Your Way Out: Solution in 3 Shades of Awesome

It’s the big day. You have prepared for the presentation with everything you could arm yourself with: corroborating documentations, related statistical information, facts-facts-and-more-facts, a thumbs up from your immediate boss, a well made powerpoint presentation with graphs and hyper-links, and, most importantly, a good night's sleep. You say to yourself, "this is it," and that nothing else could possibly go wrong. You propel yourself into the boardroom with more confidence than what most TV personalities have while in front of a camera during an international live airing of the single most will-be watched coverage of something with global relevance and importance.

You wait. Five minutes 'til shake and bake.

Standing in front of your audience, you stare at 10 of top brass executives occupying the highest positions in your company. It is after all a proposal your subsidiary's New York Head Office have taken a liking on the moment you first presented the revolutionarily sound business solution via electronic mail. That's a two-level promotion in the bag once your 30-minute-tops talk is done.

Time flies when you enjoy what you do. Your talk is soon over and you open the floor to Q&A. The AVP for Finance clears his throat and you acknowledge him by nodding in his direction. He mumbles something expected and, God, you are so prepared for it. You formulate the single, best, most eloquent sentence construction of this deal-closing answer you have inside your head. You say, “Thank you,” followed by a brief pause, preparing your audience for something they would definitely blow their brains out the moment words of refined precision start flowing out and through your authoritative chops.

Then, it happens.

You involuntarily twitch the instant you felt the solid, burning sensation on your testicular area. Something is biting and it doesn’t have plans of stopping any time soon. You have the tendency to scratch but thought better. You can NOT do anything. Instead, you prolong the awkward silence, muster a gasp, bite your inner lower lip to prevent yourself from groaning, all the while fighting a lone solitary tear from rolling off the side of your eye and down your cheek. The discomfort leaves you paralyzed, agitated, and out of focus. Since you can't even brush the side of your palms over your groins to at least alleviate your discomfort, the wretched spawn of the devil keeps on hanging on to biting your nuts like your flesh is some divine manna. You picture it shaking its head in conviction as it chews on you. It then makes a sound of angst and triumph, inaudible to human ears, that when translated could well be "FOR. THE. QUEEEEEEEN!"

I watch you from the vantage of your audience. Since I know nothing of your sorry predicament, a conclusion shapes itself inside my head. “This is a waste of my time.”

This scenario is not that far fetched. In fact, it could happen to anybody, either with or without balls, in whatever age, career, or ethnicity. What may seem like a dead end to your smoothness is still redeemable if you follow these simple fail-safe steps.

You politely excuse yourself from your audience by declaring a five-minute rest period as you walk towards your immediate superior. You tell your boss to take over the discussion one minute, should there be any offhand questions from the group, while you run off to get an important file from your work station. You exit, close the door behind you and you rush to the nearest restroom, into the nearest unoccupied cubicle, not wasting any time to unfasten your belt, pants, and boxers with a single yank.

What you do next is up to you but here are several awesome options:

OPTION 1: The-Ordinary-yet-Awesome

You bend over for a better view of your gems and you take the blasted ant off its reverie using your thumb and index finger, crushing its fragile body in the process. Not done with your revenge yet, you put its lifeless body over the tip of anything handy, like a ballpoint pen. You fish out your trusty lighter and let its bluish torch burn the abomination in front of you. You experience wave upon wave of bliss with every flicker, every burning sound, every manifestation of yellowish ember, and fast eventual charring of the sucker’s fragile armor. All is good.

OPTION 2: Death-by-Death-God Awesome

You part your jewels to have a better view of the insect’s face. You will know its name, having traded your eyes with that of a Shinigami. You fish out your Death Note. You write its name down while remembering closely how the insect looked like. You then proceed to write down the elaborate “cause of death” you have crafted especially for it and only it within six minutes and forty seconds from the time you have written its name down. You write: it will be tortured in levels far beyond what beings its size would normally bear and undergo and it will die in the hands of another Shinigami’s Zanpaku-To’s Bankai. You then go into the details. Everything will happen within the next 5 minutes. You feel a chill as a paralyzing force suddenly envelopes everything. Yamamoto Genryuusai Shigekuni will arrive. He knows your predicament. He turns you around using nothing but his Reiatsu so he could have a better aim at the insect that’s still attached to your balls. You spin around, bound by something unseen, like a wrestler's grip, only more awesome. Without further ado, he chants "Banshou issai haijin to nase," or “reduce all to ash.” Everything feels weird. You suddenly feel heat all round you that grows in intensity by the second. In one blinding instant, a bright light flashes. Then everything is still. Next thing you know, the ant has burnt and charred together with a few of the tips of your wiry genital hair. The old man disappears and leaves you panting from unease. With only the smell of burnt pubes in the air, you become thankful and realize that all is still good.

OPTION 3: Help-from-Powerful-Women Awesome

You wait until midnight. You wait for the right time because the awesomest of revenge is never rushed. You go online and search for Hell Girl’s site. Once there, you type in the name “Antoine,” or “Ant1” in ant-spell, in the site’s only blank field. Over it are the words, “we will exact your revenge.” A few moments later, Enma Ai appears and gives you a straw doll with a red string. She gives you a warning in her emotionless voice and expression, “Beware, two graves are dug when one seeks revenge.” What she means is she will take the victim’s soul to Hell if you agree that she will have to take yours, too, when you die. Blah, you pull the string anyway and the wheel of revenge starts to spin by the weaving of the gracious Enma Ai as she re-appears in front of your balls in the smallest of her imaginable form and says to the ant, “ippen shindemiru?” She goes into the victim’s mind, reminds it of its inhumane acts, and then Ran (Texhnolyze), Major Motoko Kusanagi (GITS), Flower Maiden (Wolf’s Rain), Dita (Chobits), Kagero (Basilisk), and Otonashi Saya (Blood+) suddenly appear from nowhere. They each hold on to an arm of the insect and they pull them out at the same time. With a shrill chorus of uproarus banter, the women disappear with a tiny limb each. Next, an army of dust mites swarm at the remains of the still living insect. Hell’s dust mites. A thousand times more vicious than the earthly dust mite. They bite and inject excruciating pain with a mere touch. In the end, Enma Ai takes the soul of the insect on a ferry to the gates of hell. She leaves you with a flame tattoo on your chest. Her mark of damnation.

You will not be awesome until the next day, but all is still good.

Which soever way you choose, it ends the same way.

You flick the unrecognizable remains of the lifeless bastard in the toilet. You flush it. As the water swirls in Orinoco waves, you spit on it while muttering a triple bad karma inducing curse. Only then will you have finally avenged the future generations your loins will breed.

You massage your now-swollen sac and fix yourself, breathing normally now, albeit still uncomfortable. Somebody walks in the john to find you washing your face from the sink faucet and asks, “everything OK?” You answer with a mutter that sure sounded like, "Ass.”

He will walk towards the urinals as you exit the restroom. He will fish his member out of his pants and catch a whiff of something burnt in the air. Like the heady smell of smegma that he will only later that same day's night realize as his per his wife's nagging remark of disgust. He will wrinkle his nose and pay it no mind in a few seconds. After all, the long day ahead lined up with board meetings is at the top of his worries.

You regain your composure like a stud who just claimed a harem of 14 deprived concubines as you re-enter the boardroom.

You will rock. You will kick ass. You will succeed.

And you will have me to thank for it.

Bitch.

Labels: Anime, Humor, Man-Blog, Vertigo

posted by Fritz @ 6:07 AM