Good Times Rubbin' the Black Hole's Son

 

 Friends, enemies, lend me your ears: a fresh nemesis has entered the fray, and what an insidious little bastard it is. World, meet the Dustpan of Death; Dustpan of Death, meet the World. That's a superfluous introduction, though, now isn't it; as the two of you have obviously entered into some clandestine pact for the dual purpose of injuring and humiliating me in one fell swoop (or crash, as it were). Truth be told, I don't hold you responsible, World, as you've been misled by that little harlot from day one. Dustpan of Death pretends it's of some use, of some merit to the community, but alas (alas!) it's not; old Dusty does nothing even the most basic Dirt Devil can do so much better - other than sabotage a guy's evening. I won't dawdle on the Fall anymore than necessary because like it or not, I took a dive to the floor, and sure, my motor skills were growing increasingly questionable, but would I have kissed the cement without the appearance of said Dustpan of Death? No way, no how, no ma'am. 

Sunday's cataclysmic tumble is just one of the bizarrely unwholesome skirmishes endured this week, and it's only Tuesday night. Another Sunday debacle involved none other than the now infamous Salted Licorice Fish aka Licorice Fish of Destruction aka Spawn of Satan. Holy fuck, I can't even begin to describe the 'flavor' of these ebony atrocities, other than to posit that if you popped a chunk of regular black licorice into your mouth, followed by a tablespoon of salt, proceeded to chew vigorously, and multiplied the discomfort tenfold, you'd approach the level of discomfort suffered by all unlucky enough to ingest these abominations.

(The observant reader will note the fish depicted above is held with a pair of tongs rather than fingers, and for good reason, believe me.)

Upon Consumption

Sparkles: An onyx salt-muck button resembling an airplane ration of soy sauce and tasting like a deposit of black sodium-licorice death.

Lady Sparkles: 야! 이 개새끼야! (with ample amount of thick, black juice dripping from the corners of her mouth)

Chicken Wire: Wow. I mean, just wow. I'd rather perform cunnilingus upon the reanimated corpse of Bea Arthur than consume another one of these things. Seriously.

Melissa: You know, I like to think of myself as an extremely tolerant Retard. When you recommended a Retard Meet-up at Hooters, I rolled with it. When you demanded I drink a pint of Guiness alongside two shots of Jack Daniels, I did it, if only to keep up with the Forbeseses. When you wanted to rob that ginseng store, I went along for the ride even though ginseng candy just plain blows. But now you're pushing it.

Jikko: This shit is great! (when you're hopped up on amphetamines)

-----

That was Sunday, yet as bad as the day may have been, it was also a portent of things to come. Monday morning, I got to watch the USA/Canada hockey 'game' at Casa del Sparkles, and by 'game' I mean something akin to a Globetrotters/Generals show. I'm not pointing any fingers here, but take it from me, Team Canada: drinking heavily before an Olympic hockey game is scarcely the way one goes about winning matches. (I speak from experience, lads.) If anything, the highlight of the match came when Sparkles flipped a table full of quasi-Chinese cuisine into the air near the end of the massacre.

As for Tuesday, I think it best to leave that till another place, another time, and another contributor.

What's in store for Wednesday (and beyond), you ask? I'm no prognosticator, yet if the past few days are any indication of future crashing, choking, or anything else that begins with the letter c, we may very well see Olympic favorite Kim Yu-Na wipe out during the figure-skating competition. I'm not saying I want her to pull a Midori Ito circa 1992, not at all; I'm just saying that it could happen.


To summarize the week's events thus far, I offer you, Dear Reader, the the most ridiculous drawing in the history of mankind:

And this: