Hoodling's Hall of Fame #2

I’ve seen things in this life that makes me wanna take a power drill to my
forehead and press for home. This epic blunder was a calamity of
manly proportions, as unforgettable as it is unbearable to live with!
I’m torn between wanting to kill myself and bragging about it,
so–of course–I had to share it with the world. I have no pride,
just a massive ego.

I was young and beautiful, drunk and delirious, roaming the
streets of Bergen, Norway. Quite frankly, I was a bit of a bimbo, so
it’s a good thing I’m a man, because I lacked the survival
instincts of a woman. I was that kid who would definitely get in a
stranger’s car at the promise of hard candy, every day of the week,
bless my ignorant youth. For reasons beyond recollection, I ended up
drinking with a bunch of strangers in a gloomy watering hole far off
the beaten path. A pretty girl asked me to dance, so I tore a brick
out of the wall, and the guy spilled a table of drinks in my lap.
Wait… I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s rewind. I went dancing
with the pretty girl, and then one of the dudes from our table joined
in–rather aggressively I might add. At first, I thought he was
trying to steal my new girlfriend, but he seemed confused as to his
own intentions. He kept saying all the wrong shit… complimenting me
on my “impressive physique” and stuff. I almost wrote it off as
an unwitting act of self-sabotage from a loser with no game, but then
it occurred to me that he might be playing wing man! Wrong again,
young Mr. Hoodling, you poor, deluded fool!

Just to set the scene; it was 1999, I was barely nineteen, and
this wasn’t my first encounter with an aggressive, inebriated
homosexual. A few months prior to this incident (in another pub), an
older fellow leaned into me and asked if he could fondle my balls!
Nice of him to ask for consent, I guess? Still… fuck off you creepy
uncle fucker! This–on top of very narrowly escaping molestation at
the hands of my mom’s gay friend in my early teens–didn’t
exactly leave me with a stellar impression of gay people. To complete
the picture, a friend of mine told me I looked like an elf at one
point, on account of my long hair, prompting me to take immediate,
drastic action and shave my head to the bone! Yes indeed. I was a
textbook case of homophobia, and I couldn’t spot a gay advance to
save my fucking life! In my blissfully ignorant, binary fantasy
world, other men only wanted to be my friends because I was awesome!
Let’s just say I had a lot of growing up to do, and leave it at
that.

When it finally dawned on me that this dude was buttering me up
for a romantic rendezvous of the very gay kind, one might say I
suffered a stroke-induced conniption! Hoodling.exe has stopped
working, fatal error, please reboot! In a very heterosexual fit of
man-panic, I tore a loose brick out of the wall and threatened to
bash the pretty girl’s face in if that guy tried to hump me again!
I figured he might throw caution to the wind and go all in for
another humping if it was only his own life at stake, but surely he
wouldn’t risk hers as well? Sure, it’s a twisted bit of logic,
but it’s sound. There are so many levels of wrong here, and we’re
just getting started, so don’t get hung up on it. Naturally, we all
ended up back at the table, drinking together and laughing about it.
Well, they were laughing… I was drinking. No, I didn’t skip ahead
this time. This is what my life is like, because nobody takes me
seriously!

After finishing a round of beers, we ordered another. Just as the
bartender placed the last glass on our table, the dumb cunt at the
other end gets up and knocks it over, spilling everything–glasses
and ashtrays alike–right into my lap! To put it delicately, my head
started spinning and demonic vocabulary spewed from my mouth like a
runaway fire hose! My leisurely night out had turned into a fucking
train wreck!

Again, let me set the scene. I can’t handle getting my hands
sticky. Even as a toddler, my mother couldn’t bring me anywhere
without wet wipes in case of a stickiness related emergency. As a
grown man, this presents me with certain problems in life that I’d
rather not discuss in the same paragraph as my mother. To this day,
I’m borderline phobic about getting my hands dirty, and stickiness
is the fucking devil! I may refrain from audibly freaking out, but I
do take immediate action when my hands get dirty. I don’t care if
it’s a life or death situation… nothing’s getting done until my
hands are clean! I went to mechanics school and dropped out two weeks
before graduation because they ran out of soap–I shit you not!
Major life decisions isn’t my strong suit. I would turn my ass to
the wind and walk out on the King of Norway if we shook hands and he
left me sticky! To be perfectly honest, I’m quite comfortable in
the current pandemic. Before all this, you were considered an asshole
or a germophobe if you refused to shake someone’s hand. I would
made sure to be an asshole about it to avoid looking like a panicky
wuss, of course. I’ve got issues, and I’ve got tissues! Don’t
worry about me, I’m doing fucking fine!

The guy who flipped the table offered to pay for everyone’s
drinks, which–honestly–was the least he could do! I told him to
go fuck himself to death, because money was my last concern at this
juncture. The pretty girl intelligently surmised that we had better
remove me from company before the proverbial shit hit the fan! We
went outside for some “fresh air,” as if that was gonna make a
lick of difference. Freshly humped, drenched in sticky beer and
covered in cigarette ash, young Mr. Hoodling was about to
self-detonate! Her hotness tried to calm me down, but all I could
hear was the blood boiling in my brain. Next thing I know,
wannabe-murder-victim came outside to check on us. I stopped the
fucker mid-sentence and demanded he pay for that beer. Obviously, I
didn’t care about the money. I wanted to pick a fight! He politely
apologized again and fed me some bullshit about being out of money,
the fucking weasel! I was fixing to get laid that night, before the
universe royally fucked me! The only possible outcome I would derive
satisfaction from at this point was bloody, grizzly murder!

As expected, I turned everyone against me. Suddenly, I found
myself in a fight with all these people. I didn’t even get to the
punching part, I just kept yelling until the guy walked up to me and
bopped me on the forehead, causing me to lose balance and fall down
in slow motion. This pathetic display of manhood was made infinitely
worse by the fact that my friends showed up just in time to see it.
Coincidentally, the Police had just arrived at the scene as well. You
can see where this is going, right?

Yet again, I feel the need to set the scene. Already at this early
point in life, for no particular reason, I hated the Police with a
passion! Cops are nothing but state employed snitches, and that’s
why nobody likes them! You can’t be friends with someone who gets
off on bossing people around. To become a cop, you’d have to be a
special brand of psychopath! The reason piggies stick together is
because they can’t make friends with normal people. They’re not
even human! They’re soulless, bipedal shit-containers with such an
intense craving for authority they’ll gladly put themselves in a
position where people hate their fucking guts! Yeah, I have a problem
with cops.

I’ll be fair about this; the piggies gave me every chance to
calm the fuck down and walk away, but I was in no frame of mind to
heed their warnings. I wanted revenge, and some justice too, and no
fucking way was I gonna be stopped by the piggies! As I stood there,
arguing with one piggy, a sneaky piggy casually went behind my back
and cuffed me–without effort I might add. I was so busy arguing
with the other piggy that I didn’t realize it was happening! I
didn’t even struggle! I was cuffed by a little, blond lady in
uniform. What pisses me off the most is that if I–somehow–managed
to travel back in time to kick my own ass, my younger self would have
wiped the floor with me, if only he’d shut the fuck up and throw a
punch! He was a beast, but that mouth just kept on going. He could
have talked Muhammad Ali to sleep in the ring!

As protocol dictates, after troublemakers are cuffed, they’re
promptly escorted into a mobile cage and transited to the nearest
drunk tank. Well, first there’s processing. That’s the part where
they take your wallet and shoes. “Why the shoes?” you may ask. I
was told they confiscate shoes or shoelaces to prevent people from
committing suicide. The jail cell was of the solitary confinement
variety, with nothing but smooth, concrete surfaces and a hole to
piss in. I was unable to devise any practical means of hanging myself
in there. No hooks in the ceiling, obviously. Not even a door handle
so I could hang myself by sitting down, if I was so inclined. Take my
shoes, for fuck’s sake. Retards. In a futile effort to retain my
shoes, I argued that there was no way to achieve death by shoelaces
in that cell. That’s when piggy went off the rails and told me I
could piss on the laces and strangle myself with them, because wet
laces tighten real good! I don’t think it’s a far stretch to say
that crazy piggy must have given this a lot of thought. An
unreasonable amount of thought, one might say. I told you they’re
all psychopaths! In what fucking world do you see me pissing on my
hands and tying urine-soaked laces around my throat? I’d sooner
kill myself!

Locked away and left with nothing but my brain, the heavy reality
of my situation began to register. I had no idea how this might
affect my life, but–as I tend to do–I assumed the worst! All I
had to go on was a smattering of fictitious bullshit gleaned from
Hollywood movies and TV shows, none of which bears any resemblance to
the way things work in fucking Norway! My pea-sized brain convinced
me that I’d never be able to get a job after this, so–in my
warped mind–my life was over! I went from flat zero to one hundred
percent raging suicidal in a fucking snap, and I cried like a little
bitch! Yeah, I would’ve taken away my shoes too! In an effort to
spare herself from having to listen to my incessant whining, crazy
piggy elected to deescalate matters by informing me that none of this
would have any lasting impact on my life… in any way, shape or
form.

With the drama concluded, I found myself bored out of my delicate
wits in no time, and I wasn’t about to sleep on a dirty, concrete
floor and catch the cooties. That left me with only one option; I had
to bust out! In the movies, they would play sick and fool the guards,
so that’s was my plan! I was gonna play sick, go home and hit the
sack. The middle part of the plan was somewhat underdeveloped, but I
figured I’d just wing it. How hard could it be? I expertly laid the
groundwork and faked an asthma attack, so fucking well–I might
add–that they drove me to the hospital and left me in the care of
doctors. Without saying a word, I got up and walked out the door,
took the bus home and hit the sack. The piggies literally fell for
the oldest trick in the book. This actually happened, believe it or
not. Stupid, violent and unlikely events gravitate towards me like
I’m the joke of the universe. I’m an atheist, but if there’s a
God, we will have words!

If you’re wondering how this misbegotten disaster earned it’s
place in my personal hall of fame, it’s because–for once in my
life–I actually beat the man!