Anymore I find myself and more of an existentialist and less Nietzschean. I’m not sure if that has something to do with aging, or if it’s just the natural progression of philosophy. I’m not sure it’s a change for the better, but I know that you can never get better without changing, because changing is directly implied by the word improve. Maybe the world has changed and I’ve just been unconsciously adapting to it.

I’ve been nursing an existential crisis for three weeks now; after finding myself in a new job, in new surroundings, with a new lifestyle, as part of a different social class. I found that I was a man without a without a mission, a man without goals, a man without convictions.

Recently, a new movement was proposed, which was given the title of Atheist+ (A+) which combines atheist with social justice advocacy, on a mission to fight “racism, sexism, homophobia, transphobia, ableism, classism, ageism, neurotypicalism, animal welfare, environmental issues, and various political issues (health care, crime, drug laws)”. It would be easier than it sounds, since I already align myself with most of these causes, clearly I must join this sub-movement, as I must do what is right. Such a campaign would validate me and give me meaning again, but… I don’t know…

Still, I immediately wanted to sign on to this. It just made sense, unlike Christian social justice, which was always a joke. Social justice exists to protect people from the Christians. The thought of combining atheism with social justice was a quick and easy answer to my existential woes, and my daydreams were filled with the thoughts of traveling around California, writing wrongs with my new best friend, an adamantine Trans-Am. I could finally live life the way I was meant to…

I mentally made a list of the minor changes I would have to make to fit this mold. One of which, was that I would have to re-write a previous entry where I referred to Yoko Ono as a “vorpal cunt.” Suddenly, I was presented with a dilemma. I either play nice and take back some mean things I said (about Yoko, of all people), or to leave them dishonestly represent myself as the sort of person who would not say those things.

I can’t do it. I can’t bring myself to not-hate Yoko Ono. After some though, I saw the real problem at hand. It’s a pre-packaged ideology, and if I was in the market for one of those, I would’ve just stayed Catholic. Furthermore, the scope was so broad that only the most virtuous can be admitted, with no mention of those who are mostly good; who support some causes but not others. The mostly virtuous are left without a definite status, like those bastards locked up in Gitmo. I don’t advocate all of the causes of the A+ agenda. I am not omni-virtuous, because I am not like the Christ — I am a mortal, fallible man, long doomed by fate to death. I can not live up to the A+ ideals because I am not ideal. I’m not completely good, but I am mostly good, will I be mostly praised for that, or will I be damned by the godless damned?

Of course, when you read farther, we see that once again any good that can ever exist in the world has been squashed at the hands of the crazy:

“There is a new atheism brewing, and it’s the rift we need, to cut free the dead weight so we can kick the C.H.U.D.’s back into the sewers and finally disown them, once and for all. I was already mulling a way to do this back in June when discussion in the comments on my post On Sexual Harassment generated an idea to start a blog series building a system of shared values that separates the light side of the force from the dark side within the atheism movement, so we could start marginalizing the evil in our midst, and grooming the next generation more consistently and clearly into a system of more enlightened humanist values.

Apparently the looks-good-on-paper A+ agenda is just an everything-or-nothing, ball-or-sword situation dipped in a hard candy shell of feel-good nonsense with the intention to create more safe spaces… but in the end, safety is always an illusion.

I don’t worry though, because I embrace the grim nature of human condition. One of things I hate most about human interaction is the lie that we tell out confused adolescents: “It gets better.” The high school clique is the fundamental basis for all human interaction. It doesn’t get better, but we can grow stronger.

Six years ago, I washed up on shores of the Island of Misfit Toys which is atheism after weeks, months, and years of frantic flailing in the vast Ocean of Derp, which encompasses the entirely of the post-apocalyptic Waterworld of religious thought. Now, a clique of all the popular kids are wanting to vote people off the island, acting as though there were no island left for islanders like me.

This is the same mistake that the RINO hunting Republicans; the leaner-meaner-more devout Catholic church; and the rich, and the clique pretty people sitting at the same lunch table make. Practicing exclusion won’t actually get rid of anyone. It never has. Even if Jambi granted Richard Carrier his wish and all the dead-weight C.H.U.D.s like myself were banished to the Phantom Zone, we still wouldn’t be gone from the atheist movement; no more so that filling all the chairs at the popular kid’s table removes everyone else from the cafeteria. Excluding people doesn’t make them go away; it just makes you not see them. In the time that the excluded are “gone”, they continue to work and grow without your notice. Left unchecked for long enough, the excluded kid will become amazingly competent, and those who continue to write them off do so at their own peril. For example, the marginalized metalhead I hung out with in high school went on to form Sarsen, which makes Dethklok look like the fuckin’ Archies. Holy shit dude, Sarsen makes the claims of Satanic ritual abuse look like your heartwarming memories of Don Bluth films. They’re playing a couple of shows soon, which is what the Maya were trying to warn us about.

___________________________________________

INTERMISSION

___________________________________________

I never understood why the term “popular” was used to describe the popular kids in my high school. They’re only well-recognized; the majority of people didn’t like them, since they went out of their way to exclude everyone. Meanwhile, the legion of C.H.U.D.s learned, loved, lived, and grew together, until in the end, we were all one big happy family, who wound up terrorizing the popular kids at lunch, in between our dramatic bouts of The Penis Game. Then there was a slow pan out, and the Outer Limits voiceover guy expressed the irony of the situation, before showing us scenes from the next episode of our lives.

From my observations of my 31 years trapped upon this earth, I’ve managed to discern that literally everyone who tells me to play nice is just trying to manipulate me to some end. That’s all that going on here; but that ain’t happenin’.  I, Ryan Coons, in accordance with the rubric for morality laid out by the A+ movement, would like to take this time to self-identify as a C.H.U.D.

Really, my blatant disregard for the general welfare and safety of children ought to get me permabanned from the A+ clique, but I don’t want to take any risks. I’m going balls firmly attached to the walls on this one.

Fully knowing that I will be called out as making a statement of general form “I have nothing against X, but uncomfortable statement about X,” I don’t think the term “transphobic” applies to me. When I was sauntering back from the bar last night, I wasn’t worried about being jumped by a gang of post-op transsexuals. In addition, I’m pretty sure I’m prepared to handle that situation; so I wouldn’t call it a phobia because I’m not living in fear. I just find transpersons to be Puck-like tricksters and I’ve just had it up to here with their kooky antics.

I suppose my relations with the trans community could best be expressed as a Dennis the Menace, comic written entirely by 4Chan.

“Yeah, I’ll open that thumbnail gallery,” I say to myself
“Surprise! PENIS!” the chimera-monster on the screen seems to voice.
Then I just sit there for a minute, shaking my fist at it.
“Oooo! You rapscallion, you!”

Surprise penis is the worst kind of penis, my friends. I can tell you this. It’s just slightly worse than oh-by-the-way penis. As in, I’m perusing OKC and I say

“Oh, she seems nice,” and I then I read on, and at the end mentions in passing, “Oh, by the way, penis.”

I’m not an evil man, I just hail from a simpler time, when only dudes had peeners. Now, I don’t know what to think. Up is down, and black is white. I don’t know any other way to react to these new situations other than some linear combination of aversion, screaming, unarmed combat, more screaming, crying, alcoholism, and post-traumatic stress disorder.

I’m sorry, but I see trans acceptance as a bullshit cause that’s not worth fighting for. South Park got it right; because South Park is smarter than all of us. Every dollar or minute of my time I devote to the trans cause is a dollar or minute I take away from some there charity that I deem worthy, like the ACLU, or the Sierra Club. I see no reason to support their cause.

At the end of the day, I didn’t join the atheist movement to help the trans community; I became an atheist because I hate YHVH. Also, as you read this, somewhere a child is being raped by a Catholic priest, most likely in one of their many tax-exempt magic castles — but that appears to be of secondary importance now. I don’t see how additional movements can be tacked together without it being creeping scope.

In addition, I can’t hop onto the whole animal welfare bandwagon either, because of my well-documented and completely irrational hatred of manatees. It’s a long story, but basically it’s the end result of a Manchurian Candidate-style brainwashing program based out of a Chuck E. Cheese. (Its Joe’s story really, if you want to hear it, you should hit him up.) Needless to say, when I travel I keep two outboard motors in my car, so in case if I run into a pack of manatees, I can just whip one of them out and go all Dead Alive on them:

The reason why I carry two is that one is steel, for general use, and the other one is a custom job a jeweler friend made out of silver, to protect myself from the dreaded were-manatees.

So why do I make these confessions? Why make a case against myself; why make the argument that I am a terrible person who deserves to be marginalized? It’s the same reason why I keep petitioning the local bishops to excommunicate me. It’s the same reason why I’ve looked into converting to both Mormonism and the Jehovah’s Witnesses, just so that I can perform excommunicatable acts the moment after they re-baptize me. If I utterly damn myself, apply the worst possible title that others can bestow on me, and wear it like a badge, those who judge lose their power over me. When you tell a priest that you want to go to hell, he can’t use the standard tricks anymore. He’s forced to let you live life on your own terms.

So if the A+ community is going to judge people based on their manifesto of values, then they need to pull the trigger now. I don’t belong; and I don’t want to belong to any group with the power to exclude. I’m not worried about losing my reputation, because I have no reputation to lose.

Given the choice to be hammer or anvil, I chose anvil.

The Summer Olympics has started again, and, once again, they’re are largely funded by corporate money from McDonald’s and Coca-Cola, the two companies who are most responsible or destroying athleticism in daily life.  However, it is not mere corn syrup and oily entrees that made America obese — it was team sports that did it.

Yeah, you heard me — team sports are what make people fat.

Have you played any team sports since leaving high school? –  and no, fast-pitch rec-league softball doesn’t count — that’s not a sport. We all know that’s just an excuse for married men to escape from their homes and participate in binge drinking. Even those who do go one to collegiate or professional sports will only do so for a short while, until age or younger talent phases them out.  The only difference between the collegiate/professional athlete and the amateur is that the professional will own the car dealership that they will both inevitably will wind up working at, while the other will just work there. The only people who truly keep achieve are those who make exercise or sport a continuous habit, or a way of life, like gym rats; or by involving themselves in activities where they compete against either themselves or some existing standard, like climbing, golfing, distance runners, and traditional martial artists.

I won’t be seeing much of this particular Olympiad, unfortunately. I don’t have cable, because I’ve given up on my culture, and I can’t view terrestrial broadcasts since I never got a converter box for the 13″ CRT television that I’ve been lugging around for the past ten years. I could get something new, yes — but I won’t buy any display device that’s not back-compatible with the NES. It simply makes no sense. Besides, even if I could see the broadcasts, and even though right now the world greatest contests of judo, fencing, boxing, weightlifting, swimming, gymnastics, track-and-field team handball, archery, and wrestling are going on, I still wouldn’t be able to see any of that — only long shots of Bob Costas  starting at me from a desk, talking on and on about the majesty and beauty of sport rather than letting me witness it for myself. Occasionally he’ll take breaks to show me some swimming or gymnastics, or beach volleyball, but only enough to to give himself enough fodder to fill the dead airtime, which could be used to show the goddamn Olympics.

It wouldn’t be so bad if it wasn’t Bob Costas. Bob Costas is only a bottle of burbon and a series of debilitating strokes away from being Larry Merchant.

I’d love for Bob Costas to  stop in the middle of one of his monologues and perform a spontaneous and completely dead-serious spoken-word version of “Hurt.”

I’d pay any sum of money to see that, and I would prostitute myself out to help raise those funds. Even to ugly chicks. Yes, I know! It’s enough to make a man sift through the dirt in Aspen, CO for the faint particulates of the scattered ashes of Hunter Thomspson, to mix with the blood of Link to save sportswriting from itself. So much of sportswriting is reminiscing about the past; of has-beens talking about other has-beens, like old friends at the bar talking about their days in high school sports programs. The zeitgeist of the moment cannot be resurrected. This is why sportswriting fails. Since I’m a cliche nobody talking out of my ass, and it’s the summer Olympics, I’ll talk about Kerri Strug’s noble vault in the 1996 Olympics; much like how in the Winter Olympics people talk about the Miracle on Ice, relishing in the triumph over a country that has not existed in over twenty years.

I could go on about how on that night, sixteen years ago, I held the late Miss Gina Izabear, who t’was but nary a kitten, as my whole family sat as one, mesmerized, along with 285 million of our friends, cow-workers, and neighbors, as we all — as a nation — collectively peer-pressured a girl into going a jump spinning flirpity-flip onto a busted foot for our collective amusement. To have such power over a person, would be like a string of cliches. No one can describe it well, not you, or me, or Bob Costas or anyone. You had to be there, other wise you’re like a person who’s never flown before listening to a observational stand-up comedian. So just stop with the desk bits and air the games.

Also, I hope no one ever selectively breeds Bob Costas with Deliliah; It’d be like Species all over again.

From myself, and all of us here at SuperFunAdventureTime here in San Diego, saying “so long!”

—–

For extra fun, re-read this entire article with Bob Costas’ voice playing in your head.

It was the summer of 2011, and we were all slowly drowning in our taint-sweat.

My research scientist gig was coming to a close, and due to a logistical error, my lease ended slightly prior to that, leaving me homeless. As a result, I spent 2-3 weeks living on Mike Brownstein’s couch, frantically applying for jobs and generally being that guy.

In the midst of my depression, my buddy Luc sends me a link.

“DUDE! YOU NEED TO SEE THIS!” he shouted, o’er Facebook messenger.

“Not now,” I told him, as I had to fill out forms that no one would ever read.

“Dude! This is Steve Perry-flying-Airwolf cool!”

I just sat there, my mouth agape.

“What’s wrong?” said Mike.

“It’s just… but… No! Luc would never take Steve Perry’s name in vain!

So, I clicked it:

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DID YOU FUCKING SEE THAT! HOLY SHIT LET’S WATCH THAT AGAIN!

That’s right. John. Fucking. Wetton. What was he doing before he started ASIA? He was in UK, and he was kicking ass; ’cause the dude’s only got the one setting. Armed with his bass, two emergency back-up basses, and the hair I ought to have, you can tell he’s someone genuine — and someone who is not to be crossed.

Check out that dare-I-say Neil Peart-worthy drum kit! …and that drummer looks like — no! It is! It is Terry Bozzio! Not only can he drum, he can drum… for everyone. His ex-wife, Korn, Dokken, fuckin’ Frank Zappa, and a bunch of random sh-tuf like Ricahrd Marx and some-a Duran Duran‘s side projects.

Oh, and the animé androgen in the pleather pants, enclosed in the Keyboard Command Center Playset? Eddie Jobson. He another Zappa alum who bro’d out with Yes and Jethro Tull for a while too. While Whetton and Bozzio blow my mind, Jobson fractal-blows my mind. Every portion of my mind is equally, and in parallel, blown; and while the whole thing rules, my favorite part happens… now:

He’s playing the keyboards, then, turns around — and BAM! More keyboards! Look at that! No, look. LOOK.

Dude, fuckin’ Depeche Mode didn’t have that many keyboards — and they were Depeche Mode! Oh — but there’s more! For he is also the Keeper of the Clear Acrylic Electric Violin of Virtue. According to legend, this was painstakingly injected molded by thirteen vestal virgins from oils extracted from the decaying bodies of the slain gods of our ancestors. Fear not, gentle reader! Such power can never cannot fall into the hands of evil men — for it is to be snatched from the clutches of the unworthy by the Chintzy Springy Phone Cord of Judgement. Also, it begins to catch fire around 2:10.

Needless to say, this immediately dispelled my depression. I listened to this video for no-joke — five hours, non-stop.  Needless to say, Mike started to get sick of it, but he couldn’t say anything, because of his diplomatic nature. Instead he tried to find something that could drown it out, but the shrill electronica could pierce through anything he could dig up. Empirically, Mike determined that the only thing that could drown me out was the low, bass driven rumblings of Devo’s “Mongoloid,” and looped that with his desk speakers pushed around-shoved around until they were spaced such that they drove his desk to resonance.

Good times, good times.

I COMMAND YOU TO RISE FROM YOUR GRAVE AND MAKE US LAUGH AGAIN.

Yeah, so I’m back, but the real question is, where did I go?

Truth be known, I hit a rough patch. I was out of work for eight months, and like many others of my generation, I had to move back home, where I spent my days filling out job applications and devising clever schemes to keep SallieMae from breaking my thumbs. I didn’t have a shred of hope, largely due to the fact that I am philosophically opposed to the concept of hope. It’s just faith re-branded, and I’m better off without it.  Besides, I had something much better than hope.

I had friends.

Whole legions of people, upon hearing of my plight, they immediately began pulling strings, turning over rocks, and crackin’ kneecaps to find leads. I had friends that I didn’t even know I had calling in favors. Remember the mean bastard who went around twisting everyone’s arms back in first grade? Yeah, he’s like, the nicest dude ever now. Bought me a drink; wanted a copy of my resume so he could show it to everyone at his company, because apparently vapor shielding affects the cooling of machine tool bits just as it does for fuel rods. Then he bought me another drink, and then all of my drinks. He bought a pizza later that night too… and he let me keep the leftovers. I know, I know. Here’s to you, Reformed Arm-Twister of Yore… you always knew right where to get us.

But now, 2,000 applications later, my luck has changed, and I’m no longer a charity case. Ironically, the first company I ever applied too, the one hell-bent on flying me out, only to give me the cold-shoulder, called me out of the blue after a full year of complete radio silence. Two weeks later, I had an offer.

So, now I find myself living in San Diego, where they stuff French fries into burritos, workin’ with face-melting lasers and slowly bangin’ away at my long-anticipated novel. I’ve decided to use my new-found freedom and security to entertain your asses, because that’s what you’ve want from me — and it always has been, hasn’t it? Well, I’m eager to do so.

I was told that I shouldn’t turn SuperFunAdventureTime! into a personal soapbox, and only stick to my well-polished and moderately absurd stories, but yeah, that’s not going to fuckin’ happen. Let’s be real kids, if I am to keep such stories coming, I’ll probably have to re-re-enroll in college, and that shit’s expensive, yo.

In the past I tried to post daily, but I felt that quality suffered — it just felt that it seemed rushed, which is bad. When I dreamt up this site, I intended to have a whole crew of people posting along side me, but life happened (as it tends to do) and that all went to pot. So here’s the deal. I’m willing to grant author privileges on this site to pretty much anyone who asks.

So, yeah. Thanks guys. I can’t promise that I won’t flake out from my blogging duties again, but I’ll try, damn it — and you can join me if you like. The bad times are over; now it’s SuperFunAdventureTime.

As part of SuperFunAdventureTime’s continued lackadaisical commitment to the finest in both gonzo and gotcha journalism, I’ve decided to present a nice little write up about the morning of July 31, 2011, since it has been the subject of much rumor and speculation.

I was at the annual meeting of the Secular Student Alliance o’er in Columbus, OH. It was Saturday night, turn Sunday morning. We just finished up having a neat-o party at the Buffalo Wild Wings, where I chatted with a number of very groovy people and enjoyed Labatt Blue responsibly. A group of us were walking back to the dorms where we were holed up for the weekend, when someone with a couple of ranks in Knowledge(Local) pointed out that there was an Insomnia Cookies a few blocks away.

“Oooo… Insomnia! We have to get some!” said Jen (who is not to be confused with Jenny), because she always gets nostalgic after a few drinks.

So we walk down the street, and as we approached the UDF o’er on the corner of Walk and Don’t Walk, this blue beater sedan slows down — CRACK — then speeds off.

I grab the side of my left leg.

“Uph. I’ve been shot.” I said. “Pretty sure it was just a BB gun though.”

Jen looks back and smiles, thinking that I was recounting one of my wild stories to someone else,  unaware that one was happening right then, and that she was a character in it.

It felt like being cracked with a giant rubber band, like in high school we tied rubber bands to other rubber bands repeated the process again and again then tied knots in the end until we had some 30 foot rubber band to crack jokers with. The shot didn’t hurt that bad, and that terrified me. Long ago, I learned that the more horrific the injury, the less it hurts. A shoulder dislocation feels several orders better than a Charlie horse.

I’ve been shot at from cars before. Once was by Stewart Center about a year earlier, when some punks in a beater station wagon hit me on the inside of my right thigh. I was pretty pissed, as the shot was danger-close to hitting me in my bathing-suit place. Still, it wasn’t that bad, only like two-pumps or so, and I just kind of went about my day, because I was really busy that day for some reason. I also was in another drive-by late one Sunday night while walking around Purdue, but that doesn’t count because they just had Super Soakers. Had to take a knee, I was laughin’ so hard. So were they! Those wacky guys!

Anywho, since my friends had no real intention of stopping, I hobbled on for another two blocks or to Insomnia Cookies, but it was closed, just like how it’s not supposed to be. We were all pretty depressed. Then whoever had Knowledge(Local) pointed out there was this stomp-ass donut shop a few blocks away. I look at my leg and don’t see a giant blood stain, so I hobble along.

We get to the donut shop. I buy peanut-coated donut for $0.95. It was totally clutch. I ask if they have a bathroom, they send me to one in the back of the kitchen. I drop trou to get the lay of the land.

Sho’nuff, there was a hole in my leg, right where the hole in my pants was. It seemed bigger than a BB; in fact, it looked to be the right size as a .22, and that’s bad. There was bleeding from the surface, but it was a slow creep, like a scraped knee, or a road rash. There was blood on my underpants, but interestingly enough, the only holes were the ones placed there by the manufacturer intended for my legs. Since the shot went through my pants, but not my underpants, it became clear to me that it had to be a BB, because they don’t sell any bulletproof shit at K-Mart.

Still, the hole was atop a lump. Maybe I missed the hole in my underpants — the lighting was kind of off. Maybe the swelling was the bullet or BB was lodged in my leg, acting like a bloodcork. Knives and other things impaling-things act like bloodcork. Maybe it was just swelling. How to tell? I needed an x-ray.

I’ve always maintained that when living properly, snippets of your life could serve as the basis for text-based adventure games for the VIC-20. This could be one of them.

“YOU are in a small BATHROOM. It is 3 AM. YOU have been shot by the people in a BLUE CAR. YOU don’t know where they went. YOU have had four beers. There may be a BULLET lodged in your LEG. YOU should GOTO a HOSPITAL. YOUR PANTS and UNDERPANTS are pulled down. YOU are holding a CAMERA-PHONE and eating a DONUT. There is a DOOR facing WEST. COMMAND?”

All I knew was that I wasn’t in any real danger, because I was among friends.

I also knew that I’d need some evidence that didn’t involve indecent exposure. So, I whipped out my cameraphone to take a picture of the wound, and then couldn’t because my phone’s memory was full.  So, that time I was eating peanuts at Five Guys and got a peanut with three peanuts inside and I was all like “Yay!” — is now lost for all time. That’s okay, that was a lame story. The lighting was kind of off in the bathroom, but I managed to get a basic, useable photo.

I walk out, and talk to Mark.

“Hey do you have a car around here?” I ask.

“Yeah, I drove some people [from Indiana to Ohio],” he said.

“Could you drive me somewhere?” I ask.

“No!” said Mark, with hysterical drunken laughter. “What kind of question is that?”

My face grew long.

“What’s going on?”

“I need to go to the hospital for an x-ray,” I tell him, as I show him the photo. “I was shot.”

Mark says nothing, but he goes to explain the situation to Jen, because she’s our perennial de facto leader.

“Wha?” said Jen.

“Yeah! He got shot!” said Mark.

“Yes, I was shot.” I tell her.

“Oh my God! When?” said Jen.

“Remember when I said: ‘Uph. I’ve been shot?’ Yeah, someone actually shot me.”

“Where’d this happen?” asked Jen.

“When we were over by the UDF on the corner of Walk and Don’t Walk — when I was all like ‘Uph. I’ve been shot?’ Yeah…” I said.

“Why didn’t you stop?” pleaded Jen.

“I wanted a donut!” I shouted, as I ate the last of my tasty treat.

“You need an ambulance,” said Chana, who I met just then.

“I just need an X-ray to see if there’s anything stuck in there,” I say.

“You need an ambulance,” said Chana.

“I just need a ride…” I said.

“You need an ambulance,” said Chana.

“It was probably just a BB gun, and I need to see if anything is lodged in there. I can’t afford the ambulance fee.” I said.

“You have been shot. You’re not capable of making medical decisions. You’re getting an ambulance,” said Chana.

I conceded because I found her reasoning to be sound. She was the voice of reason in this group. It’s nice to have a day off. She was a mensch, and I made sure I informed her of the fact.

A few minutes later the ambulance came, at about 10 MPH, I waved my arms to flag it down. Then the ambulance pulled over to the side of the road, and then slowly oozed away from me — at 10 MPH — never to be seen again.

“This is the saddest photo I’ve ever seen,” said Hemant, as he took it with his camera phone.

“Yeah, you need to send me that.” I said.

He did.

I was tired, buzzed, shot, angry, slightly disillusioned — in that order. I was starting to worry, and to keep myself together I knew I’d have to turn it up to eleven. Sanity time was over, and the results were eerily reminiscent of a latter-day Tom Thompson*.

Chana recalled 911 to get a more-different ambulance, while everyone else was just like “LOL, Facebook and Twitter,” in order to fuel all kinds of wild-ass rumors.

Anyway, two guys in police uniforms with “CCP” emblazoned on the back of their jackets walked right past us. Ben ran to flag them down, explained the situation, and dragged them back.

“So you were shot with a BB gun up the street?” asked Johnny Law.

“No, down the street,” I tell him.

“Oh. Someone was shot up the street with a BB gun, too. There’s been a couple of them tonight.” said Johnny Law.

“Oh really? So it’s for sure a BB gun?” I ask.

“Yes.” said Johhny Law.

“I was shot, and I have an ambulance on the way, but I think I’m fine, so I can help you file your report.” I said.

“Oh no. We’re not cops,” said Johnny Law.

“Wha?” I say.

“No sir, we’re the Columbus Community Patrol.”

“…and you’re not police.” I said, coldly.

“Nope.” said Johnny Law. “Have a good evening.”

“Yeah, you too.” I said to Johnny Law, shaking his hand before he and his pal turn away and walk off to oblivion.

“So what did the cops say?” asked Mark, while blinking eighty times, like he does.

“Those weren’t the cops.” I tell him.

“Who were they then?” said Mark.

“Not-cops.” I said.

My leg was starting to cramp up. I shifted into sleeping crane stance to keep the weight off it. This was getting old. Another ambulance oozed about the streets, and turned near us, and drove half a block down the side street.

“Fuck it! We’ll do it live!” I shouted, to cheers as I hobbled half a block to the ambulance.

The EMT’s came out. There was a pair of them; there was an older gentlemen and a younger one following him, like just like Jedi, or plumbers. I walk up to the older gentleman, shake his hand, and introduce myself.

“Hey, I’m Ryan Coons. I was shot, probably with a BB gun.”

They tell me to step inside the ambulance, and to lay down. It was quite roomy.

“Should I come in there too?” asked Jen.

“Uhh, probably not,” I told her, while entering an advanced state of pantslessness.

In the improved lighting of the ambulance, it was clear that the projectile did not penetrate my underpants.

“It’s just some broken skin. Just put some Neosoporin on it.” said the EMT.

I slid my pants back on and thanked the gentlemen for their time. I strut of the ambulance and shout “It’s a flesh wound guys! Let’s go buy some band-aids!”

“Horray!” shouts everyone, as we walk xor hobble xor stumble to the drugstore.

“Ooooo! Let’s get Spongebob Band-aids!” said Jen.

“Yeah!” said everyone, everywhere.

“Hey, eat this donut. It’s German Chocolate,” said Ben.

“Hell yeah! Thanks!” I told him.

It was a magical donut. Chocolate cake, chocolate glaze, moist and rich with flavor, sweet, but not overpowering. It was like a ‘Mr. Donut’ donut. It’ll be a while before I find something that good again. Man!

Eventually we get the CVS, near to the Buffalo Wild Wings, and the door was locked, so we went around to the other door. It took me a few minutes to find the first aid supplies.

“Oooo! They have Dora the Explorer band-aids!” said Jen. “You should get them.”

“Yes, but the Spongebob ones are thirty cents cheaper,” I explain.

…that and I have to look myself in the mirror tomorrow, and each subsequent day thereafter. I also picked up some of the 91% isopropylnol to clean my wound, with the intent of using it to light myself on fire — an old party favorite from back in the day — but I never got around to it. Some other time, I guess. Ben picked up the tab; he’s legit.

Jessica bought me a chinsy mylar helium balloon in the drugstore, because she thought it would cheer me up.

.

.

.

She thought right.

It’s the little things, guys.

Around this time Mike and Shawn turned up, and we all walked back to our building, where people yay-ed and wanted details. I cleaned my wound. Everyone hung out and chatted and relayed snippets of the epic tale that was the pre-event meet up party on Thursday, in a desperate and futile attempt to make sense of events.

The next day the bruise set in:

It’s not enough to make the top 10 bruises list.

At the conference the next day, all kinds of people came up to me for news and to see how I was. I could say that getting shot is an excellent networking tool, but that’s probably not the best moral for this story.

“Hey, you’re alive!” people said.

“Yeah,” I replied. “…and my album sales have tripled!” Chuckles from all. Good times, good times.

So what do we have to take away from this? Having friends, be they new or old, will turn fail into win, and can turn a terrifying situation into a funny story. Even a friend you’ve only had for ten minutes can be a good as a friend you’ve had for ten years, if they are the right ten minutes. I knew that I’d be fine, because of what I like the best about being a godless heathen. When you don’t have to serve a God, the only thing you have to live for is other people; and that’s pretty great, actually.

____________________________

*This is a pseudonym used for legal reasons, although we’re pretty sure his warrants have reached their statute of limitations.

There year was twenty-ought nine. Four buddies joined forces to make a kick-ass blog, completely free of any sort of censorship or irksome Terms of Service, because we never played by the rules (and never really cared). After a year of anecdotes and pop-culture ramblings… nothing. What happened?

Well, life happened. For starters,  Joe and Darren became fathers. I don’t know when Joe will be back. Someday, I suppose. Until then, we have room for one more on the SuperFunAdventureTeam.

I didn’t spawn, but did I become a nuclear engineer, and that’s pretty neat.

But the reason why I wasn’t able to keep writing is because I’d lost will to write. It was my mistake, I was trying to write in a style that wasn’t mine. Rather than being detailed and dawn out, I found that I’m my best when I’m pithy and Spadowskian.

So what does the future hold for this site? More than you can imagine — because we’re going to start again. And by that, I mean daily updates. It’s going to be awesome, from now on; like Dokken-video awesome. (For our younger readers, once upon a time there lived a man named Donn Dokken. He was, and is, better than you; see figure 1.)

Fig. 1. The 80′s hair metal band Dokken, kicking asses and dampening panties.

See you tomorrow!

I had major plans for July 11. We’re set that Saturday aside for celebrating my birthday, and I had a full schedule of fun planned. I was going to a karate seminar at August‘s new dojo, go to a cookout, watch UFC 100, and get the fuck drunk.  I was only able to do three of those.

About three hours into our training, Mr. Capella was having us work on harai goshi. I was going pretty well. I was a judo player when I was studying at Oxford*, and harai goshi was one of my signature moves. I was kind of leery when people were practicing on me, because four years and nine days earlier, I had dislocated my left shoulder in a harai goshi accident.

I was practicing with August for a while, then I went to work with Joe for a bit. He was throwing me, but it wasn’t harai goshi. He was having problems with working the swinging leg into the equation, as Joe throws are typically of the “pick them up and drop them” variety. They work, but tits not compatible with the sweeping part, which makes harai goshi a faster and more brutal throw.

In order to help Joe get the feel of rolling the opponent over the hip,  Mr. Capella was showing him how to do seoi otoshi, which is basically the standard body drop (tai otoshi) executed from a front stance rather than a side-facing stance.

Seoi otoshi is a good move to have.  Seoi nage, the standard judo throw, can be easily countered if your opponent places the palm his hand on your hip when you comes in to throw him. This way, you never get close enough to have good leverage, and your opponent retains his balance, making him impossible to throw. If this counter is used you on,  the setup for seoi nage can quickly be changed to a seoi otoshi setup, allowing you to counter the counter.

Rather than pulling me straight forward, Joe pulled at an angle, so rather than fall forward, I fell at and angle. On my way down, my arm hit his knee.

I laid face down on the mat motionless.

“Ahhhh,” I said lackadaisically. I didn’t feel a thing, but I knew something was wrong. My arm was numb and paralyzed. I couldn’t feel my arm, but if I could have felt my arm,  it would’ve hurt.

That’s when my day got weird.

___________________________

This is Chapter I of the Shoulder Saga. Please read Chapter II.

Joe called me up one July 4^th, and told me to travel to Easy Street, where Ted Thompson*, brother of Tom Thompson* was going to “…set off some big ones.”

It took me considerable time finding the place, because “Easy Street” is apparently not an actual street, though it was clearly specified as such in Joe’s directions.

I introduced myself to Ted Thompson, and from what I was later told, though a convoluted chain of events which I do not fully understand, he was thoroughly convinced that I was an undercover cop, and was plotting my murder for most of the night.

Joe, Ken, and I spent the afternoon in the pool, flinging Joe’s teeming legions of cousins around in the pool, and into each other.  When we got out the pool, the cousins kept on coming, and in greater numbers. Ken and I were immobilized, as we had children latched onto our backs, chests, legs, and arms. We tried to walk away, but were encumbered by the 300 lbs. of people we were wearing. Eventually, Ken and I mustered every ounce of strength into having a fist fight, using the horde of Joe’s leech-like cousins as a form of ablative body armor.

Once freed, Ken and I were surrounded, but we were able to hold our ground by throwing Joe’s cousins into Joe’s other cousins. By “throw,” I don’t mean “push,” “knock over,” or “shove,” I mean “lift over our heads, and in a shoulder-press like motion, launch into two other people like goddamn Lou Ferrigno,” as shown in Fig 1.

FIG 1: The Incredible Hulk finds a grizzly bear, and proceeds to completely ruin its shit.

This went on for about twenty minutes. There was simply no reason — including divine intervention — why anyone survived, let alone escaped uninjured. I later learned that this was a re-occurring theme at these parties. Eventually adults who the children feared and respected stepped in, and told them to leave us be. Ken and I were relieved. The powers that be then told Joe, Ken, and I to play with a near-infinite supply of fire and explosives for the amusement of the children, to tide them over until dark, and the real insanity began.

Joe made an immediate B-line for the Roman Candles, and gave me one, because no one ever gave me Roman Candle before. And that was pretty neat. When my dad would smuggle fireworks across state lines, he only bought ladyfingers and Moon Travelers, because that is where dFun/d$ is a maxima. I set off a Roman Candle, Joe sets off a Roman Candle. We both set off a Roman Candle.

See, the thing about explosives is that showmanship is a huge component — each feat must be more and more spectacular than the last. Thus, Ken had to dual-wield Roman Candles, while spinning them around. However, unbeknownst to all of us, Ken, through no fault of his own, had damned us all.

He didn’t pick up Roman Candles, he picked up Happy Bees, which look like Roman Candles in every shape, way, and form, except they have a different name and behave in no way like a Roman Candle would.

See, a Roman Candle is a stick, about 1 foot long that when lit, periodically shoots 1 cm fireballs of various colors.  But these weren’t Roman Candles, these were Happy Bees.

Happy Bees are like Roman Candles, but they shoot their fireballs in random directions, with a distinctive “Vvvvwwwooo! Vvvvwwwooo! Vvvvwwwooo!” noise. It would’ve been great if we knew that. Live and learn.

So, we light the Happy Bees in Ken’s hands, and run back.

Multicolored sparking death spews forth towards all of the defenseless women and children, who threw themselves to the ground and hid under blankets. Ken went into shock and screamed maniacally. Eventually he gained enough composure to turn away from the general direction of the innocents, towards the safer path of directly at me and Joe.

This story takes place shortly after The Matrix was released to DVD, so the bullet-dodging scene was a popular meme at the time, which everyone mimed for comedic effect, and in our case, as a survival mechanism. That shit is real, I know.

After this, it became sufficiently dark to set off the real fireworks, and all the males spent the next two to three hours setting off approximately $1,800 worth of Wile E. Coyote rockets and amusement park grade mortars.

The rest of the night passed without incident, and we all left happy, and with a healthy fear of Happy Bees.
____________________________________________________
* Names have been changed to protect the guilty.

No, seriously.

He called me the other day, and told me to get the movie JCVD from Netflix. He went off for about three minutes about how great of a movie it was. In Darren‘s defense, JCVD really is a good movie, and you really ought to check it out. It’s a well-written, well-executed movie, and easily the best thing that Van Damme has put out since Universal Soldier. However, this isn’t a blog about the movie. I can’t do that — that’s Joe’s job. This is a blog about Darren‘s reaction to the movie, which led me to conclude that August has no penis.

When he was telling me about the movie, he told me “I cried. Tears were flowing down my face. It’s…ooogh…”

At this point I felt a terrible pain eating at me. My friend was in dire need of help, and I was hundreds of miles away.

“I only have one request Coons,” he tells me.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“Watch it alone.”

“Okaaaaaaay…” I tell him with hesitation.

So I added it to my queue, and watched it. It made Darren cry. I invite the reader to take a bite of sherbet, like a pretentious rich person, to cleanse their pallet and swish that last sentence around in their mouths to savor its many flavors.

Darren cried during a Van Damme movie.

I haven’t cried since 1996, when Rob Liefeld was granted complete creative control of Captain America. I’ve had a lump in my throat a few times since then, like during my dad’s funeral, when I used to tell this one story you haven’t earned yet, and at the end of A.I. However, the next morning, I woke up, looked out the window and said “Space aliens? Really?” and never thought of that movie again.

Holy shit, Darren cried during a Van Damme movie. He has no penis. He must have a Lee Press-On Schlong that he bought at the Halloween store, which he affixes to his nether-region with spirit gum in order to service his wife.

I’m trying to assemble the events of the night in question in my head.

After having a good long cry, he must have went to the bathroom and meticulously lit three hundred candles, making the place look like some lame adult contemporary music video, and used $60 worth of scented soaps and oils to take a four hour-long bubble bath. In this time, he then consumed a bottle of red wine, and masturbated with the detachable shower head.

After his bath, Darren then put on flannel pajamas, sat in front of the mirror in his bedroom, and brushed what precious little remains of his natural, living, breathing hair one hundred times with a stiff-bristled brush. Then, Darren climbed under his 186,000 blankets and fell fast asleep.

This had to have been what happened.

Crying during a Van Damme movie! Fuck! This is a serious misstep — he must atone, and I can’t help him because I don’t know any Level 5 Clerics.

Hello, I’m Ryan Coons, and I walk among the damned.

I’ve been in college for the better part of ten years, with no end in sight. I’ve stayed up all night with the artists in the small state schools, partied with the hedonists in the Public Ivys, and watched the corn grow at the Big Ten.

I’ve been a pizza delivery man, adjunct professor, autoworker, bartender, tutor, casino barback, experimental physicist, and karate instructor. Currently, I find myself as a Ph.D. student at Purdue University, studying nuclear engineering. I work in a million dollar laser laboratory trying to invent new light sources for lithography processes, the end result of which will make your computer faster by a factor of ten.

In my leisure, I read philosophy treatises and Marvel comics, study Japanese swordsmanship, and work on two major writing projects. One is a critical look at religion and the role it plays in American society, and the other can only be described as a post-modernist re-imagining of “Babes in Toyland.”

But this isn’t about me, it’s about our friends, the damned.

The damned are not those who are not awesome, I cannot say that enough. The damned are those who consciously choose not to be awesome. Allow me to show you:

Not awesome:  SUV’s.

Awesome:  Barbie Power Wheels.  No, seriously.

Not Awesome:  Bibleman.

Awesome:  Old-school Spider-Man.

It’s absurd to want to go through life being anything other than absurd. The status quo exists only to allow the mediocre not to feel bad out of the charitable notions of an outdated morality. Only those who are awesome, those who defy conventional wisdom, those who make waves, who disrupt the status quo are memorable. Only they contribute and advance out society. It’s called the Peter Principle people! It’s not rocket science! It’s not even a real science — its social science!

But I, in my bodhisattva compassion, devote my differential amounts of leisure time to you, the reader, in an attempt to help you know what awesome is so you can live while you’re alive. I would know, I was like you, but I stopped. I’m not drudging my way through life, I’m having a good time — no, strike that — I’m having a super-fun-adventure time, and there’s plenty of room on my Super Fun Adventure Bus for each and every one of you. It’s only a matter of hitching a ride.