(Editor’s note: This article was originally published in the July 15, 2006 issue of GameCola, back when GameCola was published in a monthly online magazine format.)
College Park, MD 20740
July 15, 2006
You know, a funny thing happened to me on the way to the Internet the other day. Well, OK, you may not find it that hysterical, but it had me in stitches, slapping my own rear end from the hilarity of it all.
I lost it. Some may say I did that years ago, or, indeed, that I never had “it” to begin with. Those dear Readers would, of course, not know the “it” I’m referring to, which is this month’s Dear Readers itself. Oh, sure, what you’re reading appears to be DR, but it ain’t the real deal. The real thing was way, way cooler, as the real thing tends to be after it no longer exists.
It’s gone. It was stolen, actually—yes, believe it or not, this issue’s gift to humanity was stolen. I was walking back to my apartment from my car (which is a good fifteen-minute hike, I’ll have you know) when I walked by a pit of naked sheep. Of course, you can’t just walk by a pit of naked sheep; you’ve gotta stop, look, see if there’s anyone around so you can ask if you can pet the naked sheep, etc. Well, no one was, but I did it anyway. (I am a rebel. I disobey commands. I am a rebel. A rebel is who I am.) Well, this sheep turned out to be a hooligan—I had a hard copy of DR in my hand, at the time, and he wrenched it way from me. With his teeth, of course—sheep, on the whole, do not have hands.
So I did what any red-blooded South Jersian would do—I hopped over the fence and tackled the sheep to the ground. I had him pinned—locked into a Crippler Crossface, if you must know—and I was ready to take back my masterpiece and chalk it up to one bad apple when a whole freaking HERD of naked sheep appeared out of nowhere and were like “hey, dogpile on the writing god.” They all dove on me, every single one of the naked sheep—dull teeth gnashing, a whole lot of lack of fur everywhere. I was doomed.
And then I looked up to the sky—to him?—through a gap in the mass of flesh, and it was at this point that one of the sheep spoke.
“Ahem,” he started. “Ahem.” And together, we were able to fight off this flock of seemingly feral sheep, but my masterpiece was no more. For the most part. I saw it there, lying in the mud, and only three words were still legible: “To the max.”
“To the max,” I thought. “To. The. Max.” I wasn’t sure what to make of it. But I didn’t dwindle in my ruminations, fearful of another naked sheep assault. I left. He didn’t come with me.
“To the max.” I ponder it now. I’d written it myself, of course, but the words mean nothing by themselves. They’re without context. Without love. Kind of like myself.
In conclusion—because that’s how English teachers say you should signal to the reader that you’re about to conclude—be careful with the things you care for. With the things that are important to you. Hold on to them tight, especially if naked sheep are around. You never know what forces nature might throw at you or what conspiracies the world might have against you. You just never know….
editor in chief