Oh, sure, you visit; you pop by; you drop on in. If you’re a member of Entrecard then you probably drop on down, then drop on out too. That place is full of droppers and I should know; I visit, pop by, and drop in, on, around, down, and out too. But I don’t really know anything about you and I suspect – well, actually, I’m pretty certain – that you don’t know anything about me. And there is much to know about me. The web’s social or so they say but it isn’t much like a society with which I’m familiar unless you know of a society that thrives solely on self-promotion, lies, and egotism. Let’s ignore the obvious response to that and press on with some self-promotion, lying, and ego-stroking by talking in depth about me.
I’m a man, for starters. I’ve got all the manly parts associated with being a man. Stubble? Yeah, that’s there. If I don’t shave for four days then I can blend in with any terrorist cell in the world. It’s not just my stubble that grows at a phenomenal rate – no, not what you’re thinking you filthy pervert, although that’s true enough – but also the hair on my scalp too. If there’s a Hair Bear Bunch Human Impersonator Emergency then I could well be the answer to that emergency’s prayers. I don’t have hair on my back, chest, or tongue, however. If I had hair on my back then I’d not be engaged, that’s for certain; the other half frowns upon back hair. But we’re not talking about her. This is me, me, me time. My hair’s neither receding nor balding and was once so brown it was nearly black. But it wasn’t quite black. And now it’s not quite so brown it’s nearly black either; the albino hairs have emerged and begun to infiltrate the forest of brown-black. In time they will subsume the dark but I do not fear their approach.
It’s not just my head-based hair that marks me out as a man; I have a sense of direction that is second-to-none and, certainly, far superior to any woman’s to which I’ve been introduced. I’d like to believe that I can tune into the Earth’s magnetic flux patterns and align myself towards any direction without thinking. I’d like to believe in a lot of things, but that’s simply preposterous. Unless the box of iron filings I swallowed as a child didn’t pass through me as the knowledgeable-sounding doctor assured my parents it would. Could they have dispersed through my body, carried by the flow of blood to every sense point, bestowing upon me a directional instinct? Is it possible that I can sense magnetism in the same way a person feels the heat of the Sun on the hand? Wouldn’t I have set off metal detectors though?
For a long time I was a single man until that fateful night at the club when I met her. At that moment I became much more; I became two men. It was the first and last time that I would go to Club Misandry on "Axe Wielders Get In Free"-Wednesday. A knowledgeable-sounding doctor – a different one than before – made me whole again and I felt content then to stay a single man forever. Until that other fateful night at that other club when I met her. Either she took my frantic patting her down, checking for lethal weaponry as a sign of manly assuredness or I expertly pushed the exact combination of female pressure points guaranteed to make a woman fall in love with a man who was clearly way below her level; whichever it was, the result was the same: terror. And an imminent wedding. Otherwise known as: more terror.
I’m very shy. I don’t do public speaking. I barely do private speaking. At parties look for the person in the corner trying to avoid people. Approach him. Engage in some small talk without making him feel you’re trying to steal his wallet. Then ask after me. He’ll have the carefully-prepared excuse as to why I didn’t turn up written on laminated card in his shirt pocket. There’s always a walrus in the story. That’s how you’ll know it’s from me.
I can argue for Queen and Country. About anything. From any standpoint. I love to argue. I love playing Devil’s Advocate. Not the movie. Definitely not the movie. If I’m in the right mood then I will pick a fight with anyone especially if they’re talking about something with which I agree. I blame and praise in equal measures a combination of my education and my heritage.
My heritage is half Irish, seven sixteenths English, and one sixteenth Spanish. It’s a fiery, argumentative combination with just a small promise of a siesta somewhere in the middle. My education was excellent. I learned to read early and I read fast and often. By the age of nine I had read the entire contents of my school’s libraries and the teacher would sometimes ask me to step out of class and help other children with reading who were having trouble. I later learned that those same children went on to serve time at Her Majesty’s Pleasure. Remember: criminals are born stupid and there’s nothing you can do for them so you shouldn’t bother trying. I took the entrance exam for Eton College and passed, placed second in the county. But my parents were not rich and couldn’t afford the fees to send me for private buggering by future stockbroker drug-addicts (I’m not bitter), and so I took a government grant for education by priests in a private school in my home city instead.
When you’re educated by an order of Catholic brothers in an all-boys school you probably don’t anticipate emerging straight and a determined athiest unless it is through an act of rebellion and yet I did. And it wasn’t. We were taught to think and question and see every side’s point of view, not remember facts and figures and learn how to pass an exam. Teachers disciplined us with the edges of steel rulers on our knuckles when we misbehaved and we quickly stopped misbehaving. Monks explained why the Bible shouldn’t be taken as gospel – pun intended – and we came to understand that the world is full of morons. There was true enlightenment at that school. My mother – a devout Catholic – was not pleased (to put it mildly) but she came around to the right way of thinking eventually. I argue well, as has been previously mentioned, but I also fight well and her use of the Holy Slipper and Metal Spatula Of Blasphemy were no match for my lightning reflexes and toned musculature. I miss that musculature.
I do not like children. They are horrible things. Babies are not miracles. Miracles are not miracles.
I would be a great and benevolent tyrant were it not for the aforementioned shyness. Instead, I follow politics carefully and fantasise about world domination. America in the 1950s was a shining beacon for the world; everyone wanted to be just like America. Peace comes from inner change. Make one country so beautiful and modern and friendly and armed with Earth-shattering technology that it encourages the others to tear down their oppressive leaderships and tear apart their dreadful social models and follow suit without outside intervention; that, or a tailored virus that targets the terminally stupid and erases their genes. I’m easy. Iceland would be the penal colony/personal refuge for the dissenters to my vision. I don’t believe prisoners should have any comforts though, so there would have to be a shield over the country to block out the aurora borealis. Iceland’s bigger than you think it is; the aurora shield would create a great many jobs. Can’t you see what a wonderful tyrant I would be?
And that’s me in a figurative nutshell. Please feel free to introduce yourself.