I’m 43 today. Time to come clean.
I came into the world filled with spite and rage, spitting curses at the uncaring sky. By eight, I was a hit man for the Italian mob. I murdered three men and a mule, taking payment in candy and Star Wars action figures. Later I turned state’s evidence and entered witness protection. Even unto this very day, Big Tony would kill me if he could, though I doubt he’d dare try.
I spent my early teens battling in various underground fighting rings around the world. It was during this time that I saved the world from Shao Khan and the Outworlders. No one knew that before today. Now you do, but it won’t matter soon.
My late teens and early twenties I spent as an underutilized porn actor and underwear model. It was then that I became addicted to Mentos. Judge me if you will, but I wanted to be fresh and full of life! Who doesn’t, right? And those lovely, chewy discs of white sugary cardboard promised me that. They promised!
Ah, but they didn’t deliver, not fully. One day I might be fresh. Another I might be full of life. But never once was I fresh and full of life. And so seeking that elusive combination I sank ever deeper into Mentos addiction. I wandered the earth, popping Mentos, depressed, searching for meaning, convinced that I was destined for something greater. Oh sure, I did some guitar work for AC/DC, toppled a couple regimes around the world, and for two years was Dolph Lundgren’s stunt double (Dolph and I had a falling out over Brigitte Nielson, but there’s no need to rehash that here; I’ll only say that you’re the one with the name “Dolph,” fella; you should hate your parents for that, not me; and I can’t help it if Brigitte prefers a Finn to a Swede), but nothing filled the void.
Anyway, my emptiness grew and I tried to fill it with ever more Mentos. But there were never enough. Never. Enough.
I finally hit rock bottom in ’84, living out of a Nintendo Gamecube box and quoting random verse from Dr. Seuss books, all while dwelling under a viaduct just east of the Salton Sea. The stuff I did for Mentos back then…well, you’d scarcely believe it. Let’s just say it involved a lot of Saran Wrap and Canola Oil.
I entered rehab in ’86 and there met a rodeo clown, ferret juggler, and modern-day prophet named Major Thom (with an “h,” always with an “h”). He told me I could have all the Mentos I wanted, all the Mentos in the world entire, if I just listened and learned from him. And so I did.
The Major told me that on my 43rd birthday, if I uttered a birthday wish in the Language of Creation, the nigh unpronounceable tongue used by the Elder Gods when they formed this world from the chaos of creation, that the wish must needs come true.
“What is this language?” I asked.
And he told me. And I knew he spoke truth. Rodeo clowns and ferret jugglers never lie (it’s true; you can look it up). Still, I could scarcely believe what I’d heard.
Later, wanting to keep the secret mine and mine alone, I bludgeoned Thom to death with a rolled up Sports Illustrated (the swimsuit model edition). Elle McPherson had never looked so good.
Thereafter I waited, lived a normal life as a mild mannered writer and lawyer, biding my time until the day I turned 43, the day that I could utter my will in the Language of Creation and make it so, when the world would tremble at the sound of my voice.
And, yea verily, that day has come. That day is today.
Oh, but what is the Language of Creation, you ask? What secret did Thom reveal? I suppose I can tell you now, since things have reached their end.
Thom told me the wretched, foul language of the Elder Gods, the language that can shape the world to the whim of man, would later be known as the tongue of the LOLCats.
Now you know. But it’s too late. Hear me now, and tremble!
“PEEPLE OF ERF! ALL UR MENTOS R BELONG TO ME! LOLZ”