Monday, April 12, 2004
"I'm sorry, that's just creepy."
- Warren Ellis, in e-mail, about THE GREAT LOSERS GIVEAWAY
Y'all are some sad motherfuckers.
I got tales of heartbreak. Heartache. Big Dates With The Hot Girl ditched so you could play 12 hours of D&D or Unreal Tournament. Heard tales of self-inflicted ball-bashing. Women telling me Samus Aran is their personal hero. Guys who weren't hip enough to hang out with the Magic: The Gathering kids. Guys whose ex-girlfriends went lesbian, with each other. Women who lust for Grima Wormtongue from Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers. Guys not picking up on it when women are giving them The Signal (a lot of those; conclusion = women are too fucking obtuse). Women who know all the lyrics to Jesus Christ Superstar. Guys who have set themselves on fire multiple times, presumably on accident. DDR aficionados. People who, in a drunken stupor, have either 1) pissed on their keyboards, 2) picked fights with bouncers, and/or 3) decorated themselves in christmas lights and danced nude at parties.
I haven't been talked to by this many virgins since I was in the Boy Scouts.
Amongst all this muck and mire, a few really unfortunate souls have risen to the top. Five men and.. actually just men, worthy of being called The Biggest Losers in the Universe. And mind you, these aren't your run-of-the-mill dorks who can't get laid or hold down their liquor; these are people Fate personally picked out for humiliation.
The ones Lady Luck strapped down to the floor, squatted over, and squeezed out a link right onto their foreheads.
These are The Losers.
In FIFTH PLACE, Winner of Sword of Dracula #1 and #2:
You want a tale of humilation? Those always involve the fairer sex!
So be it!
Her name was Laura. She was, without a doubt, built to perfection. A pretty face too with great eyebrows and piercing green eyes. I did my best to hit upon her, but she was quick to bring up the "boyfriend.' Her boyfriend was meeting her here or there and she was too busy, thanks all the same.
A year later, I'm at a party and as fate would have it, so is Laura. No boyfriend, real or imaginary is in sight. I'm trying to be cool, but maybe all those beers I've had are somehow blunting my efforts to impress. Still, I'm able to postion myself stragetically across from her in a chair. I'm slowly involving myself into the conversation she's having with some other woman on the couch. I catch her eye. I smile.
I then suddenly, without warning, vomit into my lap. I guess I had had more to drink than I thought. Two guys appear on either side of me and drag me out of the room with amazing speed. I'm able to catch the look of horror and disgust on Laura's face before I'm bum rushed out of the party. So, I finally make an impression upon her, that of a drunken, vomiting loser. And I never see her again, which come to think of it, is probably for the best.
Grant, a word of advice: Girls don't really like it when you hit upon them. At least not any kind of girl you don't pay first.
But hey, who here hasn't vomited into their lap in front of a charming person of the opposite sex?
Me, for one.
In FOURTH PLACE, Winner of The Monolith #1, #2, #3:
There are really so many things that could prove one to be an irreparable loser, and I've done most of them, but one particular occurance really sticks out in my mind. A couple months ago, I'm sitting at my computer (as I am for most of every day), and one of my cats (yes, plural, in a studio apartment) walks over to me. She jumps up onto the side of the chair, climbs into my lap, and sits on my forearm. She rubs her ass down my arm for a second, then springs off. I look, and see a streak of brown shit on my arm.
Apparently, at least for one brief moment, my own pet felt I was valueless enough to use as toilet paper.
Short but to the point. The man's cat wipes his ass on his bare skin. I'll probably be giggling about that on my death bed. That cat completely kicks ass.
His owner? Total loser.
In THIRD PLACE, Winner of The Losers: Ante Up:
Q: What’s more pathetic than those inbred hill-jacks that reveal their idiotic behavior to millions of people on nationally syndicated talk-shows, for the simple sake of appearing on TV?
In March of 2003, sweaty-palmed and blinking under hot studio lights, I found myself telling my wife and approximately 20 million viewers, “I really don’t know what I was thinking, I, uh… I peed on the cat at our Christmas get-together, hon…”
Wait, wait, fuck. I should back this up a little.
My name’s Jeremy Bear. My wife and I live in Los Angeles County, so we thought it might be a splendid idea to snag tickets to The Tonight Show with Jay Leno when my dad and sister came to town. I suppose that was my first mistake.
Leno tickets are no easy feat. One must stand in line for ages outside NBC in Burbank, even if your tickets are already in-hand. So, hours before the taping, the four of us were bored to tears, waiting for the NBC interns to give us the go-ahead to file into the studio. Eventually, some of the interns passed out pencils and index cards to the folks in the line. Printed neatly on the cards were two questions:
"What’s something you’ve never confessed to anyone?
Would you be willing to reveal it to Jay on Friday’s taping?"
Apparently, Tonight Show writers are always fishing for comedy bits. I was bored, you understand. Very, very bored. So I wrote:
I’ve never confessed to my wife that, at Christmastime, I accidentally peed on one of our cats. I’m not sure if she’ll forgive me, but maybe Jay can smooth things out.
It was a complete lie, and not a particularly creative one. But, you know. Bored.
Soon, the index cards were collected and, before I knew it, I found myself repeating the lie to the writing staff of the Tonight Show, ad-libbing details all the way. They called Jay on the cell, told him the story. They snapped their cell phones shut and said to me, "okay. Great. Jay wants to have you on. You've got a good story. Can you do it?"
"I, uh. Yeah. Sure. So, I'm going to make this big confession on the air?"
"Like on the phone?"
"No, like on-camera. It's a bit, you know, and Jay'll have a lot of fun with your story."
"Oh. Wow. Yeah, that's cool, I suppose. Will my wife come?"
"Does she know about your confession?"
"Yeah. Bring her. We'll have her on-camera to get her reactions."
"Terrific. We'll send a car to Long Beach to pick you up on Friday at 1:30. They'll take you to the studio and you'll wait in the Green Room. Also, if you like, bring a couple of friends and we'll get them seats. When the time comes, Jay'll pull you out of the audience and that's it."
"And the show airs...?"
Q: What’s more pathetic than those inbred hill-jacks that reveal their idiotic behavior to millions of people on nationally syndicated talk-shows, for the simple sake of appearing on TV?
A: Educated professionals that lie about idiotic behavior that never happened in order to humiliate themselves in front of millions of people on late-night TV.
On the limo ride to Burbank the following Friday, I downed several rum-and-Cokes because
1) they were free, what the hell, and
2) I wasn’t about to face Jay Leno with a falsified story completely sober, thank you.
My families had their VCRs set (although I still hadn’t revealed what I was going to say to anyone but the Tonight Show writers…). The in-laws neglected to tell any friends and relatives that their little girl and her husband were going to be on television, for fear that I’d embarrass the family name.
So, when the time came, the cameras rolled and Jay pulled me out of the audience. He asked if I had anything to confess and I admitted, yes, at Christmastime we were having a little get-together and we’d locked the cats in the bathroom to keep them out of the way. At one point in the evening, I needed to relieve myself. When a friend of mine knocked on the bathroom door, I turned to answer and, in so doing, pissed directly on the head of our oldest cat.
No, this story didn’t exactly make TV history. I don’t expect to see it on any ‘Best Of’ montages or ‘Jay Leno’s Finest Moments’ DVDs.
But, hey, I can’t be expected to revolutionize late-night TV while waiting in line in Burbank, can I? Oddly enough, I heard from a lot of old high school friends and acquaintances that I hadn’t thought about in years in the following few days. “Did I just see you on Jay Leno? Dude, what’s wrong with you?”
Anyhow, you want a loser? My literal Claim to Fame is “I’m the guy who pissed on his pet”… and it never even happened.
Where’s my pride? My dignity?
Nowhere to be found, sir. Nowhere.
For a transcript of the encounter with Jay, I recorded the debacle on my own blog:
And just for shits, here’s me and my wife with Jay, taken after the taping:
Jeremy Bear, Loser
The funny thing is, I was going to accept this entry even though it seemed like bullshit. The sheer audacity of the lie was enough to convince me to include it. But then... he includes his blog entry and picture. That's that little extra effort that gets you greatness.
Or a total lack of dignity, I guess. C'mon man, Leno? That guy's about as fresh as the panties my grandmother was buried in.
In SECOND PLACE, Winner of The Losers: Ante Up:
So the other day I'm at work, I work in the kitchen of a nursing home, Dietary Aid is what they call the position. Anyway I just got done washing off some carts and I was on my way back to the dishroom to scrape more pureed Welsh fucking Rarebit down the garbage disposal when I lost my footing.
I stood there, suspended in time and space, with one foot in the air, and one foot slipping forward, it was like a bad Karate Kid Crane motion mixed with the slow-mo camera swirl of a Matrix movie, I can only imagine the look of distinctly knowing what is about to happen to me. Obviously I fell.
The problem being, I didn't just fall. I felt directly on my ass. I don't mean I hit my ass as I was falling. I mean that at the precise moment that my 280lbs. ass pinged off the floor I could feel my insides force their way down, as four feet of floor shoved it's way directly into my anus.
I screamed something, I *still* don't know what I said. At this moment my MOTHER comes to check on me. That's right I work with my mom. Anyways here I am, laying on the floor, in a puddle, on my stomach, motionless, with both hands clasped over my ruined ass. A few minutes later I got up, and my mother asked me if I was okay. My response? "I now know what Prison Rape feels like."
When pressed for further explanation I was quoted as saying : "I've just been fanny fucked by four feet of floor"
All the great fun ensued, like not being able to stand up, or sit down, or bend over, without commenting about the immense pain in my ass. I had to fill out an accident report about HOW I fell, WHAT hurts and all sorts of other bullshit. I walked into work the next morning (bow legged I'll admit) and the *ENTIRE* kitchen staff was commenting on how I was walking and asked me how my ASS felt. NOBODY THAT WAS ON HAD SEEN ME DO IT, word of my ass spread far and wide in those vacant hours that the kitchen fell silent.
My ass is *mostly* better, my tail bone is still bruised to hell, and I can't pick anything from off of the floor, but the worst part is that when I take a shit now it doesn't come out cylindrical, it looks likes I shit out whole Denny's Chicken Strips, my SHIT is CHICKEN STRIP shaped.
son-of-a-bitch if that doesn't suck.
Still hungry? That's what I thought. Bet you'll never eat another chicken strip again without thinking it came out of THAT GUY'S ass. Think about it. How warm and tender it is, pliable to the touch...
I'll take seconds.
Incidentally, "I just got fanny fucked by four feet of floor" has now replaced "I'm Rick James, bitch" as the new catch phrase to be overused to death in the span of one month. It's also a handy tool to teach schoolchildren about alliteration.
And now, the moment no one's been waiting for. The tale of the SINGLE BIGGEST LOSER IN THE UNIVERSE. The one guy that God gets a big, huge, gutbusting laugh at every time He thinks about him. The man I officially designate, for all time, as Fate's Clown:
In FIRST PLACE, Winner of The Losers: Ante Up, as well as issues #7, #8, #9, and #10:
I just want to briefly say that I'm the unluckiest loser ever. I won't detail my entire life, but a specific anecdote from the last few years immediately comes to mind: the night my car exploded.
I'm told by a engineer friend of mine that cars don't actually explode. Sometimes, he says, they burst into flame and burn prettily, and sometimes they combust rather rapidly, but they do not explode.
Every time he says this in public, he looks over at me with a worried expression, knowing that I could out him right then and there. My car did explode. Like the wrath of God Almighty. Like the Hindenburg after a chili burrito.
One cold rainy night in November of 1999, I was just getting home from a hard night of delivering pizzas, a decent job monetarily but somewhat degrading. After all, it involves you going to people's houses and admitting that you are in the food service business, and then relying on their personal generosity to pad your wallet. Living off of tips is kind of like being a Bombay beggar, but with less cultural respect.
It was about three in the morning when I got home, having stayed late to help close the store for no
extra pay (as each employee was required to do at least once a week). My apartment building is the
typical sort of place reserved for college students: six apartments, all facing the street, in a three-story building. A staircase linked the three floors, and wooden balconies linked the two apartments on each floor. I got the best parking spot in the apartment building lot that night - the closest one to my ground-floor door. I took my small victory and stumbled into the living room.
My roommate was still up, a fairly typical problem for him, as he was (like me) something of an insomniac. We traded brief greetings, and I went to my room to get ready for bed. My typical sleeping garb includes a T-shirt and a pair of shorts - no shoes, I will note, as that becomes important in a few moments.
I laid down and was just starting to get comfortable, as my roommate comes pounding on my door. "Jeremy," he says with some urgency, "your car is on fire!"
"Sure, Mark," I respond with dull apathy. "Sure it is." I don't really have time to play games at three - almost four - in the morning, I decide, and turn over to ignore his bullshit.
"No, Jeremy," he continues, more urgent. "Your CAR is on FIRE!"
Finally deciding that if the joke is this good, I better get up for it, I pull myself out of bed and open my door. Flickering orange light plays across my face, cast from the outside window, and I realize that this may actually be more serious than first I thought.
I pushed my way past Mark to the front door, casting it open. In a brief second, I went from the cool air of my apartment to the blazing insides of an inferno. Mark's shout sounded like "SHIT!" but I was a bit busy freaking out in the meantime. I grabbed the phone, intent on calling the fire department, when Mark urged that we get outside and warn our neighbors.
I agreed and ran out past the blaze with him, realizing only distantly that though I had our cordless phone in hand, I was still quite barefoot. In the rain. In November. Dialing 911, I observed Mark efficiently waking our neighbors, their varying degree of crankiness or gratitutde clearly visible. At almost four in the morning, there's not a lot of room for duplicity in motive.
I began to analyze the situation as the operator assured me that firefighters would soon save us all. My car was a fiery inferno, gouts of flame and searing heat coming from under the hood - THROUGH the hood, really - and from beneath the car.
It got worse.
In front of my car was a grand old oak tree that my landlord once explained to me had been planted there when he bought his first piece of property. It was on fire too. The bark blackened and the leaves died as I looked on, numb. Holy shit, I thought, what have I done now?
It got worse still.
Down the line from my car in the apartment lot were many other cars. The lot was pretty full that night, which was why I had considered myself lucky to get the best spot. My friend Matt, who lived next door, was parked in the spot next to mine. His car was on fire - the bumper, the tires, the door lining, and, as I watched, the interior. In his trunk, I remembered, were about one hundred pounds of illegal Tennessee fireworks - rockets, quarter-sticks, the whole works. My mental processes kicked up a notch from "holy shit" to "dear sweet fuck". At least this was the lowest tier of Hell.
Hell opened up to reveal more terrors.
The next car past Matt's belonged to a girl who lived on the third floor. I never knew her name, but she had always been pleasant to me if we passed one another in the parking lot or on the stairs. Just as Mark got her out of her apartment and onto the stairs, her car caught fire too, the front bumper and tires burning merrily. Looking back the other direction, I could see that the paneling of my apartment building was melting, warping, and running from the intense heat.
I was screwed. Not to mention cold.
Mark finished his evacuation, and I was left in the parking lot, barefoot and holding a phone, surrounded by neighbors who, at this point, surely knew exactly whose car was driving them from their homes at four in the morning. As I mentally bemoaned my fate, Mark leaned over the balcony railing, I can only assume to survey the damage from above.
A firm and emphatic WHOOMPH noise came from my car as it jumped a foot off of the ground, taking a large dollop of melted asphalt with it. A column of flame shot up into the sky, like a beacon to the gods, informing them of the beginning of Ragnarok. It rose higher than the roof of the building, directly past Mark, who jumped backwards and fell on his ass rather than be consumed in the immolation.
Mark caught up to the rest of us in the lot, minus his eyebrows and nightly growth of beard, somewhat red-faced and ashy. He looked at me with significantly less resentment than I would have had in his situation and said, "Only you, Jeremy. Only you."
The only blessing of the whole goddamn thing was that Matt's fireworks did not detonate, and he got a better car out of the insurance money. So did the girl whose name I never knew. My insurance agency's report quickly drowned my hopes of the same. The fire marshal's investigation decided that no hand of man, act of sabotage, natural disaster, or (as some wits suggested later) meteorite had destroyed my car. The two reports agreed: ACT OF GOD. An act of God destroyed my car - the category which means that no one could be held responsible for the devastation, and thus they need pay me ABSOLUTELY NO REPARATIONS WHATSOEVER. Only to be expected, I suppose.
My engineer friend informed me the next day that he was awake when this had all been occurring, on his way home from a job monitoring a late-night campus computer lab. He told me that he had wondering where the bright flash came from, and went on to theorize that perhaps there was a bomb in my car, since - as he knew - cars DO NOT EXPLODE.
And that's why, among other reasons, I'm the biggest loser ever.
Says it right there, folks. ACT OF GOD. God hates Jeremy Puckett. Look, I tend to think this guy is shooting me straight, but if you want to call him a liar, that's your own business. I don't care if he's a liar or not. That stuff is fucking funny. I think I'll doctor that story to make it about me, so I can tell it at parties.
Not a bad little lineup, is it? Makes you feel a hell of a lot better about your lot in life, right? I swear, putting on this giveaway was the greatest boost my ego could have ever gotten. Whenever I can only satisfy seven gorgeous international supermodels because I've had a long day, I'll just think of Jeremy Puckett's exploding car, Will Carpenter's broken ass, and Grant Schreiber's Stan Marsh-like vomiting to make me feel that much better.
Stay tuned, as throughout the day I'll be posting the Best of the Rest, wherein the runners-up get the usual round of humiliation by having their nastiness posted for an audience of hundreds, except without winning any actual prizes. Suckers!
(Once again, many, many, many thanks to Shane, Johnny, and Kevin for their corroboration and help. Extra special super-duper thanks to Brian Clevinger at 8-Bit Theater and Anne at I'm Blue for their linkage. Mega thanks to Graeme, Rick, Mike, Laura, and John for their linkage. Thanks, guys, one and all. I appreciate the hell out of it, and I'm sure Andy Diggle and Jock do, as well. You're saints.
Anyone else that I've forgotten to thank, it's because my brain is tired and hates me. But I love you, yes I do. Who's a good boy? Who is it!)
If you didn't win, hey, that's not so bad. That means you aren't as big a loser as you thought. You're more sort of a mediocre loser. God, why can't you ever achieve?
Buy The Losers: Ante Up from your local comic book shop, or Amazon. It's only 10 goddamn dollars, people. That's the cost of a movie ticket with a little extra garnish, and you will be at least as entertained by this book as you will any movie out in the theatre right now. Best part? You can reread it for free! No shit!
Anyway, take heart: This contest soared. Next month another one will be hosted, with equally fabulous prizes. Stay tuned and keep coming back.
Now get outta here, ya bunch of losers.