of the phone and his familiar laugh filled her
ears. “Hey gorgeous, how was work?”“It was okay, I think the newest Golden
Gopher maybe from Eden Hall believe it or not.” She laughed, sitting down on one
of her dining chairs.“Oh really? That’s great, score another one for Orion’s
coaching technique. So what are you up to?”“Nothing, just missing you. How’s
things going in Ottawa? Ready to take out the Senators?”“I miss you too, baby.
You know Cons, you should really go out on the balcony.”Connie Moreau-Conway
arched an eyebrow and laughed softly. “Why?”“Just do it.” Her husband replied.
I didn’t stay out too late, and if I did, I was never alone. I never really put
myself in dangerous situations, well I hadn’t until now. I had always thought I
was pretty careful, never dressed, provocatively, never lead guys on, in fact
other than my friends and boyfriend, I rarely had anything to do with
them. But even if I acted recklessly, dressed provocatively, flirted with
the opposite sex and partied till early doors, I didn’t deserve this. No-one, no
matter how they act, deserves this. I don’t care what anyone says, no-one,
simply asks for this, because if they did, it wouldn’t be what it is. It
wouldn’t be rape.
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