I never thought I was the kind of guy who sat around thinking about shit. I always figured that sort of thing was something pussies did instead of kicking ass, or as a direct result of getting their ass kicked. But here I am, sitting in my crib, constipating my mortality.
It all started a few days ago. I was channel surfing for some UFC when I saw one of those yapping-head channels showing David Carradine’s picture. Those channels usually makes my head hurt like an untreated case of syphilis, but that dude’s old show Kung Fu was a big influence on me, so I had to see what was going on. After about five minutes of hearing the pencil necks flapping their gums, I finally figured out what happened: David Carradine was dead.
Like I said, his show made a big impact on me. I still remember hearing about it for the first time: a white dude who does karate and shit! I was so excited, I talked about it for weeks before the first episode. It was like they were making a show about the young Kreesinator!
Then I saw it. I don’t think I’ve ever been that pissed off, except at the ‘84 All Valleys, but that’s a story for another day. Instead of being about a guy who goes around kicking the shit out of random pussies because he can, it was some historical bullshit about some hippie bitch boy who wants to find his boyfriend in the Old West. At the Cobra Kai dojo, I teach only PROactive karate. It’s the only real karate. Garbage like Kung Fu is all about REactive karate, which is only good for one thing: getting the piss stomped out of you by a proactive karate master. It’s a good thing I never crossed paths with David Carradine, because I would have gone ape shit on him. He helped sully the name of good martial arts (which was founded back in the day by some rowdy, shit-kicking Chinese dudes who smoked opium and rode dragons and shit) by turning it into fucking pussy boy figure skating.
Anyway, I was totally stoked about David Carradine dying. FINALLY, right? Then the bombshell dropped: he didn’t kill himself like they originally thought. No, he died doing one of my signature sex moves, the Kreese Double Choke!
For those of you reading this who aren’t up on my sex life, I have several signature moves. With the bitches, I’m like a pissed-off badger in leather bag full of nails and badger drugs and badger Viagra and badger Jell-O shots. I guess those would just be smaller Jell-O shots. Whatever. I’m a fucking madman, both literally and fidgetably. I devised the Kreese Double Choke one night when a bitch I was cock-slaying started choking me after I called her vag saggy or something. See, in the few seconds before I passed out, I dumped a huge slurpy, the biggest I’d ever managed, all over my waterbed. After experimenting a few more times, I figured out that declining your head of air before you make a #3 is like taking some kind of crazy jizz drug. I didn’t even think about trying it without another person present, but that brings me back to what I was talking about earlier.
Ever since then, I can’t stop thinking about stuff like, was David Carradine cooler than I gave him credit for? Was he smarter than me for figuring out that the Kreese Double Choke could be done lone wolf-style? What would you call that variation? The Kreese Single Double Choke? That doesn’t make any sense. Should I try it, or is it like opening Panera’s Box, where you regret something because you did it or whatever? Would that be the best way EVER to go out or what? Does thinking about making a dick slick in my boxer briefs before I croak make me suicidal? Should I risk such a dangerous move when it could kill me? What’s the point of living if your entire existence is spent avoiding peril, when peril is a primary component of adversity, and overcoming adversity is the only true way to achieve greatness?
Ugh, I’ve got a fucking headache. I need to go spank the phlegm out of baby Kreese’s lungs and go get drunk.
