Summer Recess Entry 4: Sad Crying Clown in an Iron Lung

As you may remember, when we last left our dearest Kinger, he had separated himself from digital society, injured his testicles in an unfortunate key-loss accident, and begun a short tenure on percoset.

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.


Anyway...

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.

the slightest.


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."




Holy fuckballs.


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?

Summer Recess Entry 3: A Brief Yet Triumphant(?) Intermission

Ladies and Gentleman, today Kinger broke his digital hunger strike.

"*Gasp* Why, Bob? Why?"

Well, folks, our dear Kinger underwent some mindblowing shit today: specifically, some pretty hefty trauma to his testicular region.

"*Double Gasp*"

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

Summer Recess Entry 2: Like, Far Out?

I like to check my e-mail in the morning before I go to work. There's just nothing like using the internet with a cup of coffee by my side before putting on a stupid t-shirt and making terrible sandwiches for a few hours.

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

Summer Recess Entry 1: Everyone's Special Boy

An ancient and obscure French blowhard once said that a person's worth in the world is estimated according to the value they put on themselves.

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.

Clock Reset: A Temporary Farewell

Dear folks,

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,

-Robert Pearsall
Loyal Sidekick, Holy Scribe, Short Kid with Stupid Looking Sideburns

Day 63: Do You Fucking Know Who I OW OH FUCK HOLY SHIT

If you've interacted with Kinger or myself in the past few months, you more than likely know about the band Good Luck. If, for whatever reason, you don't know Kinger or I and you're here (I appreciate that, by the way), Good Luck is the best indie/punk/whatever band to come down the pike in a long time... probably ever. Every time we found ourselves listening to this band, in addition to becoming happier than a toddler in the vicinity of a huge-ass lollipop, one of us would end up saying "if only they would tour." Alas, every time we checked the band's website, it appeared that they would forever remain in their cozy little Indiana home. That is, until one day about a month or so ago, when we saw:

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.

Day 58: Natural Mystic

Let us get one thing out in the open before I begin: I motherfucking love Zelda games. I have them all, have already plowed through most of them, own a stupid-ass Triforce t-shirt, and I even have a friend with the goddamn master sword tattooed on his stupid arm.

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.

Sounds delightful.

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.