My last post, I feel, was somewhat disappointing. It was supposed to have a second portion involving the biology behind the “manjo” gland, but then I sort of let that die out. I must confess, I haven’t written much in my lifetime. I kept a journal for some time in high school, but then dropped that when I got a bit older. I want to let you in on two secrets of mine. And boy do they suck:

1 - I can NOT summarize. At all. I mean here I go again, blah blah blah,.. See?

2 - I digress like a motherfuck. I hope it isn’t as annoying to you as it is to me.

Okay! Now that I have disclosed my most self-conscious faults to you all, I will now dazzle you with a mantastic story of ninjary and stealthitude.

It was a dark and misty night… My of-the-time girlfriend was achin’ for my nuts. Her mom was out of town. I saw this not as a coincidence, but as an opportunity. An opportunity to turn into a man. You see, my gf and I were both virgins. Haha, yes, she and I were quite young at the time. She lived an hour away, across one of the longest bridges in the world!
Or the United States anyway, certainly in the south.

Anyway, we had been planning this trist for some time. It had been difficult to plan because of her mother. This woman is what I would best describe as a ghoulish beast from hell. She wore “the pants” in the family. Not because she was tough shit or anything (and she wasn’t), but rather by default. More on this later.

Angels decorated her house in every room. She called herself a Reiki master (which by the way, is when I stopped taking her seriously), and she made decisions based upon which way a necklace would swing. She constantly had this feeling that I was trying to deflower her daughter for some reason. Maybe it’s because she caught us on several occasions making out, usually with my hand down her daughter’s pants. I didn’t try to hide it. I would lie, but when I did so I made sure that I was as transparent as could be. Golly! I was a little asshole!

Enough about this broad, as that is as much backstory you’ll need about her. Back to the action!

So phonecalls were made. A plan was created, and when the clock struck 10:00pm, I summoned the ninja inside of me. I threw on my baggy, black “Moonshine” T-shirt, my snazzy black dress pants, some black Starter socks, and the “special black gloves” I had made. Which were actually just another pair of the Starter socks with some holes cut in them. Not traditional ninja attire, I know. Once I put the hood on (a black t-shirt, tied in the ways of the legendary t-shirt ninja), I was ready to rock. Or be a hobo. Either way, I would be a shadow, ready to take on everything and anything the night had to offer. Little did I know what was in store for me…

Yeah that’s right.  You can call it mojo, energy, chi, kai, whatever, it’s all the same.
Every man since the dawn of time has been born with it.  It is ingrained into our genetic
composition.  It is what drives us to be more than just well-mannered citizens of this
planet we call Earth.  It fuels our passion for greatness.  The Power of Man.

This is the very essence of mankind’s underdog approach to the universe.  Even death itself
cannot penetrate the power that even you, a man in a sea of men, have coursing through
your veins.  When a man creates something, be it a work of art, a child, words of wisdom, or
hell, even a chair, his actions transcend into even today’s world. 

You hear stories about fathers giving watches to their sons all the time.  And that their
son should give it to their son, and so on.  The man who first bought that watch didn’t buy
just a simple device for telling time.  Oh no.  He bought immortality.

This great gift of manliness that has been bestowed upon us should be embraced at any and
all circumstances in our daily lives.  Unfortunately, this awesome power, like all super
powers, can be abused when tapped into inappropriately.  I’m talking about beer.

Now beer is a wonderful invention.  I’m currently writing an article on its terrific
splendor, as a matter of fact.  However, sometimes beer and I don’t get along.  Actually
it’s pretty much all the time.  Beer to me is like that ex-girlfriend you still have
feelings for.  You know the one.  She calls every few months to torture your soul.  Innocent
booty calls turn into grand arguments, picking up where the relation left off, or ended.

Well that’s my approach to beer.  Imagine if you will, that whenever I drink beer, it is as
if I’m calling the delicious brew for a booty call.  Let’s see how the conversation goes:

Me: “Hey, how’s it going superfly?”

Beer:  “Oh hey. Haha, superfly, that is SO original and clever at the same time.  Sometimes

I wonder why we broke up at all.”

Me: “Yeah, me too! Come on over and I’ll make you forget completely.”

Beer: “Oh Kurgan, you are SO smooth.”

Me: “No, you’re smooth, baby.  Smooth and refreshing.  You intoxicate me.”

Beer:  “…”

Me: “Um…”

Beer:  “Now I remember why I left.  Your puns are out-of-control terrible!”

Me: “No but, I had…”

Beer:  “Forget it, bub.  It’s over for good this time.  Good bye!” (click)

Me: ” .. good .. intentions …..(sob)”

And’s thats basically how it goes every time.  She was lying by the way, it’s never really
over between us.  It’s always “on the table.”

So essentially what happens is that I try to use my super man powers (not to be confused
with Superman powers, claiming to have these is blasphemy) for a good cause, not to screw
beer.  The problem is, I have this wildly keen eye for justice. This eyeball gets me in a
shitload of trouble.

That’d be funny to hear actually.  Some old guy at a bank shooting the shit while you wait
in line.

Oldman:  “Now see this eyeball right here?  THIS motherfucker gets me in a shitload of
trouble!”

All old men curse like sailors.  And we love them for it.  They break the politically
correct barrier with a baseball bat.  Bless their hearts.

Back to the topic at hand:  Why is Kurgan an awful drunk?  Well I’m not.  At a certain
point, however, my manjo gland produces too much power, and I morph into somebody else.
We’ll call him Turbolarry.  Think Dr.Jekyl and Mr.Hyde sort of situation.  Although
Turbolarry and I look pretty much identical, except he’s a real crazy fuck.  Like, Mel
Gibson in Lethal Weapon crazy. 

Now you may be wondering if I have a split personality, or multiple personality disorder. 
Well I most certainly do not.  The change from a well-mannered Kurgan to Turbolarry isn’t
spontaneous.  It takes a gradual amount of time.  Let’s use a bar graph to demonstrate this
phenomenal transition:

Here we can see that after pounding back about 8 or 9 beers I’m hammered as fuck.

So then, what on earth is Turbolarry made up of?  Pure fucking evil if you ask me.  But I
guess a better explanation would be to describe him as: a hyper-emotional, hyper-sensitive
bodyguard for my inner child, who really digs beer.

To explain this process physiologically, beer stimulates my manjo gland, which then produces
greater-than-normal amounts of power.  This power then distributes itself through my body,
gradually making me more and more manly, until the breaking point: 
I cannot physically handle any more power.  This is where Turbolarry steps in.

Now, since I’m a man, I take full responsibility for what I do when I’m drunk.  But I still
feel guilty as hell about it.  It’s like when your dog shits on your friend’s rug.  It’s
really funny, but not so cool at the time.  There could be some tension for awhile revolving
around the dog and if I should bring him over to my bud’s house again.

But then after awhile I can write a funny story about it on the internet.  And that’s what
this webpage is all about.