The Running Man

I’ve made a lot of enemies in my lifetime. No surprise really. Most of them are just haters. When you roll like I do, it’s expected. I’m that damn cool.

I’ve tried to lay low and stay off the radar but I guess I’ve gotten sloppy. Danger still comes my way. That or they just got better.

I’m guessing it was some head of a ninja clan I pissed off. They like sending guys you wouldn’t expect. They dress their boys up as little children, old people, cripples and fat women. It’s unpredictable. But they all have one thing in common. At least once they try their shit on me.

They’re dead.

Or maybe it was crime boss’s daughter or grand daughter I got horizontal with and left without explanation. Nothing pisses off daddy or grandpa more than breaking his little girl’s heart. Especially when you mail them a copy of the sex tape.

60% of the attempts on my life are a result of me fucking around with someone's girlie.

Girlfriends, wives, nieces and cousins. I love them and leave them. Then I wake up with a knife pressed into my throat or a gun jammed into my temple. I always come out clean though and the emergency rooms stay busy.

This one was probably some trash talking pro-athlete I beat up at a bar. Some jock that thought being able to catch a ball and put roids in his ass meant he could knock some teeth down my throat. Now a million people on Youtube or TMZ know otherwise.

He hired some buddy of his or a friend of a friend to bust my knee caps. And when I’m down, he’ll probably pull his car up from around the corner to give some opportune footstomps to my face. At least that’s how it should work. Whatever.

I just can’t figure this one out. The guy is erratic, clearly drunk. Or at least he’s pretending. Some kind of drunken master type shit. I mean, I never thought that anyone ran like the Bushwackers in real life.


He’s dressed well but looks like he just ran through a cycle in the dryer. Shirt is half tucked with misaligned buttons. Zipper is down. Belt unbuckled. Shoe laces untied.

Come to think of it, I’m not sure if he’s here to kill me or rape me.

I stand my ground and wait for him to reach me. The way I see it, he’s almost out of breath and by the way he’s crossing his feet as he runs, he’s gonna trip and bite it on the sidewalk.

He’s moving closer to me, this bobble headed assassin, barreling down at full speed in fist pumping, head wagging glory.

Tonight would be a good night to die, but not for me. Inches away, I steer clear gracefully like a matador leaving my upturned foot in his path. He catches it and takes to a patch of ice covered sidewalk like a baby deer.

Five slippery steps later he’s down on his side with the poop that’s been running down his leg pressed into his pants. Breathing heavily he screams “What the fuck, dude?”

I turn back to him and shrug. My friend giggles. I then erupt into laughter and walk off.

What kind of assassin drinks until the point they shit themselves just before a gig?

Fucking amateur.

Early Saturday Night

Come Sunday night I get ill. I get fidgety with disgust. I de-evolve into a Grumpasaurus Rex.

Just how the Terminator was remembered for “I'll be back” and John McClane for “Yippie-ki-yay, motherfucker!”. Just how all action heroes will be remembered as they should, for their catch phrases, I will be remembered for “Dammit, I have work on Monday.”

40 hours a week I'm a prostitute. Okay, not a real one. Just a cubicle dwelling office monkey. It's not like I'm sucking dick in an alley. Alleys have natural sunlight. When you hate your job you are a whore. Just in it for the money. I don't care how you try to spin it, I don't care what HBO sex special you watch and hear girls talking about how fun it is to get paid for sex or whatever, whoring yourself out sucks.

Unless you get a TV show out of it.

So Friday after five, the work week is officially over and I put cancer inducing pressure on myself to make the most out of my weekend. And when I say make the most, I mean get drunk and/or laid despite health concerns, like there's a winning lottery ticket waiting for me at the bottom of a bottle or crammed in a vagina. I want to black out while playing with some boobs.

It's the two things I want from life, the reasons I work in the first place. Only if I could do both of them on the job...

I know this stress isn't necessary but I'm spoiled, ignorant and arrogant. I couldn't survive without being stubborn and having self defeating tendencies. I think it's the American way.

Every once in awhile I like to shake things around and up the stakes. Why not make sure I have a heart attack by 40?

The game I play is called Early Saturday Night. It's really easy to play. Just go to bed early on Saturday. That's it. Just waste one of the greatest nights of the week by sleeping.

Not a big deal you say? We'll I'll make it a big deal. It's a gift. If you want to relax then you're talking to the wrong guy. Go smoke a joint, hippie.

As in all games there are a few guidelines that must be followed.

• Stay Single- Being in a relationship may actually make staying in on Saturday enjoyable. Companionship can help alleviate stress. Stay away from it by all means. Talking, cuddling and all that sex will do nothing but make you happy. Getting laid may actually make your work week tolerable. And that's why I have the next rule.
• Stay Celibate- Stay celibate as long as possible. Actually this task isn't that difficult. When you have a penis. Yeah I said it. This game is not for ladies. Having boobs and a vagina automatically makes you cooler than me. Unless your stomach is larger than your boobs. Then you’re just invisible to me and every other guy on the planet. For some reason when you have a penis, no one wants to buy you dinner. Or alcohol. Because of my partners in crime, I'm expected to pay for dinner and drinks without any guaranteed return. Pretty shitty investment, eh? Funny thing is, I'm an idiot and barely make enough money to support myself, so either we’re splitting the bill or climbing out the bathroom window.
• Have No Friends- I have a phone plan that doesn't receive incoming phone calls. At least not from my friends. Or that's what it seems like. What I like to do is make plans with my friends through text. Now when it comes time to cement the plans, we can't, because they can't call me! So I guess we both get to sit at home crying in bed while watching senior citizen porn. I also like to get banned from playing games and posting in forums online by sending offensive messages. I try to keep it sexually suggestive, like I should be on 'To Catch a Predator' or an after-school church program. I make sure to always include the words kittens, duct tape and fisting.
• Drink Alone- Nothing spells depression better than polishing off a bottle of whiskey by yourself. Being drunk around people may actually be fun. This is not what we are shooting for. This rule can be ignored though, if you are a violent, sloppy drunk. Like you should have your own reality dating show drunk..
• Have a Repulsive Personality- Just how you'd feel about the characters from 'Entourage' minus the fame and money, develop some strong, life lasting, obnoxious personality traits. Always wait for your turn to speak, conduct yourself in a way that shows your contempt for humanity, be ungrateful for everything, always look at the glass as half empty or even shattered and leave the toilet seat up.
  

How do you know if you've won? Well if you're drunk and trying to rip your hair out while covered in Kleenexes and jerk-off lotion, declare yourself a winner, champ!