Shorthand Life January 5, 2010

I walked in to find Richard rolling on the floor with a picture.

“What are you doing?” I evidently shouted.

“I’m Rofmtapoqe” explained Richard.

“You’re–what?” I said.

“I’m rolling on the floor masturbating to a picture of
Queen Elizabeth, what does it look like!?” As he looked up, tears streaming down his face.

Sexual Icon

Richard was indeed masturbating to a picture of Queen Elizabeth.  I
always knew he had a problem, but the Queen? Wow.

I backed out of the room and shut the door.  Behind me the news
screamed some incoherent language, one of which hobbits used at one
time.

“Tphbs! Tphbs!” screamed the deformed newscaster.

Richard ran into the living room.  ”OMG, tphbs!”

“What are you talking about Richard?”

“Tphbs!” Screamed Richard, assuming I know hobbit.

“The president has been shot!” He yelled, grabbing me by the crotch.
I should have known Richard had a problem when I first met him.  He
needed a roommate, and I needed a room. We met, I attempted a
handshake, however his angry grasp seized me by the genitals and I
thought nothing of it.

I walked out the door in a very extreme fashion, as I do everyday,
when suddenly the hobbit from three doors down begged for change.

Spare Change?

I performed a pelvic thrust to find an out to this begger, but it only
spurred more questions.

“Wth r u doing?” Asked the begger.

So I did the only thing I knew how, to get out of the conversation.
Laser pointer.

I pierced the gaze of the hobo, and heard one thing.

“Wtf?!” He rageyelled.

There’s that hobbit language again I thought to myself as I pelvic
thrusted my way out of the conversation.

I arrived at work to find it was completely normal. Walking through
the doors(I do that) I realized I locked my keys in the car.  I jumped
at the car feet first hoping to break the glass. Safety glass.

Co-workers gathered around me, “W2g mongoloid.” Yelled Tim.

I was puzzled because I am not from Mongolia nor do I reside there.
Why would I want to?  Genghis Khan expanded the borders because
Mongolia is a shithole, full of yaks and midgets.  Nobody likes them,
not even mongoloids.

Pictured: Mongoloid

Michael opened the car door for me, aparently it wasn’t locked after all.
“Tyg Dave” he said.

“What in the name of all Jewish holidays is ‘Tyg?’”

“There you go,” Michael said.

I know something is up today.  It’s like someone picked me up and
placed me at the corner of MIND and FUCK. I need to get out of here.

I jumped in the car, turned the key, and hit the radio. Damn, busted.
Hit it again.  After repeatedly incredible hulking the radio twelve times, pieces scattered across my car, finally it worked.

A silent buzz came on, then a voice.

“This is NPR, and these are the facts.  Tphbs! Mswja. Tcmwafaha.”

“What is everyone saying?!” I screamed at the radio.  I was completely
unaware my door was still open, and my co-workers had called the
police for the violence I practiced on my car stereo.

Days later I awoke in a room that resembled something of a giant
pillow.  I later learned they were actually smaller pillows, and I
locked myself in my room and nailed up all the pillows and couch
cushions I could find.

Richard opened the door and asked, “What are you doing, David?”

“Rofmtapoqe wth does it look like!?”