Saturday, April 25, 2009

DAY 56: First Breath After Coma

Today, my friends, is a momentous occasion.

You see, a few weeks ago, on March 19th, 2009, Timothy "The Kinger" King turned 21. In typical meta-"I'm fucking epic" fashion, Kinger dubbed this occasion "The Timpocalypse." I made good on this by producing a faux-movie poster (which you can see directly below you.) I was geared up for the best night of blog fodder ever.

Well let me tell you, that movie got 3 out of 5 stars.

I, Robert Pearsall, had never been so distraught in my life. There we sat at a normal-ass table in scenic Manchester, New Hampshire's own Strange Brew tavern. I watched Kinger drink a lot of whiskey and a lot of White Russians. Things were building pretty slowly, but after slamming his fourth straight Maker's Mark onto the table and bellowing the singular word of "cocked" with the most sincere of conviction, a million different scenarios (all of them incredible, comedic, and so on) raced through my head.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I urge you to remember that if someone lets you down once, they are very likely to do it again less than an hour later.

...and for the rest of the evening.

I hung around Kinger for the rest of his night with hungry eyes and a hungrier mind. Alas, time and time again there was nothing. He drank, played foosball, made conversation, and drank more. I mean, don't get me wrong, it was a pleasant evening, but distinctly absent was that unmistakable brand of Kinger spunk.

And thus, I retreated to the underground for many months (2 of them), pondering my own existence, my purpose in life, the purpose of this project, and how exactly "Christan" and "metalcore" came together.

I return to you with revelation.

Folks, Kinger was not disappointing me or compromising himself. In fact, I may have misjudged the nature of the Kinger entirely. I pictured him as a booze-hungry, curiously witty dinosaur, rampaging across the lego city of life with reckless abandon, shaking entire districts to the ground with a single guffaw.

This is incorrect.

Picture, if you will, our known solar system. Got it? Now picture every planet as a large mass of Duplo blocks (for those of you born later than myself, Duplo blocks were exactly like legos, except made fucking giant so little kids couldn't choke on them.) Now, picture the sun as a giant-headed, enlightened zen-meditation baby with a bottle of Jameson. That's Kinger, and now that he has tackled Earthling adulthood, he possesses the divine vision to see all that circles around him. With this new information at his disposal, he has chosen not to go-go Godzilla entire planets, but to dismantle his little universe... one Duplo at a time.

Welcome back to the Kinger and I, lords and ladies.



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