Wednesday, March 21, 2007

The Unfortunate Tale of Jerky McAssface

Despite having an unfortunate name, Jerky McAssface was a normal, regular boy. He enjoyed playing in the dirt, crucifying small animals, and smoking cigarettes in the lavatory when his teacher's weren't around. He never took off his schoolboy uniform which included a shirt, a jacket, a tie, and short pants (as in "back when I was still in short pants). His dreams were to someday be famous. So he made a plan.

After dinner the other night, Jerky McAssface snuck out his window and climbed down the gnarled bare tree branches until his feet hit the soft grass with a perfect gymnast's dismount. His Irish father, the cocksucker that he was, was drunk off of Irish whiskey, still at the dinner table. This is because this story must rely on stereotypes in order to be told in a quick enough fashion. (Jerky's mother died in a horrible plot device and was heard shouting out to Jerky, "I'll always be dead to you so that you have something to mourn in order to give your life purpose in this story!" before her ashes were blown away into the wind, out over the sparkling blue Atlantic Ocean.)


Now as Jerky stumbled down the cobblestone streets of town, he thought to himself about how he might become the most famous. He thought at first, why, of course, Jesus is the most famous man to our Western world. He must become Jesus! But no, that'll never do. One simply can't just become another!

So then, he thought, I must figure out why Jesus was so bleedin' popular. Jerky pored over these thoughts in his head, and came up with a solution. Jesus was famous because he died! The crucification! Of course! But Jesus wasn't just an ordinary bloke. He were famous, that he were. Also, Jerky would like to live through his fame, not burn out as a martyr.

Then, as Jerky skipped past a particularly bright brass spear store, he realized his true calling. Jerky McAssface himself would crucify the Christ! It's so simple! In order to be famous, he'd just have to become the murderer! And he already had the practice, since one of the hobbies that I'd mentioned earlier was crucifying small animals (Funny how that works out, right? A pure coincidence!)

Then some Romans came by and fucked his shit up with some brass spearz, 'cause man, DON'T fuck with the Romans. Killing Jesus was their shit, and they will FUCK you up for bringing that bizz-nass down to the street town, word?

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