Tuesday, December 14, 2010

3 Movies I Thought Would Suck, But Kinda Didn't

I've ran into a very specific form of writer's block repeatedly for the past while. You see, my existence centers around this innate, insatiable desire to seek out stupid things and belittle them for my own twisted amusement. The world of movies has, and will always be a bottomless well of stupidity. A mine of comedic gold that stretches for eternity. Writing about them is like falling into the arms of a trusting old friend when the world becomes too dark and overwhelming, who I then proceed to kick in the testicles. Sadly, my last known refuge has been unwilling to grant me something to make fun as of late, so I've been left very disheartened and dejected in spirit.
Tragically, I've had to settle for the boring alternative of actually liking things. So I come to you today not as the extremely handsome literary psychopath you know, but as a changed, humbled man who admits he was wrong. Well, not really. Most movies can still get down on their knees, suck the farts out of my ass and die, but here are three I actually kinda liked:

3. X-Men Origins
So I find myself at the movie theater with some friends. The Hangover is sold out, so we opt for the alternative: X-Men Origins. I remember watching the trailer a couple weeks prior, which ended with Hugh Jackman clinging desperately to a helicopter, a CGI sequence bad enough to embarrass George Lucas. Needless to say, this marked the first time I was looking forward to something taking a shit in my eyeballs. As I took my seat and the lights dimmed, I was expecting a magnificent, gnarled mess of a movie to make fun of. Instead I found myself disturbed halfway in that I was actually kind of enjoying myself. Ignoring the scene with that pretty boy douchebag Ryan Reynolds at the beginning and his dumbass swords, of course. Please, stick to comedy, Ryan. It's the one thing you're sort of good at.


The movie wasn't entirely free from the scope of disparagement, though. The opening credits were stupid, Gambit bothered me and deserves to have his mouth sewn shut with his own pubes, I couldn't fight off the thought that Wolverine could quite possibly have a boner all the time, and I firmly (no pun intended) remember struggling to not burst out laughing when Hugh Jackman and Liev Schreiber had this conversation where they delivered their lines as awkwardly as possible. "Do you even know how to kill me?", "I'm gonna cut your goddamn head off."

Hahaha, ok. Whatever you say, wildman
Also, why the fuck is will.i.am in this movie?

Final word
The only opinion I could come up with for the movie after it was over, is that it isn't terrible. Falls into the realm of a "why not?" kind of movie. If you have the ability to mindlessly enjoy something, this is worth a watch. I'd say it's more highly recommended than going to prison or a five-finger prostate examination after someone puts their hands in a freezer, so the movie accomplished something positive in my mind.

2. Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince
This one was the biggest surprise of the trinity, because in my opinion, the Harry Potter movies started going downhill when I learned Dumbledore was a homosexual, and the director presumably started wrapping the scripts around his dick and having sex with like, big blubbery walrus asshole.

The first movie was great. The second movie was fairly good, mainly because it was funny that Ron became a giant in the intervening period between the two films. Then Azkaban was awful, Goblet was fucking monstrous and Phoenix was just retarded. Despite the fact that the Harry Potluck series is somewhere around the grade three reading level, I enjoyed reading them. Not to the point where I would bean someone over the head with a bat if they gave even the slightest negative criticism towards them, but I do remember them being something fun to read while taking a shit. The movies just kept straying farther and farther away from the books, which bothered me. Then someone made the point to me how you couldn't make a movie entirely about a book without removing some stuff, otherwise the movie would be several hours long.

... true

... but it is odd how they found time to add in a bunch of stupid random shit that brings nothing to the story whatsoever. Say, in Goblet where the rock band played at Hogwarts. Come on, a mosh pit? Seriously? That's like ordering a big delicious meal, then the chef brings it to your table and puts his dick in the pasta. Sort of.

Anyway, I took my mommy out on a date to see the new Harry Potter. After my mom had her fun blatantly insulting people in the theater, which included calling some guy in a cowboy hat a little bitch, the movie began. Awhile later, and it ended. I was genuinely shocked when the movie ended for two reasons. First, where was the scene where Hermione and Ginny Weasley make out with each other and whip their tits out? Granted, it would have been awkward to watch with my mother, but fuck it, titties rule! Second, not one scene in the movie triggered fits of haemolacria. By god the relationship drama was relentless, and again, I was disappointed at the severe lack of titties, but it wasn't bad at all. It stayed rather faithful to the book, which is nice.
I felt it could have improved on a few things, and it never really went anywhere, but that's just because the book was complete filler. The only purpose it served was to lead up to the last book. Sure Dumbledore dies, but big fucking deal. I was tired of that old bitch anyway. The movie was going to be boring no matter what it did because the book was a snorefest. There was one golden scene though. Harry and company are walking along and happen upon some girl in a field, suspended in mid-air in perpetual nightmare, screaming with this horrified, dead look on her face. The little kid sitting next to me probably still hasn't slept. Something awesome like that always happens everytime my mom and I go to see a movie. It's like when my mom and I went to see Chamber of Secrets, and we overheard this brief conversation between a mother and her child. "Are there any snakes in this movie, mommy?" "Of course not, dear."


Final word
It's definitely not terrible, which certainly breaks the trend the last three movies set. It's not a great movie, but if you like the book, you won't walk away from the movie with the feeling that you just watched an anal sex tape, masquerading as a Harry Potter movie. I also appreciate the fact that this movie can scare children.

Just kidding about Dumbledore being a homosexual, by the way.

1. Watchmen
This is the movie that inspired me to write this article. I had no knowledge of Watchmen until I saw the trailer for the movie one day. I formulated an opinion on it immediately. The trailer made no fucking sense, the director probably eats macaroni out of a sock, also there's some blue guy who has a blue penis.

Afterwards I learned that it's a graphic novel, supposedly the greatest one of all time that I've somehow never heard of. I was on my guard after that, because I have this impression that graphic novel writers think their work is a sophisticated private language to congratulate themselves on their superiority to society. Personally I think they all snort enough cocaine worth more than the gross domestic product of Australia. But hey, Sin City was good, and 300 was... actually pretty stupid, but whatever, I'll watch the men.

I expected the movie to be god awful and utterly incomprehensible, and to a degree, yes, it was a little confusing. The first scene is this guy getting his ass fucking kicked, and I'm sitting there thinking, "what did this sorry bastard do?" That's nothing to detract from the entire movie, and it's certainly not a complaint. There's a lot of movies that could benefit from some senseless ass kicking right out of the gates.


The movie was so compelling, I sat through the entire thing, and at the end I realized I kinda liked it, and actually understood everything. I went into it expecting the worst, expecting a movie just begging to be made fun of, expecting me to ease its misery by writing an article about it, and subsequently instilling mindless rage in a sea of fanboys. I probably could make fun of the movie if I tried, like how Rorschach sounds like a blender full of rocks, and... I dunno, Dr. Manhattan has a blue penis? But then it occured to me that if I'm trying this hard to find something wrong with the movie, it's probably not that bad.

However, word of advice. Whatever you do, an hour into the movie, make sure the phrase, "it takes place in an alternate reality" doesn't cross your mind. You'll lay awake thinking about that shit.

Final word
It was a little long, especially that bit with Dr. Manhattan's emo back story, but the graphic novel it's based off of is thick enough that it would kill your mailman if you dropped it off your house and it landed on his head, so it's understandably long. I appreciate that the director would at least try to stay true to the source material, even if he did get a lot of shit messed up, according to people I've talked to who've read the novel. My paltry complaint about the length is mainly because I'm lazy and have almost zero attention span.
The story was actually quite wonderful and unique, but I couldn't help wanting to see more senseless ass kicking anyway, just to satisfy my unreasonable standards. Too bad the book is more story-oriented, goddamnit. My only real complaint about the film is that the music was absolutely god awful. It wasn't so much "music" as it was vomiting into a microphone. 99 Luftballons can eat my ass.
Also, you know how there's that one strange character in some movies, and you're always curious as to what their penis looks like? Like The Thing from Fantastic Four, or The Nazgul from Lord of the Rings, or The Hulk (I've always assumed giant green anger dick for The Hulk)? Dr. Manhattan answers that call, and it's an answer so obvious and unsatisfying, you wonder why you even bothered asking in the first place. He has a glowing blue penis, which we didn't need to see. Yay.

Saturday, December 4, 2010

My lawnmower is an asshole

Note: I wrote this article on July 17th, 2009 at 5:00pm Mountain Time, if you wanted to know. It was summer then, but I'm posting it here in winter. Figured I'd let you know that before you start to wonder if Canadians mow mounds of snow in their spare time.

In the course of my brief existence on earth, there are several inevitable activites that I've come to dread. Going to the dentist, renovations, getting my hair cut (only because my hairdresser doesn't speak english), and the one which will be the focus of my contempt today: mowing the lawn. For as long as I care to remember, I've been involved in a cruel and exacting feud with my lawnmower. It's a contest of strength and dignity, a battle that routinely leaves me wearied and ashamed.
Apparently no one in my family is capable of mowing the lawn besides me (kinda like how no one is capable of shovelling the walks in winter), so I'm always the one left to do it. This is probably not the worst thing that could happen to me, but you don't yet fully appreciate how shitty my lawnmower really is. Come to think of it, my family may be smarter than I am... Anyway, lately I've been really down in the dumps because Emma Watson refuses to make out with me and won't return my calls, so to cheer me up, I was ordered to mow the lawn this morning. However, this was to mark the first time I was genuinely looking forward to mowing the lawn. You see, I've just recently acquired a new, impressively more badass lawnmower. One lawnmower to rule them all, and in the darkness... put a finger in your ass and laugh. I've affectionately named it, The Supreme Grass Fucker:

Behold the big dusty fat ass

I sincerely expected all manner of sexy bitches to flock to me and my slick ass lawnmower when I fired it up. I expected all those sexy bitches to massage my well tanned, muscular, glistening body as I sculpted a lawn so glorious, you'd question at the end whether you were gazing at a lawn, or the right ass cheek of God himself if that makes any sense.

Yes it seemed like nothing could go wrong, until I tried to turn it on and realized it wasn't charged. This meant I had to enlist the services of my old lawnmower, the one I hate. On reflection, I suppose it could have also been an opportunity to just charge it and mow the lawn later, sparing me from ignominy, but I have an innate inclination towards self-abasement. So I had to put big sexy back in the garage, then move all the strange, dangerous shit in my garage to make way for the old crusty dick lawnmower. What you're about to see, I can only describe as the distant cousin to the rape van outside the concert:

Was the sight of me taking pictures of my lawnmower confusing for my neighbour? Very possibly. Is my lawnmower a hunk of shit? Yes. The first thing that should have struck you was the fact that my lawnmower is bright red and very gay looking, adding to the humiliation of using it. Allow me now to draw your attention to the gimped front right wheel. That wheel leaves you handicapped in the area of general maneuverability, and is typically the catalyst for a volley of swear words, and to my neighbours, what appears to be a grown man kicking the shit out of a lawnmower in broad daylight.

My lawnmower has a few other defining qualities. The grass that's permanently embedded into the frame, making the back a royal pain in the ass to emplace. But the main one that probably went largely unnoticed, is the fact that this lawnmower isn't gas powered, but is in fact electric. That brings me effortlessly to mentioning the infamous cord that haunts my dreams. Seriously, it does:

Don't be fooled, for behind the cunningly treacherous and deceitful facade of a regular cord lingers a disquieting evil. One that somehow frequently tangles itself and gets in your way every chance it gets, for no reason other than to trigger episodes of violence, typically towards children, and arson. Depends how I feel.

So I wheeled the lawnmower to the front yard. After about five hours, I managed to unsnarl the cord and plug it in. I approached my lawnmower, and I was about to turn it on, when suddenly I was overcome with a feeling that has somehow never occured to me before mowing the lawn. It's similar to that of the one I'm faced with everytime I turn on my xbox 360, or my toaster. Jesus, this son of a bitch might explode.

... sadly not. So there I was, mowing the lawn. There would be no sexy bitches rubbing my body, pausing only to dump buckets of sunscreen on each other. There was just me and my weak, pasty body with the weird hairs around my nipples, subject to the quiet judgement of my neighbours, who I'm sure watch me whenever I mow the lawn.

The main problem is the cord. It always gets in your fucking way, no matter what methods you take to prevent it. You end up having to turn off the lawnmower, whip the cord behind you, then start again. As I mentioned earlier, the fact that the back of the lawnmower was never really designed to snap into place, isn't helped by the barricade of petrified grass embedded into the frame. So your shins are treated to a ceaseless bombardment of grass shrapnel with every step.

My lawnmower is also a tad schizophrenic. It can't seem to decide on a tone. The amount of effort it puts into cutting the grass seems to be completely arbitrary. Most of the time it seems to struggle with grass more than an inch tall, whereas other times it'll rip shit up with force lightning, Emperor Palpatine style.

The cord is then quick to remind you that it exists solely to drive you mad. It'll get stuck on anything it can and bring the project to a humiliating, screeching halt. Like today when the cord popped out of the lawnmower, and I discovered the problem was that the cord mysteriously lodged itself inbetween two sidewalk blocks, which doesn't seem physically possible. That incident was simply more evidence to support my theory that the cord has a mind of its own.

You see, whenever my lawnmower gets too full, it creates a chemical imbalance that causes the back of the lawnmower to tilt towards the ground, because the front isn't heavy enough to support it. And because the back of the lawnmower is never really fully secured, it enjoys snapping off, treating you to a small pile of grass upon your return to the lawnmower. Whenever this chemical imbalance occurs, the cord always pops out, and it's always a fair distance away so you can't stop the lawnmower from being a jackass, causing the chain reaction, which yes, does often include me punching children in the stomach. You may suggest preventative measures such as, giving myself lots of slack on the cord, but then you have to deal with moving the goddamn thing out of your way everytime you want to move. The only purpose the cord serves is to annoy your tits off.

Also, a bug flew into my eye.

I did finish mowing the lawn, but it wasn't a moral victory. I'm atleast comforted by the fact that I will never use that lawnmower again. When big sexy is up to speed, I intend to rent out a highrise apartment, just so my old lawnmower will fall further when I hurl it out the window.

Friday, December 3, 2010

8 Humiliating Injuries I've Sustained Today

Every once in awhile, strange forces are at work that coerce me into self-mutilation. I am called upon to experience several small, but very painful and degrading injuries, for no reason or purpose at all. Today is one of those days, sadly. My clumsiness and the ominous death traps peppered throughout my household have achieved perfect harmony, resulting in the most miserable day ever. I've decided to barricade myself in my room and chronicle the injuries I've endured today for your pleasure, because I bet you think this is funny. Well I got news for you, this isn't funny. This is shit:

8. I got a golf club up my ass
Hahaha, nah, this didn't actually happen. I just wanted to grab your attention.

Actual 8. I pulled my groin
Time: 8:37am
Desire To Kill Someone: Negligible, outweighed by desire to eat breakfast

This morning I had a dream that I was in a car with my friends Sophia and Brendan. Brendan couldn't stop laughing for some reason, Sophia was carrying a sack of potatoes, and I was dressed in nothing but my underwear. I woke up from whatever that signifies at 8:25. At 8:37, I got my ass out of bed. When I did, the first thing I did was step on my keys, which caused me to slide across my floor and pull my groin. I hate pulling my groin. It's like my leg and testicles are confused as to which one should be in pain. But lest we forget, not only did I pull my groin, but I stepped on my jagged keys as well. I like to call that the jackpot.

7. I smashed my hand on a door knob
Time: 8:39am
Desire To Kill Someone: Nugatory, I still want breakfast

I felt as if I didn't have quite enough fun stepping on my keys and pulling my groin, so I took it upon myself two minutes later to walk out into my hallway, and wildly hurl my hand into a door knob. It's the most pain I've endured in awhile, which is confusing because I wasn't swinging my arm, and I wasn't moving fast at all. Regardless, my hand and the door knob collided with tremendous force, resulting in a sonic boom, and me in a crumpled mess on the floor. It's like the door knob was a cruel metaphor for... something, I can't think of a good example.

6. I smashed my elbow on a wall
Time: 9:45am
Desire To Kill Someone: Rising

Injury number three is usually when I start to realize something is up, especially if that injury is something stupid that could have been easily avoided. That's a niche that my smashed elbow fit beautifully. I just got out of the shower, and for some reason I swung my arm backwards and smashed my elbow on the wall. After it happened, I couldn't even remember why I had swung my arm in that direction in the first place. Is my brain turning on me, or did the evil elbow smashing gremlins lasso my arm? You tell me.

5. I stepped on a nail
Time: 11:00am
Desire To Kill Someone: I'm focused more on the nail in my foot at the moment

Having nothing else to do today, I decided I might as well deposit my cheque from work at the bank, so I went outside to snatch my bike. Normally I don't have any problem with this. Little did I know that the outside world is far more perilious than the inside of my house. You see, there are these pieces of wood in my carport that my dad keeps for no goddamn reason, and one piece has little nails sticking out of it. Usually I avoid it or move it, but I was clumsy today, so naturally the only option available to me was to step on the fucker, so that's exactly what I did.

Stepping on a nail is a lot like getting a papercut. You feel like you should be in tremendous pain, but you don't feel anything. The mental aspect is the worst part. There was a nail in my foot, and I didn't know how to deal with it. I felt calm and hysterical at the same time. Frozen in indecision. Being stabbed did strip me of all my desire to deposit that cheque, so I just kinda pulled the nail out of my foot and walked back inside (Don't worry. I put polysporin and a band-aid on it, Mom.), which was a decision equal parts good and bad. Bad in that it lead to more injuries, but good in that I didn't go out into the world. Given my track record, I'd have probably ended up like that poor fucker in Armageddon that The Empire State building falls on. That's about as irrational as fears get. I live in Edmonton. The most that could fall on me here would be a bus shelter or a homeless person.

4. I snapped my neck and ruptured my spleen
Time: 2:30pm
Desire To Kill Someone: It would be nice, but crippling myself is far more interesting

Well this was sure fun. I was sitting here playing videogames, when I felt an enormous sneeze coming on. Now, sneezing and I have never gotten along very well. Something weird or painful always happens, or both. Like that time I had my sleeves rolled up, and I sneezed into my arm, which resulted in a collosal fart noise for my parents at 1 in the morning, or the day I sneezed while eating rice krispies. I decided to see what sneezing had to offer today, so I sneezed.

The sneeze erupted from my face with herculean force, causing a small portion of methane to be discharged from my anal cavity simultaneously. The sneeze was the phonetic equivalent of a blue whale cock slapping a bus. I sneezed so hard, one of my vital organs felt like it detonated inside my body. In this sudden rush of pain, I instantly grabbed my side, and whipped my head in that direction to... I guess survey the damage? Whatever I was thinking, all I ended up doing was snapping my neck. I just kind of rolled onto my bed, clutching my neck and my side. On reflection, that was probably the best time to just hurl myself out my window, but I decided on curling into a ball and writhing in agony instead.

3. I stubbed the same toe three times

Incident ATime: 4:17pm
Desire To Kill Someone: DEFCON 2

First I decided to stub my toe on a wall, and that really hurt. Not only because of the immediate pain you feel after you stub your toe, but your spirit takes a hit as well. You'd think a wall would be an easy thing to avoid.

Incident B
Time: 4:19pm
Desire To Kill Someone: I've already purchased a rug to roll your ass up in

Two minutes later, I stubbed that very same toe on the table in my television room. My mom was in the next room reading on complexity theory, so I had to for-go my usual practice of biting something and swearing extremely loudly. Worst of all, I was going downstairs to watch The Day After Tomorrow, which has Dennis Quaid in it. That made it worse somehow.

Incident C
Time: 5:04pm
Desire To Kill Someone: Unable to summon enthusiasm

That toe was nothing if not eager to hurl itself into every blunt object imaginable in my house. This time I was going on my computer, so I pulled out my chair, and I stubbed my toe on one of the wheels. Somehow it just didn't occur to me that my chair has wheels, and that it would probably hurt if I rammed one into my toe, until it was too late. You may have noticed that I referred to my toe in the past tense at the beginning of this paragraph. That's because I shit-canned his ass.

2. A crumb lodged itself in my arm
Time: 6:14pm
Desire To Kill Someone: Far too defeated to bother

I was in my room playing guitar, when I was called for supper. I sat down, and I put my right arm down on the table. Tragically I didn't have the innate foresight to notice that the sharpest crumb in the world was lingering on that section of the table that very moment, and I was rewarded with an awkward pain that defies classification. It felt a lot like... getting a crumb embedded in my flesh. I got a fucking crumb stuck in my arm, what do you say to that?

1. I canned myself
Time: 6:47pm
Reaction: "No..."
Desire To Kill Someone: After I'm finished moarning for my sweet, sweet testicles

What better way to cap off an uplifting day of disquieting injuries than whipping myself in the testicles? That question was rhetorical. So I go up to my room after supper, make a facebook update about my mom saying a girl I know should be "horse-whipped and thrown outside", knowing that everyone will be interested in it, then I noticed my xbox 360 controller is sitting on my bed. I could have just left it there, but I was compelled to roll up the cord and put it away. I was rewarded for my good work ethic appropriately. I rolled up the cord a little too vigorously, and I slapped myself in the testicles with it.

I have nothing further to add. I'm going to do something else now that hopefully doesn't result in injury. Although no matter which way I turn, this fruit fly that's currently flying around my room, is going to end up flying into my eye at some point this evening. Whatever it is that I've done, I'm sorry. Please make it stop.

Thursday, December 2, 2010

An Open Letter To The Fuck That Stole My Bike

Since my tenure in the retail industry, I've become increasingly interested in the kind of thoughts that people use to rationalize the retarded thing they're about to do or say. Like the woman who yelled at me because the cabbages we had on sale were too big and wet, clearly not realizing that it's called the "wet counter" for a reason. Although on reflection, she may have been trying to have sex with me... Then there was the man who asked if he could get some rotton tomatoes half price, because they were rotton and he dropped them on the floor. So, person that stole my bike, what were you thinking?

I was sitting here in my room last night, peacefully writing, when I realized I was experiencing a case of irreversible writer's block, and had infact only managed to draw a rough sketch of a pair of chimp tits, and had been staring at it for the past twenty minutes. I figured I should instead be focusing this time to more noble ends, like not neglecting my parents. So I went downstairs to watch the movie they were watching. Upon my arrival to the TV room, the look on my mother's face suggested she was being held hostage by someone's noxious fumes. My father at her side, looking like he wanted to rage-fuck the TV and twist someone's head off.

Against my better judgement, I sat and watched the last ten minutes of the movie "Australia", a movie which I would recommend you never watch. Five minutes in, I was seriously beginning to wonder if it was physically possible to die of boredom. The only cool part was when Professor Lupin got gored by a harpoon; but that was overshadowed by the near thirty six endings, all of which included Nicole Kidman looking like someone microwaved Barbara Streisand, and Hugh Jackman looking like someone shaved their ass and haphazardly taped the hair to his face.

Awhile after the movie ended, my parents announced that they were leaving somewhere for about half an hour. This seemed like the perfect opportunity to finally film my music video for The Hot Show by Prozzak, but I decided to do the dishes instead. Sometime after that while urinating upstairs (in the toilet), I heard some rustling in my carport. At first I thought it was the wind from the snow storm knocking stuff over, but when I walked outside, sure enough, someone had trashed my carport, being that there were foot prints everywhere. I was about to shrug it off, thinking someone had just stolen some bottles or something, then I realized my bike was gone.

I'm imagining your thought process right now, bike snatcher, and it's glorious. "I'm going to go walking outside in the middle of a snow storm, break into this garage, and steal the shit out of this bike." Why my house, and why my bike? I live right in the middle of a neighbourhood. Not the corner house or the one right next to the entrance of an alley, I live a ways down my street. Why the fuck would you target my house? You son of a bitch. That bike was like family. It was the perfect excuse to inform a crowd of attractive women that my penis also has 21 speeds, and you took it from me without remorse.

Do you rob innocent men for sport, or act on impulse to satisfy your own twisted addiction? Oh no, I imagine you've been eyeing my house for many, many days. You waited for the cover of darkness. Ever waiting for the shield of a snow storm to abduct my bike and disappear into the wind. Did you need a bike for the spring or something? I appreciate the sentiment, but so did I, you stink fucker. This is the second bike of mine that has been robbed from me. At least the first one was stolen by my friends. But you... You are a sadistic animal. You've succeeded only in taking something away from a man who has nothing.

But please don't mistake my intent with this letter. It's not meant to scare you, and it should not be seen as a death threat. Infact, I'm here to congratulate you. To thank you. I see now that you were just trying to help me. This situation is very prophetic. I probably should learn how to drive now, which does kind of put a hamper in my plans to workout every day in spring and summer, which inturn instills a desire to find, kill you and cannibalize your body, but I must thank you for your generous foresight. I needed this dramatic example to shake myself awake and better my life. Perhaps one day in the future, when the dust settles and I emerge a better and stronger person because of this experience, perhaps then, I will see my precious bike again. Take good care of it for me.

Oh, and if you wake up some day soon, chained to your bed, your daughter's right index finger on your stomach, the silhouette of my dick inching closer to your door, don't scream. This is just my way of saying thank you.

... and no one will be able to hear you anyway, so you're wasting your time. Just because I didn't see your face, doesn't mean that I can't find you.