Bro… listen to me.

I seen some wild things in my life. I once saw a guy argue with a squirrel for fifteen minutes in Central Park. I seen a lady eat corn on the cob with a spoon. But this? This was a different flavor of crazy.

So I’m takin’ a walk through the park, right? Tryin’ to get some air, maybe burn off the 3 cannolis I ate for breakfast. And who do I see crouched behind a fuckin’ park bench?

J-Tard.

Alone.
Squattin’ like he’s in a war movie, peekin’ out from behind a trash can, whisperin’ “I see the shota they don't see me hehehe.”

He’s wearin’ a wig and a fuckin' cape — not a cool one, like Batman — more like somethin’ you’d find in a clearance bin labeled “regret.” He’s sweaty, he’s twitchin’, and he keeps makin’ racecar sounds with his mouth.

Every five minutes he switches hiding spots — except he’s not really hidin’. He’s crouched behind a tree that don’t even cover half his body. You can see his whole chair, his whole setup, just sittin’ there like he’s tryin’ to be invisible through willpower alone.

Kids are pointin’ and screamin'.
Joggers are detouring.
Even the squirrels are keepin’ a respectful distance, like “nah bro, not today.”

At one point he looks at me — dead serious — and whispers:

“Don’t give me away. The shota are close.”

What the fuck is a shota, cocksucka?
You’re playin’ hide and seek with the ghosts of your own social life.

Then he sprints — no wait — he spins across the grass, makes it to another bush, and yells, “Still not caught!” like he’s winnin’ somethin'.

It was the saddest, creepiest Olympic event I’ve ever seen.

I kept walkin’. I didn’t ask questions.
Some games ain’t meant to be joined.
Some losses go real deep.

Bro… listen to me.

I seen some wild things in my life. I once saw a guy argue with a squirrel for fifteen minutes in Central Park. I seen a lady eat corn on the cob with a spoon. But this? This was a different flavor of crazy.

So I’m takin’ a walk through the park, right? Tryin’ to get some air, maybe burn off the 3 cannolis I ate for breakfast. And who do I see crouched behind a fuckin’ park bench?

J-Tard.

Alone.
Squattin’ like he’s in a war movie, peekin’ out from behind a trash can, whisperin’ “I see the shota they don't see me hehehe.”

He’s wearin’ a wig and a fuckin' cape — not a cool one, like Batman — more like somethin’ you’d find in a clearance bin labeled “regret.” He’s sweaty, he’s twitchin’, and he keeps makin’ racecar sounds with his mouth.

Every five minutes he switches hiding spots — except he’s not really hidin’. He’s crouched behind a tree that don’t even cover half his body. You can see his whole chair, his whole setup, just sittin’ there like he’s tryin’ to be invisible through willpower alone.

Kids are pointin’ and screamin'.
Joggers are detouring.
Even the squirrels are keepin’ a respectful distance, like “nah bro, not today.”

At one point he looks at me — dead serious — and whispers:

“Don’t give me away. The shota are close.”

What the fuck is a shota, cocksucka?
You’re playin’ hide and seek with the ghosts of your own social life.

Then he sprints — no wait — he spins across the grass, makes it to another bush, and yells, “Still not caught!” like he’s winnin’ somethin'.

It was the saddest, creepiest Olympic event I’ve ever seen.

I kept walkin’. I didn’t ask questions.
Some games ain’t meant to be joined.
Some losses go real deep.

Bro… listen to me.

I seen some wild things in my life. I once saw a guy argue with a squirrel for fifteen minutes in Central Park. I seen a lady eat corn on the cob with a spoon. But this? This was a different flavor of crazy.

So I’m takin’ a walk through the park, right? Tryin’ to get some air, maybe burn off the 3 cannolis I ate for breakfast. And who do I see crouched behind a fuckin’ park bench?

J-Tard.

Alone.
Squattin’ like he’s in a war movie, peekin’ out from behind a trash can, whisperin’ “I see the shota they don't see me hehehe.”

He’s wearin’ a wig and a fuckin' cape — not a cool one, like Batman — more like somethin’ you’d find in a clearance bin labeled “regret.” He’s sweaty, he’s twitchin’, and he keeps makin’ racecar sounds with his mouth.

Every five minutes he switches hiding spots — except he’s not really hidin’. He’s crouched behind a tree that don’t even cover half his body. You can see his whole chair, his whole setup, just sittin’ there like he’s tryin’ to be invisible through willpower alone.

Kids are pointin’ and screamin'.
Joggers are detouring.
Even the squirrels are keepin’ a respectful distance, like “nah bro, not today.”

At one point he looks at me — dead serious — and whispers:

“Don’t give me away. The shota are close.”

What the fuck is a shota, cocksucka?
You’re playin’ hide and seek with the ghosts of your own social life.

Then he sprints — no wait — he spins across the grass, makes it to another bush, and yells, “Still not caught! BASED!” like he’s winnin’ somethin'.

It was the saddest, creepiest Olympic event I’ve ever seen.

I kept walkin’. I didn’t ask questions.
Some games ain’t meant to be joined.
Some losses go real deep.

>>937175554

So listen to this, cocksucka — after that whole horror show, I’m tryin’ to get outta there. I’m sweatin’, I’m shakin’, I smell like expired bologna just from standin’ near that fuckin’ guy.

And who wheels his science experiment of a chair right up to me?
Fuckin’ J-Tard.

Still got his dumb chair, still got his dumb smirk — lookin’ like a wet sock that thinks it’s in Mensa. He leans in — oozin’ somethin’ from somewhere, I’m not even askin’ — and he looks me dead in the eye and says:

"You are one odd man, aren't you, Joey? Toodles Snoodles."

…

ODD?!
YOU’RE gonna call ME odd?! Bro — you just spun around in a Herman Miller knockoff makin’ NASCAR noises and tried to fight a schizophrenic with a neck like a parking meter. You're a pedophile with a plug up your ass wearin' a wig with no shame, your chair has scent trails, and your signature move is leakin’ things nobody asked for!

And I’m the odd one?

I looked at him, man — dead serious — and I said:

“Listen, cocksucka… if you ever say my name again, I’m gonna call a hazmat crew and have your whole DNA cataloged as a biohazard. Now roll your little boy lovin' ass that way and never come back.”

And he just nodded… and SPUN AWAY.
Not rolled. SPUN. Like a fuckin’ Roomba with brain damage.

And that was it.
That was the last time I went to an underground fight that served chili cheese fries at the door.