Flake wrote:Vodka comes from potatoes.
OJ comes from oranges.
There is no where on this planet where the two can grow side by side.
Yet when we defy geography and laugh in the face of mother nature so that we may pour the two together, creating harmony in a chilled glass, decorative umbrella being optional, the result is something that can only be described as meant to be.
The perfect background music for the brightness of the citrus. The natural compliment to the relatively flavorless, sterile alcohol. Again, decorative umbrellas if you so desire.
I remember one time in South Korea. I drank a screwdriver. It was excellent. I drank another. Still excellent! At this point I became emboldened - driven by the sophisticated flavor, the urging of my comrades, and a stupidity cultivated by the drinks that came before, I plunged into a torrent of the wonderful yellow/orange concoction, drinking five of them in as many minutes.
I then proceeded to play darts for the first time, a simple pick up game. Singles. Doubles. Triples. First to a hundred points would be named victor.
She walked in front of me. I was in mid throw. It's fair to say that the alcohol raging though my veins had something to do with it. My natural apathy and slow reflexes are certainly to blame to an unspecified extent. Whatever the case, there she was and there my dart went. Steel tipped. Heavy. Deadly. In slow motion I watched as it flew towards its target.
It hit her in her purse. She had this little fancy purse and the dart stuck into it quite firmly. The small Asian girl registered the impact, looked at the source and gave out a shrill shriek that drew the notice of all in the dank, smoky bar. Filled with fright (and understandably so!) she fled out the door, her heels clacking in the darkness.
Filled with concern and surprise, I ran after her. I stormed out the door and stood there beneath the Korean moon on that dark, dark night and called to her:
"Give me back my dart, you bitch!"
In retrospect, my priorities were skewed that evening. She never gave me back my dart. I never saw here again. Dejected, I slumped back into the bar. I looked to my good friend who had urged me to drink those five screwdrivers which were feeling less and less pleasant with each passing breath.
I'll never forget his sage advice as he gestured towards the dart board:
Flake wrote:Vodka comes from potatoes.
OJ comes from oranges.
There is no where on this planet where the two can grow side by side.
Yet when we defy geography and laugh in the face of mother nature so that we may pour the two together, creating harmony in a chilled glass, decorative umbrella being optional, the result is something that can only be described as meant to be.
The perfect background music for the brightness of the citrus. The natural compliment to the relatively flavorless, sterile alcohol. Again, decorative umbrellas if you so desire.
I remember one time in South Korea. I drank a screwdriver. It was excellent. I drank another. Still excellent! At this point I became emboldened - driven by the sophisticated flavor, the urging of my comrades, and a stupidity cultivated by the drinks that came before, I plunged into a torrent of the wonderful yellow/orange concoction, drinking five of them in as many minutes.
I then proceeded to play darts for the first time, a simple pick up game. Singles. Doubles. Triples. First to a hundred points would be named victor.
She walked in front of me. I was in mid throw. It's fair to say that the alcohol raging though my veins had something to do with it. My natural apathy and slow reflexes are certainly to blame to an unspecified extent. Whatever the case, there she was and there my dart went. Steel tipped. Heavy. Deadly. In slow motion I watched as it flew towards its target.
It hit her in her purse. She had this little fancy purse and the dart stuck into it quite firmly. The small Asian girl registered the impact, looked at the source and gave out a shrill shriek that drew the notice of all in the dank, smoky bar. Filled with fright (and understandably so!) she fled out the door, her heels clacking in the darkness.
Filled with concern and surprise, I ran after her. I stormed out the door and stood there beneath the Korean moon on that dark, dark night and called to her:
"Give me back my dart, you bitch!"
In retrospect, my priorities were skewed that evening. She never gave me back my dart. I never saw here again. Dejected, I slumped back into the bar. I looked to my good friend who had urged me to drink those five screwdrivers which were feeling less and less pleasant with each passing breath.
I'll never forget his sage advice as he gestured towards the dart board:
"Play it as it lies. I win, loser!"
And the night went down hill from there.
This is all canon by the way.
Gaming accomplishments: Nibbler (marathon): 251,169,160 / Nibbler (one life): 5,263,360 (WR) Donkey Kong: 423,100 [L12-1] (150th place as of 2019-01-15) Super Smash Bros. (N64): Ranked top 5 in Wisconsin from Q1 2016 to Q2 2017 Shrek SuperSlam: won largest tournament in game's history (Shrekfest 2018)
This is part of Flake's life, and, by extension, Racketboy lore.
Gaming accomplishments: Nibbler (marathon): 251,169,160 / Nibbler (one life): 5,263,360 (WR) Donkey Kong: 423,100 [L12-1] (150th place as of 2019-01-15) Super Smash Bros. (N64): Ranked top 5 in Wisconsin from Q1 2016 to Q2 2017 Shrek SuperSlam: won largest tournament in game's history (Shrekfest 2018)
That's an actual story. And it actually did get worse from there. Without going too much into detail: Orders were disobeyed, curfew was broken, a disco was fouled, a chain reaction of body fluids on a warm bus, an inert body left on the deck of a boat, and several careers almost ending well before they had properly begun.
But damn do I love screwdrivers!
Maybe now Nintendo will acknowledge Metroid has a fanbase?
Flake wrote:That's an actual story. And it actually did get worse from there. Without going too much into detail: Orders were disobeyed, curfew was broken, a disco was fouled, a chain reaction of body fluids on a warm bus, an inert body left on the deck of a boat, and several careers almost ending well before they had properly begun.
