A couple years ago I woke up to a very loud knock on my door. And by very loud knock, I mean a truck drove through my front door and into my living room. Now normally I would have been pissed about some jackass ruining my entryway, but when I opened the car door to beat the shit out of the driver, I realized that he was already dead. Talk about instant karma. So anyways, after I finally managed to contain my laughter, I did what any other human being with a dead body in their living room would do: I looked through his wallet for cash.
When I opened his wallet, I noticed on his driver’s license that his name was Quincy. It was then I realized that Quincy probably drove his truck through my door because he wanted to die. I know that if I was named something gay like Quincy, I’d want to kill myself too. I figured dead guy knew who I was, because let’s face it, everyone knows who I am, and he thought that if he inflicted enough property damage towards me that I would kill him in a spectacular or otherwise violently awesome way, which is the only way to save face when you go through your whole life with a stupid name like “Quincy.” Guess he didn’t expect to die in re-entry. Believe it or not, a lot of people expect to live through re-entry when it comes to me, but most of them died of ruptured colons not long after said re-entry happened. And by re-entry, I’m talking about my dick. In a woman’s ass.
After trying unsuccessfully to fall back asleep (mostly due to my immense case of morning wood), I figured I would just start my day early. After a breakfast of beef jerky and red wine (just kidding, it was hooker blood, wine is for pussies), I opened up the classifieds section of the newspaper to start looking for a new job, because my old place of employment was stricken with a mysterious case of arson on night after my manager looked at me funny. The first ad that caught my attention was for a clown at this couple’s child’s birthday party. Now don’t get me wrong, I hate children, but everyone knows that clowns scare the shit out of children, and if children suck, then crying children kick ass. Seeing as how I had years of experience in making children cry, I figured I was the man for the job. So I went to the address before the party started, and some poor chud and his total MILF wife opened the door. After bullshitting some line about how I love making children laugh (I accidentally mispronounced “shit their pants”), Mr. Husband gave me the job. Not long after that, he was so impressed at how quickly I was able to bed his wife that he sent me home early as a reward.
As I made my way to the next job site, a homeless man with three dogs stopped me and asked me for some change so he could feed his pets. I was feeling particularly charitable that day, so I let the bum keep two of my headbutts instead of one. One of his dogs started growling at me, so I kicked it in the ribs so hard it fell down and pissed itself. The other two dogs immediately went over to their injured friend and proceeded to add their pee to the collection. I thought that that was pretty cool, so I took the two dogs with me to see if I could get them a bitch to screw and a bowl of raw meat to chow on. The rewards for amusing me area great, in case you didn’t notice.
I make my way across the street from my intended destination, where a city park sprawls from one corner of the block to another. The park was proliferated with cyclists, people walking their own dogs, ducks swimming in the pond, children playing volleyball, and all that other stupid shit that happens in places like these. Seeing that this was an opportune place to fulfill my promise of raw meat and bitch for my new dogs, I turned them loose to do as they please. After a few minutes of terrorizing geese and raping some jackass’s Pomeranian, this dirty hippie walked up to me and asked if the dogs running wild belonged to me.
Now let me stop here and tell you this: there are very specific ways to act when you are confronted by a hippie in public. Most of them consist of yelling and handing out vengeful uppercuts. This time, however, I went for the tested “bait and switch” method. The hippie told me that dogs should be treated like small people because all animals have feelings, and that I shouldn’t let my dogs do as they please because they could hurt the feelings of other dogs. Proper to the bait and switch technique, I replied to him that I disagreed with his feelings towards the matter at hand, but I respected his point of view and would do my best not to offend anyone any further. Then I did what any self-respecting human being does when they are met with someone whose opinion differs from their own: I punched him in the kidney, and that is the bait and switch.
Deciding that stray dogs seem to attract hippies, I chose to leave the dogs to their own devices and continued on my way when my phone rang. On the other end of the line was my good friend Odin, the King of the Norse Gods. Apparently he just made a bet with Shao Khan, who maintained that no mortal was capable of headbutting Godzilla in the nuts, and Odin wanted me to help him win the bet. At first I had reservations about wasting my time with such trivial tasks, but when I was informed that the bet was over the soul of Roche Braziliano and not money, I realized that I had to ensure the delivery of such an awesome package.
Now I realized that I had two hurdles facing me in my quest to deliver a world-changing headbutt. Problem number one: Godzilla doesn’t exist. Problem number two: If he did, he’d be extraordinarily tall. Since I’m not black, I can’t jump, so getting the hang time to actually reach Godzilla’s nuts to deliver the theoretical crowning would require a touch of finesse. Luckily for me, I had the money to buy a circus cannon on the internet to fire myself out of, so I had problem number two down pat. It would take the cannon about a week to be shipped to my place, and it was in that time that I had to figure out how to make a Godzilla. In no time flat, I had a plan.