Friday, July 1, 2011


(Related post: Day 31)

I was at a BBQ, enjoying a cold beer and engaging in friendly discussion on how time dilation when applied to the concepts of general relativity could allow for time travel into the future. The general consensus was that it is unlikely that travel into the past is possible, but playing the Devil's Advocate I postulated its plausibility. The term "Paradox" was being thrown around like so many "I Love You's" in the backseat of a Chevy Nova on Prom Night. I was proposing that the application of quantum mechanics into the equation mitigates the paradoxical conundrum created by the laws of causality by allowing for historical divergences, aka Multiverses. It was a congenial enough conversation until some clown broke out Hawkings' Chronology Protection Conjecture. Hello...Party over!

It was at that moment that I became distracted by a new arrival blustering through the back gate. He was a greasy rotund fellow, the type of guy who is always sweaty in winter. He was wearing a shirt that read "My PERL script is smarter than your Java code". There was something oddly familiar about him. I vaguely registered that he made me uncomfortable but I couldn't remember why. I also recalled that he smelled funny. Like pickled eggs and taxidermy.

His beady eyes furtively darted around the guests, and when they settled on me he hastily made a stumbling beeline for my position. I gingerly placed my beer on the patio table, adjusted my footing, and got ready to rumble!

Then I noticed the other guests were not at all alarmed by this rampaging unctuous behemoth. Some were even casually greeting him as he charged past. I relaxed my ninja fighting stance, but only slightly.

As he huffed and puffed right up to me the first thing I noticed were the crescents of perspiration framing his breasts. The second thing was the stench. They say that smell is a powerful memory trigger, and this particular assault on my olfactory senses was setting my Spider Senses a-tingling!

By way of greeting he heralded himself by blurting "So I got to thinking about the Submariner-Iron Man death match we were discussing".

Oh. Fuck.

Now I remembered. It all came flooding back to me. The Geek By Association, or GBA for short. I hadn't immediately recognized him because it appears he had suffered some sort of severe allergic reaction. He had swelled to twice the size since I had last seen him several months prior, bloated like a plastic jug of apple cider long forgotten under the kitchen sink left to ferment and expand as it produced foul smelling gas, and he had some strange rash covering his face. As it turns out his condition was the product of a steady diet of fast food coupled with trying to grow a patchy set of mutton-chops over his acne.

I looked around for support, back-up, but my companions had quietly and wisely chosen to absquatulate, leaving me to fend for myself. That's not pals. That's not buds. Fiends! I had but one recourse: feign ignorance. A crude but historically effective defense.

"I wasn't discussing anything with you. Ever", I replied with a subtle raising of one eyebrow, hoping this quizzical and bemused affectation would throw him off the scent.

"Indeed you were sir, and I quote 'The only person who ever wins in a death match is Baby Jesus. That's how He garners new recruits for the coming war'. End quote". I couldn't help but smirk at my own assclownery. Damn it, busted! All I could muster was "Ah".

Raising his voice so the audiences' collective attention would be drawn he confidently continued, "So, my question to you wiseguy, if they did go to heaven, God's Army aside, would they get wings? Well, I'm waiting", GBA looked around triumphantly, arms resting across his ample bosom, a smug look on his face that was just begging me to smack it right off. 

The quizzical raising of my eyebrow and look of disbelief were both genuine this time "...the fuck....??".

"Well boy wonder, they can both fly, and have no need for wings. Namor has wings on his feet, and Iron Man's suit has propulsion. Who looks the fool now?", he concluded, poking me in the chest with a moist pudgy finger. A collective gasp went up. 

I responded in a quiet, measured tone, "Go. Away. Before I knock you into last week. Please."

His eyes had taken on a feverish maniacal quality. He'd been stewing over this for months, he couldn't stop himself if he wanted to. His over analysis of our last encounter had a choke hold on both Fear and Common Sense. He continued on, his voice raising an octave in pitch, his words coming quicker now, something about "...if there was a Red Sun in heaven, and the tensile strength required to support The Thing, and what about...".

I interrupted him, "Were you really just about to comment on the fact that DC's Hawkman and/or Marvel's Angel already have wings?" 

There was a mix of awkward uncomfortableness and anticipation emanating from the crowd.

A long pause, then a tentative nearly inaudible "Yes", followed by the sound of me knocking him into last week.

Hawkings' Chronology Protection Conjecture be damned!

1 comment:

  1. I could almost hear his wet jowels slapping as he ran/hobbled across the yard.