Magic 8 Ball - Will I Get Laid Tonight?
Just minutes ago, I decided to destroy The Ball. I rejoiced as I caused it to burst into a million shards of cheap plastic. I smiled and laughed out loud as its evil blue liquid spewed across the room. I felt like Stallone in Rocky; things seemed to move in slow-motion as as the 20-sided polyhedron answer piece bounced up and down off the floor.
Because I was really, really pissed-off at the "answers" it had been giving me lately. The Ball was totally fucking with my head.
Today, for example, I asked The Ball one of the most important questions a man can ask: Am I going to get laid tonight? The Ball responded:
"Ask Again Later"
Fine. It's only 10:15 A.M. Plenty of time for me to Ask Again Later.
I wait patiently for an hour. I keep asking myself, "Is it later yet?" No, wait longer. It's not ready yet. The Ball said later. I will wait.
11:30. I can't take it anymore. I shake The Ball, concentrate really hard, close my eyes and look down ...
"Cannot Predict Now."
FUCK! Cannot Predict NOW? When the hell ARE you going to predict? It's 11:31 and I need to know if I'm getting laid tonight! You MUST TELL ME MY FUTURE NOW!
Okay, I tell myself, calm down, Gordon. Think positive thoughts. We like The Ball. The Ball is good. The Ball will be kind to us. We must not anger The Ball. The Ball said it Cannot Predict Now. You must not rush The Ball.
12:45. The Ball and I have been staring at each other for over an hour straight. It sits idly on my desk. Teasing me. Tormenting me. "Come on, Gordon, shake me, just gimme a shake, one little shake..." it pleads. I can't take it anymore. I grab the ball and furiously start shaking. I shake so hard that millions of tiny blue bubbles rise and cling to the surface. I tightly close my eyes, because as we all know, The Ball requires intense concentration and must not be disturbed with any extraneous thoughts ...
"Better Not Tell You Now"
At this point, I really wanted to hurl The Ball out my door. I wanted to side-arm zip that four-inch spherical demon spawn down the hall, beaming some unsuspecting IT geek directly in the head. But I stopped myself. Instead, in one intense and hot-blooded move, I hurled every book, piece of paper, pen and computer peripheral from my desk onto the floor.
Everything but The Ball.
While my office mates are very familiar with my outbursts, this particular outburst was louder than most. I had a couple unfortunate individuals peek their heads in my office, only to quickly withdraw as I took aim with The Ball, my right arm cocked and ready to inflict some serious damage. After a couple minutes, I closed my door, sat down and put The Ball on my desk. It was just The Ball and me now.
I'm pissed. Really pissed. Furious. But wait! I'm not concentrating. I'm not following the rules. We all know The Ball cannot operate properly under such conditions. Deep breath. Concentrate. Concentrate. Shake nicely, smile, be happy. ... okay, now look down.
"Concentrate and Ask Again"
I lost it. Completely. In a fit of rage, I threw, kicked and batted The Ball against my brick wall. I let my animalistic rage loose. The answer piece exploded from the plastic casing, bouncing against the wall and floor. It spun and rolled, finally coming to rest in a puddle of that mysterious blue liquid.
Do I dare look down? What does it say? Will it finally give me an answer? I slowly close my eyes. Sweat drips from my forehead, off my nose. I concentrate. I ask.
WILL I GET LAID TONIGHT?
"Reply Hazy, Try Again"
I hate you.