Schimid
Mar 19th, 2007, 12:40 AM
I've met a few people from this forum in real life, and I'm always pleasantly surprised that they're not some pre-conceived stereotype, a sulking mass of Ramen and Bawls, and that they talk about things OTHER THAN the internet. OJB, MLE and Chojin are three of my bestest friends and on the off-chance that I see them, Ninjavenom and adept_ninja are two equally cool, equally hilarious dudes.
There are some times, though, where things don't go so well.
The other day I dropped by a local Chic-Fil-A to get a chicken sandwich and a side of pickles for my very sick girlfriend. I'm wearing my scratched-up leather jacket, my hallmark plaid hat, some loose-legged blue jeans and (the cincher) a faded YTMND shirt.
So, I approach the counter and my order is taken by a young girl named Chrystle (i laughed a little, inside) and back away from the counter to collect straws. I am called back, verbally assaulted by a vaguely stocky nineteen-something, the tall type that speaks so that everyone will listen, the type to work at a fast-food restaurant to afford the buy-in for the weekly poker game he and his friends play, the ones that make him feel adequate, manly, the type who has curly blonde hair matted to his head like a wet towel, he proudly points his gnarled finger, viciously, vertically, tilts his head like The Rock and exclaims (exclaims) "YOU'RE THE MAN NOW, DOG."
I laugh nervously, evenly, and manage to sputter a soft, "Huh, oh, uh, you get it?" as if I'm wearing a punchline. I bite my tongue immediately. I chortle a little, something almost patronizing. I feel guilty.
He laughs heartily and responds with great bombast, "Well yes, but, I must confess, I'm not a fan!" Intrigued now, I manage to form my mouth, agape, into some mutant soldier of a grin, mustering up fragments of my internet cool and get far too cocky before I fatefully inquire "Ah, yeah? Why's that?"
And he says, "I'm a /b/tard."
I got this weird image of him creating some sort of cum and shit hybrid all over my sandwich, so I gag in my mouth a little. It comes out as a cough.
Dutifully, playfully, I ask "Oh yeah? So you're, what, the armpit of the internet?" I do this while trying to be relatively modest, carefully considering the civilians around the counter. In an arrogant and self-centered daze I realize everyone is watching this gunfight, especially Chrystle, who I am vainly and most mistakenly assured is listening in with great intent. He asks, "What, have we moved up in the world?" and I can't help but to emit something along the lines of a verbal tap-out, gently murmuring "Okay, the asshole." I lower my head.
Chrystle asks him what we're talking about; he assures her that she wouldn't understand, and I can't help but agree, offering a warm, "i don't fucking know, either" grin at the girl, knowing she is thinking the same, knowing that he is the subject of her lunch breaks, that he is the joke of the establisment. I am an asshole and she is my cohort. With a newfound confidence, I ask, "What the hell are you doing there? That place is terrible."
He responds proudly, "Being anoynomous on the internet! What else?" as if there's no greater function.
I try for a hearty, inclusive chuckle. I don't know how it came out, I won't remember. I tell him I'll see him later, knowing I won't, and leave with our food.
Exeunt.
There are some times, though, where things don't go so well.
The other day I dropped by a local Chic-Fil-A to get a chicken sandwich and a side of pickles for my very sick girlfriend. I'm wearing my scratched-up leather jacket, my hallmark plaid hat, some loose-legged blue jeans and (the cincher) a faded YTMND shirt.
So, I approach the counter and my order is taken by a young girl named Chrystle (i laughed a little, inside) and back away from the counter to collect straws. I am called back, verbally assaulted by a vaguely stocky nineteen-something, the tall type that speaks so that everyone will listen, the type to work at a fast-food restaurant to afford the buy-in for the weekly poker game he and his friends play, the ones that make him feel adequate, manly, the type who has curly blonde hair matted to his head like a wet towel, he proudly points his gnarled finger, viciously, vertically, tilts his head like The Rock and exclaims (exclaims) "YOU'RE THE MAN NOW, DOG."
I laugh nervously, evenly, and manage to sputter a soft, "Huh, oh, uh, you get it?" as if I'm wearing a punchline. I bite my tongue immediately. I chortle a little, something almost patronizing. I feel guilty.
He laughs heartily and responds with great bombast, "Well yes, but, I must confess, I'm not a fan!" Intrigued now, I manage to form my mouth, agape, into some mutant soldier of a grin, mustering up fragments of my internet cool and get far too cocky before I fatefully inquire "Ah, yeah? Why's that?"
And he says, "I'm a /b/tard."
I got this weird image of him creating some sort of cum and shit hybrid all over my sandwich, so I gag in my mouth a little. It comes out as a cough.
Dutifully, playfully, I ask "Oh yeah? So you're, what, the armpit of the internet?" I do this while trying to be relatively modest, carefully considering the civilians around the counter. In an arrogant and self-centered daze I realize everyone is watching this gunfight, especially Chrystle, who I am vainly and most mistakenly assured is listening in with great intent. He asks, "What, have we moved up in the world?" and I can't help but to emit something along the lines of a verbal tap-out, gently murmuring "Okay, the asshole." I lower my head.
Chrystle asks him what we're talking about; he assures her that she wouldn't understand, and I can't help but agree, offering a warm, "i don't fucking know, either" grin at the girl, knowing she is thinking the same, knowing that he is the subject of her lunch breaks, that he is the joke of the establisment. I am an asshole and she is my cohort. With a newfound confidence, I ask, "What the hell are you doing there? That place is terrible."
He responds proudly, "Being anoynomous on the internet! What else?" as if there's no greater function.
I try for a hearty, inclusive chuckle. I don't know how it came out, I won't remember. I tell him I'll see him later, knowing I won't, and leave with our food.
Exeunt.