And to allay any worries about my thirties being a new and more mature era for me: I will continue to argue with little dudes on the internet as if I was being paid for it.
An old acquaintance of mine, let's call him 'Roger', graduated in the middle of his class from a modest Midwest law school, then went on to manage a decent life for his young family, while still young enough to indulge in 'underground hip-hop' concerts in his spare time. Roger used to love to discuss his favorite conscious rappers in online forums during slow periods at work.
He used to. That is, until he went toe-to-toe with Faux, who broke Roger down on every possible level, from his inadequate training and inferior law degree, to the irredeemable soft-batchness of Roger's favorite conscious rappers, to the jagged and irregular cuts of Roger's suits, which were obviously purchased at Men's Wearhouse.
Faux picked apart Roger's every personal nuance, the way a hungry runaway slave would do a freshly boiled and salted chicken. Faux brought to light Roger's inconsequential, even banal habits and personal preferences, and turned them into a three-ring spectacle of loserdom, much to the delight and imagined laughter of the entire online community. It was almost as if he was getting paid to do it.
I hadn't heard from Roger for a few years. Fast forward to a truckstop in Ohio, last winter - I ran into him and had to force back an audible gasp. The once stocky kid was now a walking skeleton with open sores on his face and suffering from violent spasms of his left arm and leg. Though he seemed to be suffering from some kind of advanced narcotic addiction, he inexplicably claimed to be on his way to a conference for his new job as a vitamin salesman. He showed me the pamphlet and I was saddened to see that he'd willingly jumped in to the most crass and flimsy of pyramid schemes, the kind that normally only attract the illiterate and insane.
To change the subject to a lighter note, I asked Roger if he'd heard any of the Little Brother remixes that a mutual friend had done last year. He glumly said "No" and added that he'd mostly just been listening to Incognito and John Scofield. However, when I peeked inside his battered Cavalier I saw only 2 CDs: Lorena McKennit and Celtic Relaxation. He saw that I had seen, and didn't look me in the eye again. We parted ways shortly after and I thought to myself: "There goes a broken and hollow man."
It was truly terrible.
HarveyCanal"a distraction from my main thesis." 13,234 Posts
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Happy birthday!
-e
JRoot, Esquire
peace
h
Na na na na na, i'm poppin' on, M.O.B.B!
tee hee!
HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!
An old acquaintance of mine, let's call him 'Roger', graduated in
the middle of his class from a modest Midwest law school, then went
on to manage a decent life for his young family, while still young
enough to indulge in 'underground hip-hop' concerts in his spare time.
Roger used to love to discuss his favorite conscious rappers in online
forums during slow periods at work.
He used to. That is, until he went toe-to-toe with Faux, who
broke Roger down on every possible level, from his inadequate training
and inferior law degree, to the irredeemable soft-batchness of Roger's
favorite conscious rappers, to the jagged and irregular cuts of Roger's
suits, which were obviously purchased at Men's Wearhouse.
Faux picked apart Roger's every personal nuance, the way a hungry runaway
slave would do a freshly boiled and salted chicken. Faux brought to light
Roger's inconsequential, even banal habits and personal preferences,
and turned them into a three-ring spectacle of loserdom, much to the
delight and imagined laughter of the entire online community.
It was almost as if he was getting paid to do it.
I hadn't heard from Roger for a few years. Fast forward to a truckstop
in Ohio, last winter - I ran into him and had to force back an
audible gasp. The once stocky kid was now a walking skeleton with
open sores on his face and suffering from violent spasms of his left
arm and leg. Though he seemed to be suffering from some kind of advanced
narcotic addiction, he inexplicably claimed to be on his way to a conference
for his new job as a vitamin salesman. He showed me the pamphlet and
I was saddened to see that he'd willingly jumped in to the most crass
and flimsy of pyramid schemes, the kind that normally only attract the
illiterate and insane.
To change the subject to a lighter note, I asked Roger if he'd heard
any of the Little Brother remixes that a mutual friend had done last year.
He glumly said "No" and added that he'd mostly just been listening to
Incognito and John Scofield. However, when I peeked inside his battered
Cavalier I saw only 2 CDs: Lorena McKennit and Celtic Relaxation.
He saw that I had seen, and didn't look me in the eye again. We parted
ways shortly after and I thought to myself: "There goes a broken and hollow man."
It was truly terrible.