carnalascetic

As I was waiting to get the muffler replaced (oh and how did I get bent over: brutally fucked before my hand could even reach for the astroglide) on my Japanese handcrafted automobile I decided to drop into the local music/role playing/videogame store in SLO (yes, Captain Nemo's for those in the know). G'damn. All the customers were...well how do you say...soft? Pudgy. Their clothing was either one size too small (to showcase their loop I guess) or three sizes too big. It looked like the heaviest thing they had lifted recently was a RPG manual (probably entitled something like "Chaos House In Warpspace of the Doomed Ratspawn: Player's Handbook"). I wanted to take them all out for some core strength training and wind sprints.

"Come on fucker! You wanna see your miniatures you gotta give me another rep! You piggy little fuck! I don't care how far in World of Warcraft you are! Push! Ok, you asked for it. I'm tearing up your Psionic Valaishian Wood Elf Tech-Cleric if you don't get up! You chubby Red Bull swilling fatty- Stop CRYING!"

Ok. I know it only bothers me because I was one of those butterball nerds at one point; And it pains the atrophied part of me that still is.

Now, to see if I have the balls to change my brake pads (and possibly rotors) by myself...or get face more violent anal penetration by having a shop do it.

Much love (really)
Scott/SKS/Powerboy/Doug Pearl