Monday, July 6, 2009
Well, ladies and gentlemen, it turns out Kinger has come through the literal pinch a-okay.
Now that he's fully healed, rested, and most importantly, off pain medication, it's time to sit down and analyze just what happened here.
During the "drug days," I paid Kinger a brief visit to share with him overpriced cream soda and Pillsbury Grands biscuits. On multiple occasions, he made sure to tell me that he hadn't decided to shut himself out from communication "just to fucking prove some hippie fucking point."
While the sentence itself was jumbled and incoherent, the message was a relief of the distinctly heart-fluttering variety.
So, I had at least some morsel of contentment. However, I had to know what exactly had caused him to build the wall.
I wouldn't have my answer until a few days later (exactly one day ago for you bean-counting sons of whores keeping score at home,) and it turned out to be a surprise I wasn't prepared for in the slightest.
Somewhere in the shapelessness of an AIM chat between the Kinger and myself, he suckerpunched me with "I think I'm getting tired of being everyone's jester."
After taking several minutes and two Tylenol to compose myself, I began to scroll through the numerous follow up messages he had left in the wake of that head splitter(carefully skipping every 'r u there?' or 'where the fuck u go?').
For Kinger's sake, I won't post a full transcript, but I will say this.
We should all be motherfucking ashamed of ourselves.
In our delight at Tim King's wonderful, if at times tactless and obnoxious, sense of wit, we have left ourselves unable to see the finer points of his personage.
Ladies and gentlemen, I will say it straight out: Timothy 'Kinger' King is not a clown. I don't give a flying fingerbang how close his skin tone is to the facepaint seen on our red-nosed, pie-prone circus pals.
Our focus on Kinger's funnier points has left him marginalized, unable to properly share with us the pain he has found in lack of expression, his hopes of being a punk rock superstar, and most importantly his smart, poignant fiction.
Folks, we have misused our Kinger, one and all. From this day forth, let us embrace Kinger as the full, lively, enriched individual he is. No, there's no shame in laughing at the man's everlasting sense of good humor, but seriously, don't fucking overdo it.
Do YOU want YOUR Kinger to become THIS?
Saturday, June 27, 2009
"*Gasp* Why, Bob? Why?"
Well, folks, our dear Kinger underwent some mindblowing shit today: specifically, some pretty hefty trauma to his testicular region.
I know, I know.
Right now I'm still pretty out of the loop, but I received word via text message from the ER at approximately 9:30 this evening of the news. Apparently, earlier in the day Kinger had left his keys in his "other pants" when he left the house(Yes, I too am surprised that this has actually happened to someone I know now.) Seeing that nobody else was home upon his return, he had no choice but to pull an impromptu break-in.
Whilst gracing his majestic frame through his basement window, Kinger's lovesack seemed to have graced a little too hard against the windowsill.
Not being the type of man to make a big deal out of anything, he chose to ice the royal cajones for hours before finally deciding to sack up and get the injury looked at.
So, regardless of whether or not Kinger was trying to teach everyone an annoying lesson about relying on digital communication, at least we know that he's not unreasonable enough to keep playing the game when his little dangle-babies are in jeopardy.
And with that, dear readers, the plot officially thickens. Stay tuned for the next sizzling installment of The Kinger and I Summer Break: Thunder in Paradise
It was kinda like this, except the blue-panted leg was a windowsill
Friday, June 26, 2009
It helps me deal better with the fact that I'm 22, still in school, and making 100 dollars or less a week. In fact, if I have enough time to essentially do nothing in the morning, I'm usually quite chipper by the time I'm behind the grill.
Unfortunately, after today, I was left only with a sense of ambivalence.
Today I opened up my Yahoo! e-mail account and things looked pretty normal. Most of the time, the only e-mails I receive involve Facebook telling me that someone did something on or around my profile.
Most people deem these irritating enough to tear their eyeballs out and then subsequently eat them. I voluntarily signed up for them because otherwise I would get next to no e-mail. It helps me feel involved with the digital revolution.
I promptly deleted the e-mail and logged onto Facebook (yes, that's correct. I don't read them.)
Anyway, this is where things became not so normal.
Kinger had sent me, and I'm assuming a couple other individuals, a somewhat lengthy message that I will spare all of you from. To briefly sum it up, he has decided to "go incommunicado," as he put it. Basically, he will be turning off his cell phone and not logging into any means of online communication for an unknown amount of time.
This is not an unfamiliar concept to me. I've known many people who decided to shun digital communication for a small amount of time before. The length of time it lasted and the media boycotted varied, but two things were always the same: these people were all of the occasionally irritating sort, and they were all doing it just to prove a point.
Yes, JUST to prove a point.
The idea that Kinger would ever conceivably think of engaging in this sort of pretentious, "back you into a corner" hackery is the singlemost disheartening thing I have ever run into in years. Before you jump all over me with "why, Bob? Maybe it's a good point," let me tell you something about the type of people who do things just to prove a point.
This is the kind of fucker that does things "just to prove a point, man." Now, let me cover my ass here: my political beliefs are, more or less without exception, so far left Rush Limbaugh would melt if he came within 10 miles of the last place I took a shit. I wear annoying little peace sign pins on every hoodie I own. I would say that I more than likely believe about everything that this sorry sucker does.
What's the difference? Well, I'm not a douche about it.
If I think that people are too reliant on the internet, sure, I'll talk about it, but I'm not going to completely abandon all 21st century communication for a month just to prove that I'd be living some sort of unimaginably better life.
You know why? Because I like the internet. And chances are Sunflower Starchild over here does too. I bet you he's on environment-conscious and animal-free living message boards every day.
In fact, let's knock those out right here. I choose not to eat meat. I don't fucking brag about it all day. I may not be so good with my electricity use or gas consumption, but I guarantee you that Sunflower's car doesn't run on vegetable oil. And he's using the fucking internet to talk with his brethren anyway.
Still, hypocrites like this will do things like choose not to use a cell phone to prove they're not reliant on digital media, or simply rail on you for engaging in pretty much anything that isn't listening to Phish or buying really expensive organic onions (which he will then do in front of you.)
Too bad his macbook counts as digital communication and the taco bell wrapper in his gas-guzzling peacemobile (see: SUV) doesn't exactly smell like anything remotely organic.
Now, don't get me wrong, I respect protesting and example-setting. In fact, I've met people who fit into Sunflower's little social group (which I thought died in the 70's) that are very nice, down-to-earth, intelligent, and REASONABLE individuals. I'd say that about 7-8 times out of ten, I really like modern hippies.
However, for every 10 people like this, there are 100 bags of bad weed like Sunflower that give an otherwise legitimate worldview a shitty reputation. Sadly, this is the case with any great social movement that becomes a fashion trend.
So, with all this in mind, you can see where I'm worried as fuck-all about Kinger. If Kinger has, in fact, stumbled into improper practice of progressive, respectable politics, I fear that he will be too far gone to receive my aid.
To make matters worse, I have no way of reaching our loudmouthed hero. Aside from Timapalooza, my relationship with Kinger had been relegated to the occasional IM session or text message.
And all I can do is sit here and wait...
So, here's hoping to whatever God there may be that Kinger has not fallen in with the likes of Sunflower. I've always believed my boy to be a worldly being above such base forms of contradication and mosquito-like annoyingness.
I am currently hypothesizing that he is not simply trying to "prove a (moot) point" and, in fact, has come into possession of a rickety old cabin in the woods somewhere.
With this new assett, he has decided to retreat deep into the greens of the forest, where he can live a life as one with nature. I further theorize that he is doing all this in hopes of channeling ancient Native American spirits through his body, and finally growing a real beard, as opposed to the patchy, prepubescent mess that would crawl across his visage after every three days without a shave. He will, ideally, emerge several weeks from now with a sleek, full mane that could kill a bear, or at least put Billy Mays in a coma.
If that or something similar is not the case, I think the nature of my chronicle will be taking a very sharp left turn in the near future. Stay tuned, folks. Big news may be afoot.
this is what Kinger will hopefully look like when he resurfaces
Monday, June 22, 2009
In accordance with this (because I'm in no way doubtful that he is well-versed in the ways of ancient and obscure French philosophy), Timothy "Kinger" King throws an annual party at his parents' house to remind everyone he knows that they should love him more than any of their other friends.
And just to make sure that all those invited know that these parties are about how awesome he is and nothing else, Kinger has dubbed every single one of them "Timapalooza."
And here, we must pause.
"Now, Bob," you might say. "You're being awfully harsh about his motivations."
This could not be any further from the truth. I fully support Kinger's actions. To tell the truth, if every other young person on the planet planned a festival of drunken debauchery in their own honor once a year, I'm pretty sure we'd all feel a lot better about ourselves.
Of course, now that Kinger's done it first, every other party would obviously tank pretty hard in comparison and cause a nationwide epidemic of erectile dysfunction. So, if you were already trying to figure out how much to save for beer after that last paragraph, I would advise heavily against trying this at home.
Now, to get back on track, I have been to two out of three Timapalooza's, and both of them have been flame-headed successes. Unfortunately, being that both me and my ladyfriend guest had to drive home last year, I did not get to experience the full glory of self-indulgence until this past Friday.
To say the least, it was absolutely magical.
I arrived on the scene at about 9:30 pm, and things were already very much underway: Over 50 kids, a Beirut table, a fridge full of beer, a more or less full bar (tended by the illustrious Collin Gately,) and plenty of French techno. An overly red-faced and jovial Kinger flitted about the scene, clearly very pleased.
Whether he was capable of intending to do this or not, Kinger was the absolute center of attention. This was an evening that he had to ask no one if they knew who he was. He made sure to talk to nearly everyone, yell at the top of his lungs (garnering copious amounts of laughter and applause,) and sing a Blink 182 number with the evening's cover band, all within the first hour of my attendance. He was on fire, literally (he had procured quite a sunburn) and figuratively.
I spent these first few hours sober, as I had agreed to drive a lovely young woman named Colleen O'Keefe home at 11:30. Surprisingly, even without my dranking goggles on, everything was just as mystical as it was promised to be. In fact, I think I was happier to have witnessed this portion of the evening's antics with my senses fully intact. I may rag on our dear Kinger here and there for overstoking his own ego and legend, but the boy sure knows how to bring a bunch of people together and show them a good time.
So, I enjoyed a solid 2 hours of "not drunk" before driving the little lady home. I was pretty optimistic about my return to the party. Things were going absolutely swimmingly, and I couldn't wait to legally impair myself amongst many of my dearest friends in this most delightful of Kinger-produced environments.
I will have to take a raincheck.
So, when I kicked (see also: gently opened) the door to the King household at approximately 12:15 am, I was informed of a few things very quickly.
One: there was no more beer.
what the fuck.
Two: there were some crashers. they probably took the beer (I'm thinking this is where "kids who don't even fucking know the words" got their revenge.)
What the fuck.
Three: Kinger had already passed out in his room.
Okay, fucking seriously?
I mean, what I saw before me was far from a mess, ladies and gents, but it was also far from what I had been in the thick of before. Honestly, you could paint scenes from that golden two hours, 19th century style. This? Not so much. I was floored. My drunkety drunk time with Kinger and co. had simply become.... drunk time with... and co.
Thankfully, the evening ultimately proved to be far from ruined (in addition to all the other things it was "far" from.) I ended up meeting quite a few nice people that I had only been vaguely familiar with, and the evening ended with some marvelous quality time with two acquaintances who I now hope to consider pretty good friends. The evening may have fallen apart to a certain extent, but thankfully things were set on a nice slow burn and we could all watch the evening smolder together. It was like a bonfire, except with Tim King's hopes and dreams.
So, in a very sincere turn for my study, I've realized something. As much as I give Kinger shit for his self-declared epicness and importance, he really was keeping that party together. The post-passed out party was still a good time, but it didn't have that distinct spark present when Kinger was up and stumbling about. I have come to the conclusion that we all really need Timapalooza to remind us that there's a little Kinger (re: drunken loudmouth) in all of us, and fuck me if it's not liberating.
Friday, May 29, 2009
My research and documentation will more than likely be taking an extended recess. This is mostly due to the fact that, for the entire summer, I no longer live in the same dwelling as the Kinger. There may be a periodic outburst of discovery over the next three months, but it's more than likely that I won't be able to keep as vigilant of an eye as I'd like to on everyone's favorite gingersaurus rex.
There was a final entry that I had started to write the day before I left the fabled apartment where I monitored Kinger's habits, but it inevitably fell through the cracks, as it lacked the Kinger charm. Kinger, Brett Bauer, and myself basically went on a glorious campaign across the bars of Portsmouth, New Hampshire, drank a lot of beer and met a curiously frightening homeless man/drug dealer who called himself "pops," and who apparently also "owned half of New Hampshire and all of the drug-farming communities in Southern Maine." The evening ended with me sitting on a bus back to UNH campus, convinced, for reasons unknown, that Tim King was actually going to hurt me.
Okay, so, maybe that would've made a good entry, but I was tired and too burnt out from finals to conjure any sort of wit. Thankfully, that event stands on its own.
Until next time,
Loyal Sidekick, Holy Scribe, Short Kid with Stupid Looking Sideburns
Sunday, May 3, 2009
May 2nd: Boston.
Now, I've seen Kinger flip shit over plenty of things. In fact, I'd say that I've seen Kinger flip shit over most things, depending on the circumstances. However, I have never seen him flip shit like this. There was practically confetti shooting out of his gigantic ginger mouth.
So, it was settled.
On Saturday, May 2nd, we would borrow our roommate's car, drive to wherever they happen to be setting up their equipment, and witness the spectacle to end all spectacles. We would bring every other sucker on UNH campus that we forced to listen to this band. It would be fun.
Flash forward to April 30th, 2009.
Kinger was out for a rather usual evening of drunkenness and debauchery. During the evening, a group of cackling, heel-clad college girls did something behind Kinger's back that made him "really fucking pissed." This is by no means out of the ordinary, so those in his company did not take too much note. In typical Kinger fashion, he decided to whip around and ask "do you know who I fucking am?"
Note: During the past few months, while I was in blog absence, this has becoming a pretty regular occurance. Now, in most cases, I would not condone this kind of behavior. It shows off a sense of self-entitlement usually reserved for Bono, the Gallagher brothers from Oasis (whatever happened to them?), Mitt Romney, and Jesus. However, given the slight twinge of self-conscious sarcasm in the statement, and the fact that 9 times out of 10, the people actually "know who he fucking is," I have decided to let this go unrepremanded.
Anyway, Kinger was pivoting to ask them this question. Somewhere in the pivot, he lost coordination, twisted his ankle, and hit the ground like the proverbial ton of bricks. The whole process lasted about 4-5 seconds, and went something like this.
*WHOOSH* "DO YOU KNOW WHO I FUCKING A..." *boom* "...guys I think I broke my ankle."
Yes, major lol's. Major lol's indeed.
Now, a Kinger without his kicking leg is like the prettiest, loudest bird you can imagine without its wings. It loses the ability to do one thing, and its initiative to use any other ability it possesses falls by the roadside. So, when it came time to head out to see our pals in Good Luck, with a heavy sigh, Kinger declined, and had me drive him and his crutches to our friend's apartment complex, where he would later get drunk on a couch and show passers-by his tennis ball-sized ankle.
And so, dear readers, I submit to you an incredibly rare occurance. In this instance, I appear to have come out on top. I re-did the calculations at least 12 times to make sure. Lo and behold, every time my score was higher than Kinger's.
Just to make sure, I will submit my work to you.
In the three days time between the beginning of April 30th and May 2nd, I: didn't have to go to any classes on Friday, got a free burrito at Chipotle, saw the delightful stop-motion film Coraline (again, for free), slept for 12 hours next to the love of my life, and then piled into a station wagon to see the hap-hap-happiest band in punk rock in the most intimate of settings.
In the same amount of time, Kinger: had to attend class on Friday to turn in a back-breaking assignment in creative writing, totally ate shit on his skateboard and had to emergency wash his clothes in the sink, got so drunk he couldn't remember anything, became the object of mockery by stereotypical college girls, fell flat on his fucking face in front of everybody and injured his ankle (this was the dealbreaker), did NOT see one of his favorite new bands in the most intimate of settings, and got stationarily drunk whilst showing off his injury like that creepy uncle at a Christmas gathering.
After assigning meaningful value to each of these things and calculating out our separate weekend scores, the numbers came in at:
Kinger's score: -12 pts
My score: 50,000 pts
And so, while people may indeed fucking know who Kinger is, we must ask ourselves, is this always for the best? I'm still not sure. No one fucking knows who I am, and I had a great weekend. I also have an intact ankle. However, Kinger has proved to me in the past that people fucking knowing who you are can be valuable. Regardless, I am now quite sure that I should have stopped Kinger from ever thinking that rhetorically asking others if they're aware just what his existence entails a long, long time ago.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Actually, let us get another thing out in the open: Timothy King does not really motherfucking love Zelda games that much. He owns a decent deal of them, but has only plowed through A Link to the Past, and refuses to play any of the "shitty ass 3-D ones that are all the same." He owns no stupid-ass Triforce t-shirt, and has never even thought about meeting my friend with the master sword tattoo.
Now, with this information in tow, it'd be pretty easy to drive to the conclusion that I would be pretty well versed in the ways of Hyrule (for the geek community illiterate: the magical, pixie-laden elf land where Zelda games take place), and Kinger would probably be so-so, right?
If you said yes, you just drove all of us off the edge of the Earth. Game over.
Yes, the Earth is apparently flat, and Kinger is apparently telepathically linked to the fucking game developers at the Nintendo Corporation.
The other night Kinger arrived home tanked after a lovely visit to the Portsmouth Brewery, which, as I heard from him, has "a lot of fucking beer" on tap.
Anyway, at the point of his arrival, I was playing "The Legend of Zelda: Majora's Mask." This is one of those direct-sequel, black sheep sort of titles, and one of the only ones that I hadn't attempted to slog through all the way. This is mostly due to a time passage and limit system that, to say the least, is about as annoying has having Jerry Lewis stand over you and recite every one of his lines from the original "Nutty Professor" while he beats you over the head with a popular Milton Bradley board game (pick whichever title you like least, for me, that'd be Mousetrap, the needless complexity of which still flusters me to this day.)
But I digress.
Anyway, Kinger decided to slump down on the couch next to me and have a look-see at how I was wasting my night.
For not really liking the series, Kinger makes a damn good call... or twelve.
To put it bluntly, I was a fucking wreck. I was getting lost in pretty basic tunnel structures, missing things in plain sight, and forgetting to do shit in places I just left, forcing me to backtrack almost endlessly. How did I realize I was doing all these things? Why, Kinger's astute observations of course. He called me on my every error, and he wasn't just nitpicking either, he had the answers (remember: he has never played this game. ever.) My jaw was about this close to unscrewing and then hitting the floor, as I'm pretty sure many a robot jaw in Looney Tunes has done countless times.
It has been difficult to cope with my sorry display of incompetence. I've tucked my Triforce t-shirt away, sobbed at the mere mention of an ocarina, refused to even look in the general direction of my buddy's arm, and most of all, tried desperately to get my groove back.
To no avail.
I have come to the conclusion that I have been doing Zelda completely wrong all these years. I've burnt my brain out on puzzles and fetch quests, carefully planned out boss strategies, and combed the map endlessly for hidden goodies, all without the help of hint websites. It's been painful, or at least laborious, folks. It turns out all I've ever needed to be good at Zelda is alcohol.
Much like music-making and marijuana, alcohol is the great enabler in the vast world of Nintendo action RPGs. Finding that treasure chest or figuring out just how to use that stupid fucking boomerang will never seem so easy. Of course it means all my hard, honest goddamn work over the years has been meaningless, but now that Kinger has shown me the ways of the Drunken Master, I'll be on the bullet train to success in no time. Am I grateful?
Yes, but it's still fucking demoralizing.
This is what I would look like in the Legend of Zelda universe. I am about three feet tall, made of wood, shoot nuts out of my mouth, like flowers, and am extremely bummed. Kinger's character is so big that they can't make pictures of him, made of only muscle, shoots fire out of his eyes, can eat entire barrels of beef jerky in one bite, and uses his three foot cock for a sword.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Yes, I intended to write only the return entry today, and to go back to routine observation of Kinger's lifestyle. I figured I would give it a tasteful day or two until I produced another nugget. Then I would continue to write a few entries a week consistently, making sure to do some quality control on each one. However, that all changed when I decided to log into facebook today, to find a giant status-message-comment orgy over one singular detail.
Last night at a party, Kinger sang along to every single word of "Paradise by the Dashboard Light" by Meatloaf. Stop the presses.
At first I simply flipped through all the friend-comment nonsense. I mean, seeing anybody singing along to Meatloaf is something you could post on youtube and get a few thousand views on, but by the sounds of it, they could've sold tickets to this.
I had to find out what happened.
I went straight for the jugular and talked to Kinger himself. He had previously told me that his father was a huge Meatloaf fan, so I already knew how he memorized the lyrics, but what could've prompted him to belt them out oh so prominently last night? Alcohol? Well, yeah, probably, but that's too simple. I could be drunk enough to have sex with Kenan Thompson and still not sing Meatloaf.
Kinger then launched into a Texas-sized rant about how "kids who don't even fucking know the words" were trying to steal the show and no doubt impress the ladies with their feigned knowledge of Meatloaf's lyrical genius, so he had to assume the role of "kid who fucking knows the words" and belt it as loud as possible, just to shame the fuckers out of attempting to worm their way into anything even resembling a vagina.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Actually, I won't disagree with the "awww" factor. It's awfully snuggly wuggly, warm fuzzy, and giggledy wiggledy getting to know another human being through sincere, uninhibited chit-chat, whether it be over terrible, overpriced cafeteria food or a good jaunt on the exercise bike. However, with Kinger it's a very distinct kind of warm fuzzy. It's almost like being in the center of a fresh pastrami melt, staring comfortably out at a world that, even if only for that moment, gets you.
For those of you living under a rock, this is what a pastrami melt looks like:
Now doesn't that just look inviting and appetizing?
Quite some time later, the warm fuzzies wore off while I was in the midst of a late-night laundry assault, and I realized something important about today's interactions. It was something so profound and catastrophic to my senses, thought process, and circulatory system that I dare not turn it into prose.
However, it did make me feel good about myself, so I thought it'd be a waste not to inform you at all. So that I feel even smarter, I have composed a visual representation of my realization.
Look on at the following chart only if you dare, dear reader. I warn you that if you know Kinger or myself on any personal level, that your perception of either of us will never be the same:
Holy fucking Christballs, Batman...
Sunday, March 8, 2009
You see, today it was warm out.
Here in good old New Hampshire, if it cracks 50 degrees, it's okay to sunbathe. This sudden change of temperature apparently awakened the Kinger's long dormant sense of self-preservation and gave him the initiative to go into the kitchen and realize he had absolutely no food. "I need to go grocery shopping."
Light dawns on ginger head.
After setting his Instant Messenger away status to the seemingly ominous phrase of"it's cunnilingus weather!", he recruited me to accompany him (since I do not have a vagina, I did not fear becoming a victim of the soon-to-be-notorious 'Kingerlingus'.)
Now, I'm an absolute fucking failure at buying groceries, and more or less managing money in general. Every time I went grocery shopping, I'd come back broke with 5 boxes of Keebler Rainbow Chips Deluxe cookies and 3 packs of Top Ramen. I figured I could stand to take the time to observe some supposedly normal food-buying habits.
Perhaps, but today was not that time.
We proceeded through the entirety of the grocery store at a steady, marching, clip of about 5 miles per hour. In a car, this is practically a stand-still, but on-foot, it's burning fucking rubber. Kinger's hands grabbed things in succint, calculated motion. I couldn't catch everything, but I did see an almost disturbing amount of elbow macaroni form a distinct layer in the shopping cart. Before I knew it we were in the checkout line, and the only reason I was conscious then was because Kinger threw a goddamn 20-pack of toilet paper at my face (yeah, we wipe our ass that much here.)
Kinger bought 142 dollars worth of groceries, and proceeded to eat and drink half of his glorious haul over the course of the afternoon. I bought 35 dollars worth of groceries, and can see it lasting at least a week, maybe two.
So, who is the bad shopper? Me, Kinger, or both of us? To be perfectly honest, ladies and gentlemen, I still have no idea, even as I write this. I have no clever anecdote from today's adventure, nor any greater understanding of the mysterious "Kingernomic" scheme. I even tried to save the entry by taking a closer look at Kinger's dietary intake. Even that yielded nothing, except for the following figures. I leave the lesson up to you, dear reader, because I'm tired, cranky, and not looking forward to another week of white college youth drudgery.
A BOUNTY FIT FOR A KING(ER)
Pasta (of some sort): 95%
Fruit Snacks: 4%
Cunnilingus weather, indeed.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Yeah, I know: "what the fuck?" Let me break this down for you. The idea here is that a facebook user uploads the picture to their own personal album, and "tags" their friends as appearing in the photo as their respective stereotype. Adorable, right? While it might be cute the first time you see it, and you may even be flattered that that certain facebook pal thought you important enough to not only be in the picture, but appear as "the pimp" or "the one you can depend on," ultimately, it loses its luster and fades into online trend obscurity along with "25 random facts about me," livejournal quizzes, and a series of overly saucy open letters to people that will never read them.
This is the kind of shit that pisses the Kinger right off.
Normally, when one is in disagreement with such a vapid internet phenomenon, they simply choose not to participate in it, and may even denounce it to others who enjoy it. Not Kinger. Kinger is far too clever to stop there. He proved to me his righteous comedic chops today by uploading the following picture to facebook and subsequently tagging me in it:
What Kinger has done here is created a rectangular collage of pictures depicting his actual friends, and placed "the" before their names. Not only does this make his friends, including myself, feel unique and special to his online presence, it also makes anyone who used the first picture feel like a total loser and just another sheep in the flock. For those of you playing the home game and/or still scratching your heads: this is really, really fucking funny. Hats off, Kinger. Show those self-obsessed facebook junkies what-for.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Today was different.
I myself was bordering on late to class, and hurriedly took a seat next to Seth as I pretended to catch my breath as a friendly sign of "back off, teach. I fucking tried to make it on time, really." When I had my wits about me, I noticed that Kinger was nowhere to be found. It was four minutes past the usual start time, and every seat on either side of Seth and myself was filled. I was bewildered, he had seemed perfectly healthy (and happily asleep) when I left home base that morning.
Within 60 seconds of this thought, Kinger lumbered in, giving Seth and I a look that I had never seen thrown in my direction: utter disdain. He then took a seat at the opposite end of the back row. I reeled for a few minutes, wondering what exactly I could've done to the Kinger to either a: make him late for class, or b: cause him such emotional discomfort that he would resort to glaring.
I got over this sentiment as I watched him intently throughout the class period. Ladies and gentlemen, the Kinger is a social creature. It survives, even thrives in the presence of other, lesser human beings. Alone, however, it has no outlet for its large bodily output of wit and sass, and must search for places within its mind and body to store the secretions. It is the equivalent to having Restless Leg Syndrome in one's brain. Watching Kinger cope with this was a truly heartbreaking experience. I cannot even explain the looks of horror, dejection, lament, desperation, and abject misery I saw on that full, normally joyous visage over the course of the next 90 minutes. If I was pushed to do so, however, I believe he vaguely resembled Pooh Bear attempting thought.
consider my emotional back broken...
Monday, March 2, 2009
A snow day for the majority of students means sleeping until the early afternoon, and then shuffling to the dining hall in pajamas and slippers. For a slightly smaller number of young scholars, it means not having to board that bus or start up that car, enjoying the company of one's roommates, and perhaps cooking an egg or two on that shabby apartment stove. Either way, it's a cozy scene.
For me, this particular snow day meant waking up mid-morning, abusing my alarm clock, bundling up like the little brother from A Christmas Story (I can't put my arms down!), and walking 20 minutes to Stillings Dining Commons, where I spent a few hours serving pungent, poorly prepared, dried out edibles to the lazy masses, as they filtered in still clad in fleeces, hoodies, and sweatpants.
Now, I'm by no means Saint fucking Peter, and I will admit, I got rather jealous, but the overall morning wasn't bad. The rest of the drastically older and clearly much more miserable Dining Hall staff took it very easy on me, and I barely had to lift a finger throughout the entirety of my stay. When the clock struck 3, I left, still in relatively high spirits. My day didn't seem to be going so badly.
Turns out it was going fucking god-awful.
I returned home to find none other than Kinger spread out on the loveseat, decked out in the royal bathrobe (which is, no lie, royal blue), with his eyes glued to the television set. In the small amount of time I had spent earning a few measly grocery dollars, his highness had taken it upon himself to get several additional hours of sleep. Not only this, but after he saw it fit to arise, he cultured himself with three hours of Telemundo network programming over a hearty, home-cooked breakfast. Ever-resourceful, he had managed to use this experience to completely master the art of Spanish dialogue. By the time I was able to sit down, he had already moved on to the Spongebog Squarepants movie, which I'm sure provided bountiful amounts of pop-culture analysis for our dear Timothy.
So, let's tally this up. In approximately 5 hours, the Kinger properly re-energized, got a taste of foreign culture, mastered a foreign language, and tickled his intellect and funny bone. He was also 3/4 naked and comfortable as fuck-all. In the same 5 hours, I unplugged an alarm clock, took a lukewarm shower, risked frostbite, comingled with unhappy middle-aged women, spilled cheese and broccoli scramble on myself, and watched people happier than me eat. I did all this in a rough, scratchy UNH Dining t-shirt and three-day-old jeans. Using careful analytic and evaluational methods, I have concluded that our separate day scores look as such:
Needless to say, I was upset. However, I thought, if I knew anything about Kinger, there would be a lesson for me betwixt all of this. I wracked my brain for hours, pacing my room, staring blankly at my computer screen, vainly attempting to sleep. What could it all mean?
Then it hit me.
The lesson wasn't something I had to think about. It was all very simple. I'm a piece of shit for getting up and going to my job today. Snow days are Dionysian by design, and I was seriously twisting nature's arm. We were not put on this Earth to work and toil for minimum wage. We were put on this Earth to laugh and wonder, wrap ourselves in the finest and fuzziest of vestments, and soak up everything we can about the world around us, much like the animated sponge that danced across the Kinger's eyesight all afternoon. Sloth is not a sin, but a right of passage. The powers that be saw it fit to give us the day off, and who am I to deny the forces that rule over the very planet I owe my existence to? I will never show such hubris against Mother Nature again. Thank you Kinger, thank you from the bottom of my heart.
this is a picture of what I think God looks like now.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Leave it to Kinger to put me in my place.
Tonight I went out to sup on Japanese cuisine with my brother Sean, Brett Bauer, and the King. Despite my ability to understand a few symbols on the menu and manage to order something, I was shown that studying a language and culture within a school curriculum is severely hindering my world knowledge.
Kinger knew exactly what every menu item was, exactly what he wanted, and exactly why he didn't want anything else. He also outperformed me extraordinarily at eating with chopsticks. I was not doing so well, and he was having exactly none of that.
So now that I've been shown the light, how will I go about ascertaining scholarly excellence in the Japanese language and culture? Why, by studying intently the comedy of DC Benny and listening to my dear friend Tim King, of course.
It has slowly come to my attention over my long tenure as The Kinger's friend that he is very particular about photos. Almost every photo, whether it be drunk, sober, or otherwise, features the same expression.
Some people might think of this as some sort of sign of vapidity. Oh no, no way, hold the phone. This is purposeful. This is The Kinger being his own public relations manager. Why filter through tons of photos, searching for the best one, when you can just guarantee that every single photo is not only a keeper, but the keeper. Let's face it, it's a face you will not soon forget.
However, I cannot say that every photo comes out as golden as the above samples. Inevitably, the paparazzi manage to slip a few through the cracks. The Kinger cannot be blamed for this. Any photo showcasing another expression is one that Tim did not wish to be taken. He was either unaware of the photo being taken, or incredibly angry that you dared to take a picture of him at that particular time.
Case in point:
Now, your guess is as good as mine as to who exactly "Zaquisha" is, but there is one indesputable fact. Kinger is not pleased with the vinyl-collecting, hoodie-fetishizing asshole with the polaroid camera. They have caught him off guard and this is unfor-fucking-giveable. So, Zaquisha, whoever and wherever you are, I extend a hearty "fuck you" in your general direction.
Also inevitably, this approach to photogenicity has had a deep impact on my life. I myself had not realized it until yesterday evening, when I attended an apartment party with the Kinger and a few other choice individuals. Of course, at least once during the night, I found myself on the other side of the camera lens. I was too far past tipsy to really think about what was happening, and before I knew it, the photo was taken.
This morning I woke up to find myself photo-tagged on Facebook. I clicked on the link to find this:
My fucking god...
I have known the individual referred to as Timothy King for three years, two of which I have been aware of. Our first encounter happened in one of the many corridors of Stoke Hall, the largest dorm and overall biggest shit factory on the University of New Hampshire campus. It was in the wee hours of May 6th, 2006. I was preparing to leave for class with one of my acquaintances at the time (I have no recollection of who this particular person was. If you are the person in question, please contact me so I may replace "one of my acquaintances" with your name.)
As we were about to leave, a door swung open, and a burly, fire-maned presence shot out into the hall... and continued to stumble into the wall opposite him. This presence, at the time very foreign to me, continued to stumble back and forth until he disappeared down the long corridor. This was, of course, a prime opportunity for the hypothetical college boy to prove how hypothetically fucking cool and clever he is. "There goes a fucking champ," was the best my acquaintance could muster. To put it bluntly: fail. However, the burly ginger had, if only momentarily, piqued my curiosity.
Love at first sight? Who knows? To be perfectly honest, I seriously fucking doubt it, but who knows?
A year and small number of months later, during my third year of study at UNH, I haphazardly ran into this firey (I'm not trying to make puns at this point) presence again, at the Holloway Commons dining hall, the heart and soul of the entire campus. In my travels, I had befriended a ginger (this will be the stock term for pale, red-haired individuals from here on) of a very different, quieter nature: one Brett Bauer. This particular morning, I was eating a pretty typical Saturday morning breakfast with Brett. Halfway through my post-Fruity Pebbles cup of coffee, the distant-but-familiar presence passed by and gave an abbreviated greeting to other, quieter ginger. I'm not about to insert a "birds of a feather" joke here, but you can guess as to what I was thinking. I politely asked "who's that?" I then heard a name that would come to entail a lot more very, very soon: Tim King.
Key moment? Yes.
I'm a bit hazy on the details, but less than two weeks later, I found myself wandering Durham, New Hampshire with a very intoxicated Tim King. It was during this escapade that I realized Timothy was not only the aforementioned "fucking champ" from three years past (seriously, I was blown away by that alone,) but apparently my mirror image in general preference on more or less everything. I knew I had forged a powerful bond that evening, but even as he slept on the hard, unvacuumed tile floor of my single dormitory, I could not fathom the turn my life would be taking.
No. We didn't touch weiners.
You'd just be surprised at how much your schedule changes being tethered to, and eventually rooming with, a gigantic personality with a propensity for heavy drinking. Sadly, I didn't have this idea idea in the past 18 months, where many adventures have already occurred, but I have a strong feeling that the adventures have yet to cease. I have decided to monitor my good friend's life and its effects on my own, in hopes that everything from his most harrowing exploits to the most daily of his habits do not go unwritten. This is my life as the sidekick, the "straight man," but also as the scribe, the watcher. This is the Kinger and I.
-Robert "Bob" Pearsall