“I won’t discriminate against someone for their gender, religion, orientation, or skin colour but wanting to fuck an animated pony is pretty much where I draw the line.”
Yeah, as it turns out, I’m exactly the kind of douche who quotes himself.
For the record, that isn’t meant as a jab at all “bronies” or the adult My Little Pony fandom in general. I realize that not all Bronies are into watching a show aimed at prepubescent girls because they want to sexually objectify the characters- That’s more of a problem when it comes to the grown man fanbase that Nickelodeon’s tween shows have picked up, anyway.
I get that we’re all entitled to our quirks and our fetishes- I do- but good God, at what point did we as a human race start out on a mission to find the most inane turn-ons possible?
Hard though it might be to believe, there’s a fairly heavy contingent who don’t consider dodgeball to be a real sport- The IOC has been rudely ignoring my letters to absorb it into the Olympics for the past eight years. Now that wrestling has been canned, however, I remain hopeful that I’ll be getting a call any day now.
In any case, that harmful majority is in full force in my own particular town.
“Shut up Wendall,” They mutter dismissively. “You wet your pants until you were twelve and cried when you lost at tag that one time. You’ll never be in the Olympics.”
To that point, I’d just like to offer a gentle reminder that potty training is more difficult for some than others, sometimes my anger just gets the best of me, and Beth Feinstein cheated- She tripped me. I only cried because that was the death of my childlike faith in justice and good karma.
I bet she was only an orphan because she “tripped” her parents right off a cliff.
Recently though, something happened that simultaneously disgusted me, and filled my heart with soaring joy. One of the teams in my local Dodgeball League hired a professional to get a leg up on the competition.
One the one hand, what ever happened to fair play? On the other- Finally! The legitimacy I’d been craving.
Pictured: The powerful neck-muscles of moral decay.
His name was Jimmy Harrison. Apparently he played some other sport professionally at some point- Soccer or something. Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t do much research. I find that it rarely does much to support my opinions. All I know is what registered when I first laid eyes on him:
He was tall, he was dark, and his traps were so massive that I was almost positive he couldn’t turn his head one way or the other. Still, I thought he must be nervous- His first day called up to the big leagues and all. I sauntered over to give him a warm welcome.
“Hey there, Jimmer!” I called out, waving at him.
“James,” He corrected.
That’s the thing about Jimmy- He has such a classic sense of humour. Always busting somebody’s balls.
“You’re a real cut-up, Jimbo.” I laughed, slinging an arm around his shoulders- No easy feet, considering the eight inches of height that he had on me. “I like that. You’ll get along great in this league.”
Jimmy stared at me for a second. It might just have been my imagination, but I thought I could see respect brimming in his eyes. I extended my hand to shake, and he took it. He had a grip like a Russian lumberjack.
“Have a good game, Jim-Jim-Jumbotron!” I offered, smiling broadly. “Don’t take it too personally if I catch you upside the head once or twice. I’m kind of a big deal around here, don’tcha know?”
Apparently taking this as an invitation to begin a round, Jimmy grabbed a ball up off the gym floor. The next thing I knew, the business end of the ball had collided with my right temple. I fell to the floor and, I’m not ashamed to admit, I peed a little bit.
” MY NAME AIN’T JIMBO,” He roared, though I still thought his eyes looked friendly. “BITCH!”
He spiked the ball into my ribcage, volleyball style.
“I’M JAMES MOTHERFUCKING HARRISON!”
He grabbed another ball off the ground, drilling it against the bridge of my nose. I could feel my glasses break, but I didn’t want to interrupt his joke to point it out.
“SAY MY NAME!”
“Jim-Jam!” I offered up brightly.
Another ball crashed into my windpipe, and I let out a cough. Physical comedy is the funniest kind.
They wouldn’t even have this kind of fun at a CarrotTop show.
“JAMES MOTHERFUCKING HARRISON! SAY IT WITH ME; JAMES. MOTHER. FUCKING. HARRISON!”
“Jimboramadamadingdong!” I coughed out.
The next ball drilled me in the solar plexus.
“James Mother….fucking… Harrison!” I choked.
“Two-time Super Bowl Champion, Four-time All Pro NFL Linebacker James Motherfucking Harrison!” He corrected, picking up another ball. “Bitch!”
“Two-time… Super Bowel Champion, Four-time All… State… ‘Enifle’…. Linebacker James… Motherfucking… H-Harrison.”
I didn’t have the time to wonder what exactly an Enifle was supposed to be- let alone express my congratulations for his superior bowels- before the next ball drilled me in the head. After that, everything just sort of went back.
I’m told, however, that the game was enjoyable. Also, that Jimmy apparently threw like a six-year-old girl and joked around about shooting five different people. He even told my friend Steven that if he ever caught on fire, good ol’ Jimmy recognized that it was probably for good reason and wouldn’t try to put out the fire with his urine!
What a guy.