I’m standing in line at the convenience store the other day when I notice someone staring at me. I’m immediately consumed by righteous anger, and grab for the garrote wire and fillet knife I always carry in a sling around my neck. Just as I’m about to put an end to this nosy fucker’s busy, intrusive life, I notice she’s a she, and very hot. I mean hot, like hot enough to make you want to slice off your ear and mail it to her. Well, maybe not that hot. Someone else’s ear then.
Anyway, she’s really hot so I dejectedly put away the grenades and cyanide capsules. Instead of gutting her and everyone at the scene, as I usually do when I catch someone eyeing me, I decide that it would be better to impress her.
Turning slightly so that the fluorescent light can better compliment the outline of my god-like package and breathtaking pecs, I put on my best come-hither look. Okay, that’s not true. Second best. I wouldn’t want her to embarrass herself by stripping down and mauling me in front of all these old people and children. Not that I have any qualms about fornicating in front of a large audience, but I’m a considerate gentleman first and foremost.
So, she’s nearly drowning herself at this point to get at me, and then the old man in front of her decides to ask me about the scars on my face. In a flash, he’s dead, my bootknife lodged in his larynx, and I’m sweeping her over my shoulder to carry her out to my Escalade. Being the charming scoundrel I am, I set her down outside the passenger-side door and look into her eyes. She’s nearly unconscious with desire at this point, and to be honest I’m having a little trouble keeping my own eyes open. So I back up a few steps and lower the chloroform-soaked T-shirt to my waist, never breaking eye contact with this adoring mistress.
I wake her up gently with a few feather-soft strikes to the collarbone. O.K., good. Screaming is better than passing out and forcing me to carry her back to my underground lair. The heady brew that is my manliness and cologne must have brought out the animal in her, as she’s clawing at my eyes and kicking me in the shins. I perform a flawless backflip to get out of her range, and she calms down considerably.
I tell her my name and she stares at me in disbelief, as most people do when they hear my heroic moniker for the first time.
“No, you heard me: Dickerson P. Cockley.”
Anyway, I tell her that she may ask me one question about who I am and what I do before I transport her to a brand-new plateau of pleasure and manliness. And ninjas.
“What happened to your face?”
Before I even know what’s happening, I’ve snatched three razor-sharp throwing stars from my utility belt and hurled them at her supple neck. With an exasperated gasp, I close the thirty-foot gap in less than a second and smoothly catch all three stars. With one hand. And my eyes closed. While fighting ninjas.
She’s duly shocked by my display, as she should be. That, and my pants had become unzipped in the process, revealing my shameful secret.
In war a long time ago in a faraway place, fighting an evil so evil the world could not fathom its evilness, I took a cannonball to the groin. Sadly, to save my life the doctors had to amputate sixteen inches of my penis. And also three of my testicles. In a fit of irrationality, I seized one of my balls and hurled it at the wall, destroying the wall and three nurses who happened to be standing there. On a lighter note, I also managed to kill the three Russian ninja-spy assassins who were hiding behind the wall waiting to kill me and steal my information.
So I explained the reason why my penis is now only a pathetic ten inches long, and why my enormous balls look so lonely. She is less than sympathetic, to say the least.
Anyway, to answer her question would put her life in danger, so I have to fabricate a story*. This is obviously painful for me, as I usually do not like to make up stories.
*To protect you, the reader, I have omitted the story. Be thankful; ninja maniac terrorists with guns and four arms are not easy enemies to fight. For you, anyway.
“And why the hell would the Canadian government want anything to do with you or what you know? And you expect me to believe that the president of Britain is a lizard who eats babies?”
She is having trouble with the simplified version of my story. I’m beginning to wonder if this girl is the caliber of female I usually consort with. She seems a little on the slow side. By “slow”, I mean functionally retarded. And when I say “consort”, I really mean have lots and lots of wild violent ninja sex.
“Besides, Britain doesn’t even have a president! And there is no such place as ‘Canadia’!”
“As far as you know, there won’t.”
“What? That wasn’t even a coherent sentence!”
“Because I wrestle alligators.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“Yeah? Well maybe you shouldn’t have invited me back to your apartment.”
“You kidnapped me! This is a parking lot!”
“O.K., I think maybe you’ve had a few too many. Give me your keys, lady.”
“You’re an insane person. I’m calling the goddamned police!”
“Oh yeah? Well, how about… NOW?”
With deft accuracy, I smash her cell phone into the ground. Nobody can throw stuff at the ground more accurately than me.
“That wasn’t even my cell phone. I don’t even think that was a phone. It looks more like a box of Jujubes.”
“That’s it. It’s time for you to die!”
“Ow, damn it! Will you stop that?”
“Why aren’t my ninja stars killing you?”
“Because they’re credit cards, you moron.”
Well, to make a long story short … I totally did her. It was great, and she calls me all the time. I don’t answer, though. I have more important things to do than explain the world to some uneducated hussy who’s never heard of Canadia.
… Or is it?
Yeah, it is.