Warning: You are about to entire a fierce angry Levi rant on Pokemon, nostalgia, and St. Patty's Day. Crude language and really strange personal views are bound to be found within. Viewer Discretion is Advised.
I was a kid once. Actually, it wasn't even that long ago that I was a child. There are many days I still feel like one, many more days I wish I was one, and even a few days where I am told I need to grow up because I am acting like one. Pokemon (amazing transition, I know), they were the $hit back in the day. Me and my posse of ten-year-old boys who were too cool for girl-cooties, YuGiOh, or School Homework (I would have been too cool if daddy didn't scare the piss out of me). We were the cool kids, because we did what every other cool kid in third grade did... watch pokemon, buy pokemon cards from allowance we got for pushing all our legos under out beds, and get little pokemon plastic action figures (not dolls... action figures), and we would have a blast. I would buy books that just listed all the first 150 pokemon (Yes, this was when Mew was a mystery star and everyone cried tears of joy when the screen sparkled. IT WAS MEW!!!) and stickers of pokemon to decorate my bedroom door (turns out they stick well after a year or so, getting them off is difficult). The best part was Pokemon BLUE! Forget all these Silvers and Chartreuses and Tickle-Me-Pinks and Whites and Off-Whites. Fuck 'em. Gimme back my blue, red, or yellow and I'll show you how a true fan plays. Pokemon Stadium (No, not the second one), it was a piece of cake, a small piece of cake even. A small delicious piece of cake that was devoured so easily by my chubby poke-addicted appetite that I wanted a second cake, and I pwned it (Oh yeah, pwned wasn't familiar to me back then, if it even existed). It didn't matter what you threw at me, I had my Zapdos and another one-hundred and forty-nine pokemon memorized in my head, beat that Giovanni. That's right scrub.
So, you're probably wondering... "What the fuck are you talking about Levi?", and I will respond:
"POKEMON IS GAY!" Why's this? They ruined it. Why would you need 746 different imaginary creatures when 150 was already plenty and SOOOOO much more creative? I will still be a child (I'm a man now!) when they came out with the second installation of 5,000,000,000,000 Pokemon, and I cried so furiously my tears were knocking out children across the playground on the older grade's side. I flailed my arms so hard that the population of housefly was decimated in town for three whole hours, and my voice was sobbing so loudly that the power stopped throughout the entire school for a week. And THEN I threw a tantrum. Why did I panic and rage and fight and scream and moan and become depressed over such a small change (It's small now, they add more (and not even creative) pokemon every holiday), but it wasn't! They doubled the thing I dedicated my life to! How was I supposed to feel the same about anything when there was twice as many? Less creativity? I didn't have the money, patience, or will power to master another batch. I hung up my flip-open Pokeballs with stuffed Pikachu and Charmanders to dry, then broke them under my 'Stomping Boots of Executing Violence". Ashes to ashes my friends, and chus to dust. No Pikachu, never again can I choose you. Your perfection was corrupted by your successors, and you can longer hold a place in my heart, for I too my be tainted with their stench.
Nostalgia, sucks. I hate it. There's not a whole like that makes me cry (A short list would be death, bullets, stubbing my toe, House, George Clooney's acting, children's laughter, Chinese Food, and SARS), but Nostalgia is one of them. For the first twelve years of my educational life, I was ready to get the fuck out of school, out of this town, and do... something... cool. What? I don't know, it's not important right now. Then, wouldn't you know it, High School graduation, the choir is singing "Last Song Together" and I am forced, practically drug kicking and screaming, to step down from the choir. I did get an awkward hug from the most adorable girls in school, but that also isn't the point. I bawled. Bawled like a little school girl (Or a young Graduated Man now, they can cry too. It's not against the law!!! Go die if you disagree). So yeah, now whenever I drive by my old High School, I cry. When I see a High School buddy of mine, I cry. When I go to college, I think of High School, and I cry. Nostalgia sucks. Fuck you nostalgia. I blow my nose at you! I'm going to kill whoever made you, and then rip out your heart and sacrifice it to a goat. Maybe you'll think twice before screwing with my emotions (Not that I have any, I'm a man after all. Emotions are silly and whatever *scoff scoff*).
Ah yes, my favorite because I am racially forced to think so. Yes, that is correct. I am Irish by descent (which means you're from Ireland, so says all three hundred something kids that pass through my work), red hair on my head, my arms and legs, my pits... and... my uh... face. But apparently, despite being one of three redheads in a forty-thousand mile radius, I am the one with 'True Irish Luck'. Don't know what I mean, you soon will. Being Irish means I get stereotyped (just like African Americans, except they get cool stuff like being gangsters and awesome fighters) all the time. Apparently, because of my heritage, I am a drinker, a fighter, and I get angry enough to do either the first or second at the drop of a four-leaf clover designed hat. Now, just because I happen to have a little experience in all three of those, doesn't make it accurate or nice to stereotype me. Really, I don't give two shits about being stereotyped, except for when St. Pat's comes around. The day when the non-Irish are the Irish, and the Irish (By descent) are fucking Leprechauns. That's right. I wasn't Irish for St. Pat's, I was a Leprechaun. I give you permission to pause your reading and laugh at me, smear me, I don't care. I was dressed up, had to play a very cute game of Hide-and-go-seek (except I was hiding those little chocolate coins covered in tinfoil). They threatened to kill my family if I didn't cooperate, and what was worse if once I agreed, the children... let me say that again, the CHILDREN were threatening me, to take my coins, to beat me up and steal my rainbow (how the hell does that work, I have no idea). Well, the kids enjoyed it, I guess that's all that matters. Next time though, when it's Valentine's Day, I'm gonna make my fine-looking coworker dress up for me. Besides, jokes on them, YOU GOTTA BE FUCKIN' MAGIC TO RIDE THE GODDAMN RAINBOW! I would know, I was a Leprechaun for a day (and I was hungover). . |