Archive | January, 2010

A Date. A Big, Fat, Stinkin’ Date.

27 Jan

Sometimes I go on dates. These things–these dates–are at the same time fantastic, wonderizing, fantastiful, and grandiosious. [Editor’s Note: Those last three words don’t exist. I even checked the “IronKyle’s Fancy Words” dictionary you gave me when I came on last March.] [Kyle’s Note: Did you check the back?] [Editor’s Note: The back? I thought dictionaries were in alphabetical order.] [Kyle’s Note: Oh. Hm. Well, add those three. To the back.]

This past weekend, or maybe the weekend before that, I can’t remember [peyote], I went on a date. I went on a date with a woman.

This woman.

That’s where I picked her up from. That’s not her house, though. The location in that image there is what I call my “proving grounds.” She’s standing next to the sex room. You see, I’m trying to breed champions. You think I’m going to breed a champion with some chick I meet up with at a Starbucks? You think I’m going to breed a champion with some woman that needs to be picked up in the palatial, soft surroundings of a home? You think wrong.

The probing [Editor’s Redaction] proving grounds are located off an industrial road in Denton, Texas. I tell my date that my car is on the fritz, and that I need her to come pick me up. She comes to pick me up, hat in hand (I also tell her to bring her favorite hat.), and begins the arduous process of finding what would resemble a front door. I then jump out of the shadows, scare her, steal her hat (to show her that nothing is forever) and run away to hide. I’m wearing a disguise (glasses) and I’m moving very fast, so she thinks she’s just been robbed by a stranger. She’s lost, afraid, confused, and hopefully, violently vengeful.

I leave a gun behind with a single round left in the chamber. I then make a mannequin of myself sleeping on a bench. If the woman approaches the mannequin and shoots it, we go on our date. If the woman uses the gun as a threatening object to get her hat back, we go on a slightly less romantic date. If she uses the gun to take her own life, we go to the quarry, where she rests forever.

I never get to see the results of Annemarie’s test, though, as she saw a cat in some trash, forgot all about her hat, and spent an hour or so chasing the stray around the and singing to herself.

Eventually, the cat runs into a gutter, she gives up, and we get in the car to begin discussing our plans for the evening.

Avatar?” I ask, smiling one of my most potently charming smiles–my Dennis Quaid smile.

So potent.

“Why do you look like a fifty year old man right now?” Annemarie asks, edging herself to the far end of her seat.

“Because I’m fifty,” I say, not at all thinking before I speak.

“What?”

“Let’s go see Avatar,” I say.

The movie theater’s parking lot resembles a used car dealership. The place is packed–absolutely packed.

“This place is packed,” Annemarie says.

“Absolutely packed,” I say, winking. Annemarie gives me a look that promises thousands of hand jobs to come. “Thousands of them,” I say, just above a whisper–still looking deeply into Annemarie’s eyes. She reaches into her purse.

“I have mace,” she says.

We buy our tickets. Our tickets are cheap-ish.

“I’ve been waiting forever to see this movie!” Annemarie says, jubilant.

We walk into the theater and find our seats. As packed as the theater was, it wasn’t too hard to find two seats for me and my yellow-haired she-devil.

The movie goes well. With a 165 minute run time, I had plenty of time to inch my hand from my lap, to the armrest, to her knee, to her thigh, to her boob, then back to my lap to start the whole thing over again. Each boob-cycle takes approximately 45 minutes.

For dinner, we went to a local Chinese or Japanese or Korean or Vietnamese place called “Mr. Chopsticks.” The food there is good, the atmosphere enjoyable, but it can get a little expensive for my taste (There is no dollar menu). So, here, I employ another stage of testing for my date–charity. When the bill comes, I look it over, set it down and reach into my pocket for my wallet. As I’m taking it out, I fumble it and drop my wallet on the ground.

“Oh, crap,” I say. I lift it up, dust it off and then open and close it, inspecting it. I start to look increasingly frustrated, then put it down on the table. “It’s broken. The damn thing is broken. I’m going to have to get a new one!” I sigh loudly and lean back in my seat, exasperated.

“You can’t j–” Annemarie says, reaching across the table for my wallet. I quickly snatch the wallet and shove it into my pocket.

“AH! It’s just so broken.” I shrug my shoulders and make an “I don’t know” gesture. “Do you mind just paying this once? It’d really help me out. I have to buy a new wallet.”

“Uh, yea, I guess,” Annemarie says. Good. Good.

She pays. She pays well.

The drive home is filled with witty conversation by me. I’m very witty. Annemarie does a fantastic job of sitting quietly and laughing at the appropriate times. She’s so good at that. We reach her house and I walk her to her door. There’s that momentary pause when we’re both trying to decide if a kiss is in order. I decide that one is. She decides that I smell like soy sauce and nervousness. I lean in and she ducks to her left, skillfully.

She laughs and raises her hands in a karate-like defense pose. “Quick reflexes.” I love a woman with quick reflexes. I’m so excited. I want to see the reflexes in action again. I just can’t wait. I draw my hand back and bring it forward with terrible speed. She’s nowhere near fast enough to duck it and a punch her square in the head. She falls over limply and lands in a bush.

“Crap.” I say. “Crap crap crap.” I shake my head, looking down at her unconscious frame lying in the shrubs. “Your reflexes are crap, Annemarie.” I pick her up, put her in a sitting position, kiss two of my fingers and lay them to rest on her forehead. “Goodbye, you beautiful bitch,” I say. Then I get in my car and go home to blog about my experience.

The End.


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Stupid Freakin’ Crap

23 Jan

“Hey everyone. Who’s ready to do something chilling?

“Scroll down for more ghastly adventures!”

“Miserable” Ch. II

22 Jan

When we last left our hero he’d been kidnapped by a crazed fan after his car crashed near her rural property. Her name is Sandra Cullen. His name is “Iron” Kyle Irion. She has expressed a mad desire for Iron Kyle to write another blog entry including author Stephen King, whom she believes to be be a fictional character of Kyle’s creation.

I sit slumped on the bed. Eyes open, but not a glimmer of life left in them. I appear as I always have, but with a certain spark removed. I resemble a statue of my former self. Bloodrayne has just ran through its final round of credits.

The deep, rhythmic sound of footsteps approaches the bedroom door. Sandra appears.

“Are you rethinking my proposition?” She asks, lifting the remote and toggling to the “Play Movie” option on the home screen.

“YES!” My body jerks forward against the leather straps holding me to the bed. “YES, I’ll do whatever you want–just don’t make me watch that movie again!”

“Good.” She picks up the laptop, sets it on the TV tray and brings it to me. She then straps my hands to the tray’s sides. My WordPress account is still up. I go to my Twitter. (@localpolice I’ve been kidnapped. Sucks. Send help?)

“Okay,” I say. “I’ll get started right away, but Sandra, can I ask you a personal favor? I mean I’d only ask this of someone who really understands my needs as a writer.”

“Oh!” she exults “I’d love to help! What can I do?”

“I could really use some…well, some writing juice.”

She looks at me, dumbfounded. “I’m sorry, I don’t…”

“Whiskey. Bring me some whiskey.”

“Well, all right–if you think that’ll help.”

“That’s right. It would really get this blog churning–get this blog burning–get this blog…something else. Let’s get me drunk!” I start to do the cabbage patch, but once Sandra starts to mirror me, I gag and have to stop.

“I’ll go get it right away!” She leaves, locks the door, and in a moment, I see the car pulling out down the snowy driveway and into the street.

“Here’s my chance!” I yell. I try my hardest to do a mild victory dance, but dancing while being strapped down is difficult. That’s why that paraplegic guy got kicked out of *N Sync so fast. I look around for a way to take advantage of my privacy, but quickly find none. “Well now what do I do?” I ask.

“If only you could go get a knife from the other room. There’s one in the kitchen. You could hide it under your bed so when Sandra comes to check on you you can stab her or something,” Aquaman says. [Editor’s Note: Wait, where the hell did Aquaman come from? You can’t just insert characters like that.] [Kyle’s Note: Oh yea?] [Editor’s Note: God. Please don’t make this a thing.]

Out of nowhere, Stephen King appears. [Editor’s Note: Are you serious?] He’s wearing a big red cape that has says “$tephen King.” He’s totally awesome. [Editor’s Note: You really just don’t care anymore, do you?]

“Hello, Kyle.” Stephen says.

“Hey, Stevie. You wanna help me out? Could you pop these straps off?”

Stephen looks at me, smiles, then does something creepy that I can’t quite remember. I then climb on his back and he carries me away to my home.

As Stephen flies away, I wave goodbye from the ground, a single tear running down my cheek.

“I’ll miss you Stephen!” I yell from the ground.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll be back on Christmas d–” Just at that moment, Stephen runs into a low-flying bird. He says a bad word and departs forever.

I’ll never forget my friend Stephen King–and how badly I butchered his classic story of Misery.

“Miserable.” Chapter I

20 Jan

December 24, 2009

I drive my car to my friend, Wesley’s, house. I’m going a bit slower because of the ice. As I make a turn, though, I hit a particularly treacherous patch of ice and veer off the road. My car flips sideways up the road, then onto its back, then up a tree, then back down a tree, then into a river, then out of a river, then to a giant car shaped towel, then into a rock wall. I’m knocked unconscious.

I wake up being drug by a large, matronly-looking human, wrapped from head to toe in layers of winter clothing. It’s like that time my laundry got so dirty that it gained sentience and drug me to the laundromat to put it out of its misery. Concussed and nearing delirium, I close my eyes and fall to nothing once again.

I am taken to an old farm house in the middle of a snow-covered forest. I lay, bound, in what looks to have the falsely lived-in look of a guest bedroom. The inside of the house smells of antique furniture and the stiff, musky smell of an aged home.

“What smells like this much poop and this much doily?” I ask, moving my hands from a position far apart, then to one closer together.

“Oh! You’re awake!” A voice calls from down the corridor. A series of approaching footsteps soon follow. Momentarily, a large, moon-faced woman with a build like a refrigerator and the hair of a sixties house wife stands at the door. “Iron Kyle! I’m so glad you’re here!”

I attempt to rise up to make sex to this woman (as is my customary greeting when someone calls me by my internet name), but I’m strapped to the bed by a series of leather straps.

“What is this?!” I yell, struggling against my restraints.

“That’s just to keep you still while you’re healing. You got some pretty nasty injuries, Iron Kyle.” The woman has not moved from the doorway, as if she’s afraid of getting to close. She has a strange look on her face–a smile laced with a kind of bashful fear–she’s star struck.

I once again try to get out of the bed to pour my sex all over this mysterious maiden (as is my customary response when I star-strike someone), but the restraints halt my advance. “…I just need to find a w…I need to free my wiener…” I mumble to myself, surveying the straps.

“Iron Kyle,” the woman says, stepping into the room for the first time, “My name is Sandra Cullen.”

“Are you Edward’s mom?” I turn and wink at the camera. [Editor’s Note: Wait, is this a blog or a screenplay? What camera? Please specify.]

Sandra looks confused. “No, I’m afraid I’ve never been married. Never really been with a man, either.”

I give this woman a strange look. I struggle to get my hands close enough together to do a penetrating motion with my right finger and my left fist, then ask “‘Been with’ like this?”

She blushes. “Iron Kyle, you embarrass me!”

“I embarrass a lot of people,” I say, winking smugly at the camera. [Editor’s Note: Stop it.] A bit of dribble runs down my chin.

She’s walks to a small desk by the room’s only window, her back to me. She begins fiddling with something, then says “Iron Kyle, I have a confession to make. I am your biggest fan. I’ve read all of your blogs four or five times at least, I’ve read all your short stories, I went to see your play performed, and I have on my iPod all the music you ever wrote. Remember all those mornings when you came out to find your car mysteriously washed clean? That was me!”

“That was you?”

“Yea–,” she says, turning bright red and swaying girlishly.

“You know it’s breaking and entering when you smash the window of my garage to do that, right?”

She stands silent.

“I’m actually going to need some contact information for you. Those windows are really expensive and I–”

“SHUT UP!” She yells. “You shut your mouth!” Her demeanor is a mix of anger and severe disappointment. “I’ve heard that you artist/writer types can be egotistical little divas, but I never expected you to be like this!”

“Really? I kind of feel like that’s my most prominent personality trait.”

“I said shut up!” She steps forward and reveals what she’d been fiddling with at the desk: a syringe. She drives the needle into my neck and after a biting moment of pain, I fall asleep.

When I wake up, she’s craned my bed up so I’m in a sitting position. Sandra has also put a tray across my lap, which my hands are strapped to. There is a laptop on the tray, positioned just so my hands can reach the keyboard. My WordPress account is on the homepage.

“I brought you a computer so you could write! You can write more of your blogs!” Sandra says from the foot of my bad. She’s clasping her hands tightly together. She looks like a gigantic child on fair day.

I’m still struggling into the waking world, my words still garbled.

“No, no, Iron Kyle. It’s all forgiven,” she interrupts. “I’m not mad at you anymore. I want you to do me a favor, though.”

“What is it?” I ask. Sandra then steps forward and places a clammy, chubby hand on my arm.

“Well,” she’s now smiling with a nervous and expectant grin. “I’d like you to write a blog for me. I want you to do one with your friend Stephen King in it. I just love his character.”

“Character?” I ask. “Stephen King isn’t a character, Sandra. He’s a real human being.

She looks at me, confused, then stomps out of the room. I hear a childish, fitting scream from the hallway. A few seconds of silence follow, and when she enters again, red rings of moisture around her eyes.

“Put Stephen King in another blog.” She seems stolid and cold for a moment, then melts and returns to her false, bubbly self. “I miss him so much! He’s my favorite character!”

“HE ISN’T A CHARACTER!” I yell back. Sandra’s smile disappears and from her apron, she removes a copy of Bloodrayne.

“What uh…what are you going to do with that?” I ask. A pit of nerves opens in my stomach and a flash, somehow both hot and cold, runs over my body.

“We’re going to watch a movie. We’re going to watch a movie until you appreciate all I’ve done for you!” Sandra unplugs the laptop and moves it to a table across the room.

The TV is located at the foot of the bed on small chest of drawers. The DVD player sits atop the set like some foreboding king or seer.

“Don’t put that DVD in there, Sandra,” I say. “Don’t you do it!”

“OHHHHH yea!” She says.

“Why don’t you–” I start, but then she does a few pelvic thrusts, then something with her hands, and my protests are completely derailed. I stutter a few times then just stop talking.

Bloodrayne begins.

To be continued.

(Source Material)

The Whiskey Kyle Letters, Part 2

18 Jan

Following is a series of correspondence between myself and my intoxicated alter-ego, Whiskey Kyle. A previously documented account of this can be found here.

1

Dear Whiskey Kyle,

How are you? Well, I hope. From your last letters, though, I have reason to believe that my hopes for your continued growth and maturity may not come to fruition. Was I correct when I read that you, while at full force, tried to convince your friend Derek to let you “cut him open and sleep inside him like a big friendly sleeping bag”? That’s a horrible idea, Whiskey Kyle. I’m afraid that you’re getting dangerously close to murder.

Have you murdered someone?

Your friend,

Kyle

2

Hey ikkkyLe,

LIshen. Lishen tu me. Youi are not muyh dad. I did kill some;one.

😛

luv,

Whiskey Kyle

3

Whiskey Kyle,

This isn’t a joke, Whiskey Kyle. You can’t kill people, do you understand? You just can’t. It’s illegal and wrong. Being wasted doesn’t mean you are outside the law. It doesn’t make you an endearing free spirit either, in case that’s what you were thinking. It just makes you a criminal. A foul-smelling, bloated, grotesquely intoxicated criminal.

Why do girls keep kissing you?

Your friend,

Kyle

4

Dear Fuck Yuo,

Hello, Fukc yOU! Thass your name. I püt a sleeppy hiomeless man in a ;ditch by FUddrucker’s. I made him sle3py bi h;tting him with a board. Why dooes that make thm so sleep? LOL.LIKE SOMUCH BLO0D!!!

Ann another thing. I’m real go0d lookin, so why wou;lldn’t igrls want 2 kisS me?

I am G0()d looking, rite?

Right?

Write?

Dickks

Eat some poop,

Whiskey Kyle

5

Whiskey Kyle,

Okay, Whiskey Kyle. I can’t be serious enough about this next part, and I need you to respond with equal seriousness: Did you really kill a homeless man with a board and leave him in a ditch by Fuddrucker’s? And if you did, did you leave any trace of your identity behind?

Do not go back to the body. Not for now. You and a dead body can most adequately be described as a “severe liability.” Just you knowing that there’s a corpse you can tamper with is a severe liability.

And yes, you’re very good looking, but you’re abrasive, impetuous, and prone to binge eating. Women don’t like these things. They also don’t think it makes you look classy when you take off your hoodie and tie it around your shoulders. It doesn’t give you near the “country club” look that you claim you’re going for. It just makes you look like a douche.

But back to the first thing. Did you kill someone? Don’t joke about this.

Your friend,

Kyle

6

KYLE WHOWIE*U!

Don wurry i took ThaT old bag of bones and dresssed him up as mE–I eeven gave hm our ID to be authenTick. NOw the cops won’t geT us because they’ll tHink thaat the homel3ss man is me and everyb8dy knowws you cn’t kill urself.

Smaarter than u think,

Whiskey Kyle

7

Whiskey Kyle,

You idiot. You’ve destroyed us.

-Kyle

Pat Robertson is an Idiot.

14 Jan

“Something happened a long time ago in Haiti, and people might not want to talk about it,” Robertson said. “They were under the heel of the French … and they got together and swore a pact to the devil. They said, ‘We will serve you if you’ll get us free from the French.'”

“True story. And the devil said, ‘OK, it’s a deal.’ Ever since, they have been cursed by one thing after another.”

-Pat Robertson, on the 2010 Haiti Earthquake

Here’s a list of equally provable claims that I just made up:

  1. Both of Oprah’s parents were robots who resembled humans in every possible way, and they even faked getting human illnesses and dying because they wanted people to believe that Oprah was also human.
  2. I have a six foot dong that only exists when my pants are zipped up.
  3. One time, when no one was looking, Barack Obama made a living dog out of clay and old newspapers.
  4. Owls are the devil’s way of saying “Yea, even birds can be creepy as fuck.”
  5. Ghostbusters is actually America’s most popular documentary, covered up several of the world’s largest governments.

Me and Lanny talk Cowboys

12 Jan

A.P. is sometimes used as an abbreviation for anal penetration. However, it is more commonly used as an abbreviation for Vikings running back Adrian Peterson, who the Cowboys will face this weekend in the second round of the NFL playoffs.

This conversation actually happened.

My phone rings. It’s 4:36 pm on Tuesday afternoon.

“Hello?” I answer.

“Hey man,” Lanny responds, “You wanna talk Cowboys?”

I’m a little taken aback by the request, as Lanny’s at work, but I decide that Lanny might just be bored on one of his delivery routes and looking for some distraction. “Sure. Go ahead,” I say.

“Well, what do you think of A.P.?”

“A.P.? I think Adrian Peterson is a prolific running back. I think he’s definitely a threat to be dealt with.”

“Do you think there’ll be a lot of A.P. this weekend?”

“Well, I think a healthy dose of A.P. gives the Vikings their best chance to win. It’d open up the play action for Favre and their receivers.”

There’s a brief pause on the other side of the line. “Do you think A.P. will hurt the Cowboys?” Lanny asks.

“If they don’t pay attention to him, Peterson will definitely hit them with big time.”

“So you think A.P. will gash them pretty bad? Split ’em wide open?”

“Yes–he could. A.P. will probably hurt them more early on.”

Lanny’s voice becomes shakier and shakier as he asks this next question. “Do you think the Cowboys will start to like A.P. after awhile?” Okay. Now I get it.

“Adrian seems like a pretty nice guy, I guess, but he is a professional athlete. So, I guess A.P. could require some getting used to.”

Here we both break out into laughter, bantering a little bit before ending the conversation. I try the same thing with my friend, Sam, a few minutes later.

“Hello?” Sam answers.

“You want to talk Cowboys?”

“No.”

“Oh, okay.”

“Let me call you back.”

I’m called back a few minutes later.

“Hey man.”

“Hey, Sam. You want to talk Cowboys?”

“Yea, what’s up?”

“Well, do you think A.P. will hurt the Cowboys this weekend?”

“Definitely. I think that’s the only chance the Vikings have of winning the game. They need to get him going.”

“Do you think they’ll like A.P.?” I choke out the last few words, holding back laughter.

“What?”

“Do you think they’ll like A.P.?” I’m now laughing unabashedly.

“I don’t get it.”

“Like anal penetration. A.P.–anal penetration.”

“Ah, okay.” Mild, humoring chuckles.

Happy Tuesday.

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