If there was ever a reason to be happy, it’s that YOU’RE not the Yellow Rat Bastard. That friggin’ guy is such a miserable little shit, he makes Kurt Cobain look like . And yes, that’s AFTER he killed himself.
So why do I hang around him? Well, for starters, he makes me damn happy I’m not him. Nothing cheers you up like meeting someone more miserable than you. Second, he owns the gaming shop that I frequent. You may think that this would make him some sort of expert on games, but that would teach you to think, you smug bastard. The Yellow Rat Bastard HATES games; in fact, the only thing he hates more than games are GAMERS – the people that pay his salary.
I can’t say I blame him; I hate his customers, too. When it comes to the freaks and biazarros of the world, his shop is the friggin’ 8-million-watt bulb to the freakazoid moths of the world. Somewhere in the burning wastelands of Australia, there’s some complete schizoid maniac that none of the other bushpeople like (no, not , just a random schizo) who feels a burning urge to rush to America so he can sit in Yellow Rat Bastard’s shop and get abused.
You may think that Bastard attempts to hide his loathing and contempt for his customers – wrong again, sphincter baby! If you’ve been in his shop more than five minutes and he hasn’t made a comment about how annoying you are, it’s because he’s sleeping – which he does frequently throughout the day. Let’s face it: sitting, chain-smoking, and drinking coffee by the gallon is some exhausting work! You can thank your pansy ass that we have such hardcore studs like the Bastard around to do this work for us.
Bastard and I have spent many a long night, sitting at dive bars drinking coffee and discussing the problems in the world (the people), what the president should do to fix the world (kill all the people), and what we would do if we were president (kill all the people and our asshole predecessor). As you can tell, we are catalysts for change…
Sometimes Bastard and I embark on strange and mystical journeys to distant and wonderous places – like the coffee shop. And sometimes we suffer through each others’ company to do our grocery shopping together when Kwipette is working (Kwipette, sad to say, suffers the most – she writes out these long, carefully-worded shopping lists, and I return with 30 jars of yummy psuedo-cheese and 20 boxes of crackers). Invariably, wherever we go, we run into problems – the root of most of which lie in the fact that the Yellow Rat Bastard refuses to follow any sort of ‘norms’ or ‘rules’ or even, for that matter, ‘sanity.’
For example, shopping at a store recently, Bastard proceeds quite politely to the checkout with a gift certificate. The clerk rings up his total: $32.48.
Bastard hands him his gift card.
“Sir, that card only has $20 left on it.”
“Oh.” The Bastard looks down at the card, flips it over, and then hands it back to the clerk.
“Ummm….sir? That card – there’s only twenty dollars left on it. So you would owe more.”
“Oh, oh – right.” He takes the card back, looks at it, studies the register display ($32.48), and then goes to hand back the card to the clerk. “What about this?”
“Sir – the total is $32.48 (now he turns the entire cash register around so Bastard can view the print out for himself – like that will help), but that card only has $20 – twenty dollars (he tries to raise his voice a bit, as if the Bastard is hard of hearing instead of just being a difficult prick). You still owe me $12.48.”
“Huh?” Bastard is now wearing his “This-shit-is-too-difficult-for-me-to-figure-it-out-so-I’m-going-to-act-stupid-until-someone-goes-nuts-and-figures-it-out-for-me” look. A look I’ve come to know too well…
Normally, I’m all for public displays of stupidity by the Bastard, as this provides me with endless hours of fun to torment him with. However, in this case, I had something heavy in my arms, and he was in my way of setting it on the counter.
“Bastard you stupid prick, there’s only $20 left on that damn card! You need to pay more!”
“MONEY! MOOLAH! FORK OVER THE FRIGGIN’ CREDIT CARD, YOU STUPID PRICK!”
At which point Bastard feels the need to make it painfully clear that he has merely been toying with our sanity all along:
“Oh. I thought this WAS my credit card.” And then he has the balls to act as if nothing is wrong and casually hand his credit card over, while the clerk is turned into a slobbering vegetable from going up against the logic of…the Yellow Rat Bastard.