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A woman actually called me to tell me of a "news story" she thought that we just HAAAAAAD to know about.
The horrible crime committed was that her daughter cut herself at school, and the teacher, hurrying to perform first aid, did not take her daughter's feelings into consideration when selecting the blood stauncher, and gave her a Transformers band-aid, instead of something more "gender neutral." Thus her daughter was at risk of being taunted for wearing a "boy's" band-aid.
If the teacher at your child's school gave your daughter a Transformers band-aid instead of a Barbie band-aid when she sawed off her own hand with her safety scissors and her feelings were hurt because teacher treated her like a boy and not a GUUUUURRRRRRRLLLLLL, that is not news and further, give me your home address so that I can come beat you to death with my Rey Mysterio action figure.
And then after I hit you so hard with it that it breaks, I will cry for a while, then mug you and steal enough money to buy myself a new, deluxe edition Rey figure that's got more articulation and a brand-new outfit. Then I will come back, steal enough money to go back and buy a cheap plastic dashboard Jesus, and return to plunge it into your chest so that the relatives who send your obituary will be able to say you literally died with Jesus in your heart.
The police will find me sitting at your kitchen table three days later, having taken your daughter under my hypnotic wing, and I will be teaching her my violent and psychopathic ways, up to and including desecration of your corpse. We'll take the first two officers hostage, taking away their tazers and leaving them tied up with dental floss and stretchy pants in a closet, unharmed but forever haunted by the memory of being overpowered by a shrieking redhead and her preteen sidekick.
Eventually the SWAT will come and inform us that we have nothing to gain by dragging this out and everything to live for if we just come out with our hands up, and our response will be to pepper them with oranges from the windows. But sooner or later, the snipers will lower their guard enough for us to escape arrest in a hail of gunfire, steal an armored car, and embark out on a cross-country reign of terror.
A path of destruction will be found, moronic parents beaten to death at random intervals in McDonalds restaurants, with their impressionable young children kidnapped and notes left written in mustard about rushing to the side of the savior. The country will be paralyzed with fear.
Intrepid young FBI agents with everything to prove will eventually reason out that there is a path of bodies leading towards San Diego and rush to beat the clock as they have puzzled out that the random carvings of "619" engraved within the skulls of our victims means my diabolical cult is beelining towards the real life Oscar Gutierrez, AKA Rey Mysterio, apparently believing him to be the reincarnation of Maurice "Mac" McDonald and thinking that he will somehow lead the "Fast Food Revolution" into the New World Order.
Fortunately, I and my band of brainwashed but highly trained killer children will be apprehended a mere 50 miles from our goal, to the relief of the terrified public. While the deprogrammed youths are fed into the system to an uncertain future, I will spend the rest of my days rocking back and forth in a cushioned room, muttering to myself in Spanish about a sexually ambiguous Optimus Prime being painted sparkly pink in order to keep from offending the little girls.
All this tragedy had to happen because you actually had the nerve to call me here at the newspaper and try to convince me that something like that was even newsworthy.
Just for the record, of course this is all written in jest as just me channeling the impotent rage into an abrupt and unexpected creative writing exercise, I would never do any of this, at least not without a hell of a lot of severe provocation. But holy hell, how could this woman even BEGIN TO FATHOM the thought that this was actually something worth getting offended over??
The horrible crime committed was that her daughter cut herself at school, and the teacher, hurrying to perform first aid, did not take her daughter's feelings into consideration when selecting the blood stauncher, and gave her a Transformers band-aid, instead of something more "gender neutral." Thus her daughter was at risk of being taunted for wearing a "boy's" band-aid.
If the teacher at your child's school gave your daughter a Transformers band-aid instead of a Barbie band-aid when she sawed off her own hand with her safety scissors and her feelings were hurt because teacher treated her like a boy and not a GUUUUURRRRRRRLLLLLL, that is not news and further, give me your home address so that I can come beat you to death with my Rey Mysterio action figure.
And then after I hit you so hard with it that it breaks, I will cry for a while, then mug you and steal enough money to buy myself a new, deluxe edition Rey figure that's got more articulation and a brand-new outfit. Then I will come back, steal enough money to go back and buy a cheap plastic dashboard Jesus, and return to plunge it into your chest so that the relatives who send your obituary will be able to say you literally died with Jesus in your heart.
The police will find me sitting at your kitchen table three days later, having taken your daughter under my hypnotic wing, and I will be teaching her my violent and psychopathic ways, up to and including desecration of your corpse. We'll take the first two officers hostage, taking away their tazers and leaving them tied up with dental floss and stretchy pants in a closet, unharmed but forever haunted by the memory of being overpowered by a shrieking redhead and her preteen sidekick.
Eventually the SWAT will come and inform us that we have nothing to gain by dragging this out and everything to live for if we just come out with our hands up, and our response will be to pepper them with oranges from the windows. But sooner or later, the snipers will lower their guard enough for us to escape arrest in a hail of gunfire, steal an armored car, and embark out on a cross-country reign of terror.
A path of destruction will be found, moronic parents beaten to death at random intervals in McDonalds restaurants, with their impressionable young children kidnapped and notes left written in mustard about rushing to the side of the savior. The country will be paralyzed with fear.
Intrepid young FBI agents with everything to prove will eventually reason out that there is a path of bodies leading towards San Diego and rush to beat the clock as they have puzzled out that the random carvings of "619" engraved within the skulls of our victims means my diabolical cult is beelining towards the real life Oscar Gutierrez, AKA Rey Mysterio, apparently believing him to be the reincarnation of Maurice "Mac" McDonald and thinking that he will somehow lead the "Fast Food Revolution" into the New World Order.
Fortunately, I and my band of brainwashed but highly trained killer children will be apprehended a mere 50 miles from our goal, to the relief of the terrified public. While the deprogrammed youths are fed into the system to an uncertain future, I will spend the rest of my days rocking back and forth in a cushioned room, muttering to myself in Spanish about a sexually ambiguous Optimus Prime being painted sparkly pink in order to keep from offending the little girls.
All this tragedy had to happen because you actually had the nerve to call me here at the newspaper and try to convince me that something like that was even newsworthy.
Just for the record, of course this is all written in jest as just me channeling the impotent rage into an abrupt and unexpected creative writing exercise, I would never do any of this, at least not without a hell of a lot of severe provocation. But holy hell, how could this woman even BEGIN TO FATHOM the thought that this was actually something worth getting offended over??
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