I’m writing this Thanksgiving post now because the trauma has only recently passed.

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Not so recently, the Rhadamanthus clan took part in that awful American tradition of Thanksgiving, the time where a family sit around the dinner table, discuss life, and disembowel, roast, and devour a poor sap selected a week before. And then they eat turkey.

This Thanksgiving, I decided to give any sort of formal attire a miss (as per usual) and adorn my Rise Against shirt. I received a compliment from my cousin, he who wears straightened black-dyed hair and compass star tattoos. He and I are an example of convergent evolution, so much that we resemble black-haired, non-conformist brothers. His family’s German shepherd mix was there, a beast which eats two Shetland ponies every morning. The dinner was held at our grandfather’s estate, which reeks of moth balls, awkward childhood memories, and death. Our grandfather is an old fart with a walrus mustache, an ancient poker buddy of Methuselah, the only one in the family who retains conservative leanings whose interests are, alone, Mother England and genealogy. Before dinner was served I was sufficiently drunk on imported beer.

The conversation was fantastic. The aforementioned cousin was the victim of a gift; a name tag bearing the title “Owner of the Biggest Dog in — County”. More phallic jokes followed as the robust Merlot poured from the bottle. My sister, a lively creature, threw a crescent roll at our estranged uncle. He was amused, mostly due to the influence of his imported beer.

After dinner, my cousins and I convinced the slightly inebriated uncle to play a game of our own invention: Extreme Spoons. The rules are simple. You pass the cards until you get four of the same cards, as in regular spoons, and then you run for the designated field where the spoons are hidden. Those without a spoon at the end of the round lose. Tempers flare, fists are thrown, and family feuds are made. Its only a matter of time before I propose a drinking aspect to the game. Its a mistake on our part that we didn’t place money on the competition. Anyways, after a rematch resulting from a dispute over the rightful victor (I’m ashamed to admit that I spotted the last spoon one second after my cousin, and held her until I could reach the spoon. All’s fair …), my cousin was named the 2013 Spoons Queen.

Since the whole, insufferable lot of my family was convened, my grandfather decided it was the best time to distribute the family heirlooms in his basement. There were some jewels to be had: pieces of buffalo skin, eagle feathers, some authentic Native American art, all questionably legal. My oldest sister entered into negotiations for the rest of the silver our grandfather had promised her. As it stands, she now only requires the bowels to finish the collection. I found the closest thing the geezer must have had to a house god: a squat little Aztec owl, purveyor of death. My aunt, with her goodly sense of fucked-up humor collected a book titled Tissue Cleaning Through Bowel Management. It was a beautiful moment for everyone in the family.

I Am an Obsessive Fuck-monster, I Admit, But Sometimes I Just Want to Cuddle

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As the great artist Jonathan Davis once said, “All day I dream about sex, yes, all day I dream about sex.” I compete in exclusive eye-fuck tournaments. I give my friends complimentary lap dances. I fondle men’s beards for kicks.

I am the dominating overlord of truth or dare.

But despite the unlimited opportunity my devilish good looks give me, I’m not satisfied. Even with my legendary sexual escapades, I still feel the need to curl up with someone and watch Buffy at the end of the day.

Finding this someone has been a difficult process, due to my innate nature of lusting after forbidden fruit. I spent several weeks flirting with someone who lived in a land far, far away. I was crushed with someone much older than me for much longer.

There is a new unattainable desired object. I’ve been using the infernal social media machine Facebook to chat with an individual who lives an hour away. This would be problematic in and of itself (I’ve vowed to never be involved in a long-distance relationship again), but the individual in question happens to be the ex-lover of my best friend.

Although my friend and the individual left on good terms, the relationship would be doomed anyways, because they plan to leave for the promised land, Portland, and we are completely different people.

Long story short, humanity’s a pile of shit. Time to be a cat.

My journey through the dangerous world of hookah

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I consider myself an “occasional” smoker. By that I mean, on my worst streaks, I smoke two cigarettes a day, every day. The preferred cigarettes are Marlboro Reds, the cowboy-killers. I love the taste of them, the acrid fumes. There’s just something so delightfully sinful about them. As my comrade Oscar Wilde once said, “A cigarette is the perfect type of a perfect pleasure. It is exquisite, and it leaves one unsatisfied. What more could one want?”. That, and they’re fucking delicious.

A colleague of mine and I went to a local hookah bar. It was my first time, even though I have traveled extensively through the exquisite land of India. In that land, I heard tell of shisha which could knock even the strongest on his ass.

It was magnificent. The owner was a friend of my friend, and he offered us a new blend, “Panther Sex”. (Another thing that I have found is that even the blends with disgusting names, like Zombie Semen, are delectable.)  I am now one of the few people I know who can say he enjoys coitus of the feline persuasion.

Then we went there a second time. We sat in the corner, observing our fellows with a wary eye, miming phallic jokes with the hose. My friend winked awkwardly at a beautiful woman sitting opposite of us. Then, tragedy struck. My leg was coiled in the hose, and my friend shoved me, and the hookah tipped unfortunately. The bowl fell to the floor and shattered. Red sparks flashed in the air, and an ember caught itself between her foot and the flap of her shoe. I suggested to my friend that she should have then, using the sympathy points, asked for the girl’a number. She just looked at me balefully. The owner, thankfully, didn’t make us pay the $100 for the bowl, and I helped my friend limp home.

I have finished the last cigarette of the pack, and I find myself, ultimately, disappointed. Nothing now compares to the inhale of that cool, sweet mist.

Until another time, I bid thee, farewell.

I’m Not Dead Yet!, or A Series of Collegiate Events

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In accordance to university tradition, I moved into my dorm room last Thursday. I was disappointed that my roommate Jack, the most daring swordsman in the Western Hemisphere, did not engage me in combat. I feel it would have been the start of a wonderful and eternal rivalry.

Jack does have his interesting side. He’s a proponent of the free software movement, which I only heard of the day he told me about it, and I had to Google it. He also smokes an electronic cigarette, with flavors like bubblegum and strawberries. I was embarrassed to admit that I had been using regular cigarettes, with tobacco leaves.

There was a point during the week where I had to wake up early for my class, and Jack was playing that damned game League of Legends. I asked him when he was going to bed, and he told me, “five minutes, max.” I kept my eye on the clock. Fifteen minutes later, Jack got in his bed, and I could feel my blood boiling.

Then I went to a dubstep concert. Mostly I’m used to being invited to the most prestigious balls of the European gentry, complete with carriages and overwhelming senses of entitlement. But this was completely different. I was headbanging with some comrades in arms, and a strange girl joined us. When the song stopped, she said, “Guys, I’m tripping baaaaaaaaaaalls here. So what’s up with you?”

There was also a small spat for the destiny of my soul. I had enrolled in a Post-Colonial Literature class, The professor was British, which was funny because he was telling us how the Empire had subjugated native peoples across the world. I soon found out that it was boring, boring, and idiotically boring.  My classmates were complete and utter douche-nozzles who wanted to sound as smart as the professor, and they used loquacious statements to illustrate their points.

After the third class, I had a moment of clarity, and I charged to my adviser’s office, and saved my soul from an eternal damnation of discussing economics, capitalism, and the like. Or a semester’s worth of misery, whatever.

My roommate could very well kill me with a sword.

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Since I’m a professor of the most studious variety, sometimes I find it necessary to bolster my education. Such previous endeavors have led me to CAKE concerts, prairie dog towns, and haunted houses. While I was preparing for my studies, I learned my roommate’s name. Being of unsound mind and possessing technology I’m too irresponsible for, I started stalking him on Facebook. (Really, who needs to socially interact when you can just do a Google search?)

Everything looked great. He likes Blade Runner, Serenity, and Nine Inch Nails, all things that I enjoy as well. He even enjoys The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. I was starting to feel very pleased about this arrangement, when I saw something on his timeline.

He fences. With swords. He’s probably a mix of D’artagnan, Zorro, and a ninja. En garde, motherfuckers!

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We have not had any correspondence. I assume that its because he is too busy perusing my Facebook profile, gathering information, learning my weaknesses. He has no doubt learned of my prodigious skill in the exquisite art of combat, and wishes for the honor of defeating me.

I can imagine the scene now: my roommate, we’ll call him Jack, will have moved in long before me. When I come inside the dorm room with a laundry basket full toiletries, clothes, and a lamp. He turns to greet me, recognizes me from a great tournament, and draws his rapier. Throwing the basket at him, I draw my katana.  We duel for a while, but, just when my victory seems eminent, he bests me. I lie bloody on the dorm floor, victim to his over-compensating penis sword.

I’ll write again in a couple months if I’m still alive.