11 February 2006 - 0:00Everyone knows /that/ guy.

The other day I was sitting in a Theology class, admiring how exquisitely Christ-like my nuts were and pondering how I would go about fitting them into the ass of the next hot chick who walked by. As I theorized the plausibility of such a feat, I was jostled out of my thoughts by a shit swilling son of a bitch. He trudged his gangly ass through the door and made eye contact with me. Immediately I saw his eyes begin to melt, so being a good guy I threw him to the ground with a mighty pectoral flex. As he rose, I waited for a gracious thank you and sacrifice of 20 virgins for saving his eyesight. He simply called me a “piece of shit.” Instead of tearing his skull in two with a thirty second flex and pose of the massively fantastic Rigolega body structure, I calmly told him to go fuck himself. Sparing his life, I figured, would be my one charitable deed for the decade. Feeling ultimately proud of how righteous I was, I had sex with every woman within a ten foot radius of my sweltering yambag. I rock.

Everyone has experienced this in one way or another. Not the spontaneous six women on Rigolega’s nuts part, but the cock napkin who waltzes his dumb ass out in public and sucks more than a heroin addict short on cash. It’s “that” guy. The hard-on. The one who bases his opinions on nothing and makes astute observations that are as intelligent as slamming your dick in a door. For example, a brilliant idea I heard from one hard-on: “I think everyone convicted of murder should be killed the day after they’re convicted.” Naturally, he considers the notion that a person is innocent until proven gulity or else he wouldn’t have said this, right? Asshole.

A hard-on is normally the scrawny guy who surrounds himself with bigger friends and consistently smells like a mix of Preperation H, Bengay and cabbage. When challenged, his defense arguments range from “If you like [insert interest], you’re a fag,” to “What are you talking about? That’s gay,” to “Oh my God, you’re so queer because…” He probably wears make up to prove that he’s expressive and individual and has a not so subtle tendency towards the nuts of young boys. Talking to him is less productive then artifically inseminating a homeless man with bull semen or giving peace a chance.

I drew a picture of “that guy”, a typical hard-on.

So anyway, one of these guys is sitting behind me in a class and starts rambling on about music. There he is, blathering on and on about how Avenged Sevenfold is the most influential band in history while swinging on the lead singer’s nuts. I’m sitting there wishing Dimebag Darrell would come up from railing hot chicks in hell and lay the smack down on this turkey. And it’s not as if I can just listen to the quiet but ever present whirring of my nuts for comfort. My nuts are so formidable that they generate power as raw energy. In fact, my right nut would outshine the sun if not sheathed by the awesomely powerful Rigolega yambag. Regardless, I tried my damnedest to ignore him, but he sounded like a baby being launched out of a cannon onto a concrete wall.

I’ve decided that the only way to prevent the untimely death of babies by means of cannon launching is to punch every one of these mind fucking asshats in the face. The only reason these clowns talk is to gather the attention of others in the first place. Why not give them attention and then some with a nice shiner? Or, if you don’t completely suck, you can punch straight through the guy’s head. Extra points if you can palm his unharmed brain afterwards.

All seriousness aside, when one of these hard-ons speaks, everyone becomes dumber for listening. I was sitting around, still trying to block out the baby launching child molester behind me when he said “All bassists are just reject guitarists.” Normally, this turd’s opinion wouldn’t turn shit to fertilizer in my book. But not only do I play bass, I also have no tolerance for those who call Rigolega names and kick his chair while arguing the finer points of fitting all of Green Day inside of every hole in your body. I felt compelled to act. I turned slowly and silently and before he knew it, hard-on’s face was taking a one way trip through his desk top. Then, while his face seeped onto the floor, I rattled off the names of a few prominent bassists (read: Victor Wooten) who could play a more coherent bass with his penis than hard-on could ever hope to play by any means. Then he started to say that Frank Sinatra sang “emo” music. I literally took a dump on his face when he said this. Music is certainly a pointless topic to argue, since only the music I like is worth listening to in the first place. But when you make an insult on Frank Sinatra, a legendary voice, you are begging to get shit on.

To all you hard-ons out there, it’s one thing to speak your mind. It’s a completely different thing to sound like a clumsy slob. If you’re nothing but a messy ass when you argue, don’t say anything. In fact, cut out your tongue so you’ll never be tempted to say anything. If you don’t have anything intelligent to say, keep your damn mouth shut. If you can’t, I’ll rake my patch and sew it shut with my body hair.

-Babies have been shot out of cannons because hard-ons can’t keep their groundless opinions to themselves.