When Disaster Strikes. Baby.

To my dearest girlfriend Heidi-Ingrid:

Let me say first of all that the past two months have been, simply put, amazing. No – magical. I can honestly say that I have never felt quite this way about a model/actress before, and I’ve only once felt this way about an actress/model (please don’t be jealous, my sweet; the two of you are just so different that comparing the two of you would be like comparing apples and oranges, or comparing apples and the sneaking suspicion, twenty feet down on a scuba dive, that your watch is not in fact waterproof).

But for any relationship to work, my darling Heidi-Ingrid, there must be an unbreakable foundation of trust; unbreakable just like Bruce Willis in that movie, Unbreakable. But not with his crippling weakness to water (now that I think about it, how did Bruce Willis drink water in that movie? I mean, I don’t remember the character explicitly drinking water, but he’d have to sooner or later, right? Think about it).

Unfortunately, before you question Bruce’s relationship to H2O as set down by M. Night Shyamalan, I have some other information for you to ponder over. Information that it is very hard for me to share with you. Because it may, feasibly, make me out to be somewhat of a ‘liar’. But I can honestly assure you that I only ‘lied’ to you over the course of ‘months’ in order to get ‘sex’.

The truth is, Heidi-Ingrid, that there are things about me that you should, nay, must know. Terrible, shocking things. And I’m not talking about the conversation that we had recently where you wondered aloud if I, while engaging in intimacy in the bedroom, sometimes imagine myself to be Will Smith. Although your suspicions on that front, I must admit, are not without some substance. My constant bellowing of the phrase ‘Aw hell no! I’m Will Smith!’ may have, I feel, been what gave the game away.
The real truth of the matter is that perhaps I’m not quite the laughing devil-may-care swashbuckler that I may have made myself out to be when we first met, and then continued to do throughout the subsequent days, weeks and month. The fact is that when disaster strikes, baby, I can’t actually always be counted on. And believe me, disaster is always out there, lurking and waiting, just like some kind of monster that both lurks and waits.

I must confess that I never really rescued that defenseless peasant village from a vicious gang of gun-slinging phantoms. Neither did I once fly out over the sea in a giant kite made from the curtains of the galley of my luxury yacht and rescue those orphaned children that had fallen overboard from a helicopter. And I most certainly didn’t surf down a crater into a volcano to catch a bunny that had fallen into it – once again, from a helicopter. I was actually lying when I said that I had done those things. You see, these situations would have all come under the classification of ‘disaster.’ And in future, should (more likely ‘when’) disasters occur, it’s really probably not me that you should be looking to for help.

Should the disaster take the form of a gang of leather-wearing motorcycle toughs (even the thought of going to a Black Rebel Motorcycle Club gig makes me pretty nervous, although I am fairly certain that, like spiders, the BRMC are more scared of people than people are of them), you’ll be the one that has to shoulder the burden of getting us home alive and unharmed, baby. When confronted with the bikers I will most likely make some unfunny, self-deprecating jokes in the hope that the gang will dismiss me as any kind of threat to their dominance and move on to hassle someone else.

It’s a fair assumption that you will be the only one out of the two of us who will actually become angry and confrontational. I will be too scared, and will chuckle nervously at the bikers’s insults towards my masculinity while shifting my weight from foot to foot. Later, when we are safe in my tastefully decorated apartment, I will attempt to laugh the whole thing off while fantasizing about protecting us – most of these fantasies will revolve around some kind of magical super-power, or whatever movie is on television featuring somebody tough. In any given week, I may well be imagining that I am the Predator, the Terminator, and the entire starting line-up of the Mighty Ducks, all in one. Maybe I’ll go to the gym for a week or two after the encounter, or enroll in some karate classes. But this will only be temporary, although my habit of watching myself throw down some karate chops in the mirror will continue for some months.
If we are faced with a natural disaster (fire, locusts, the Sandman) then, once again, you will find that I will be less than useless. I estimate that my resourcefulness in the face of Mother Nature’s anger will run out in approximately five minutes, less so if I have been taking a bath or am in the shower at the time the disaster strikes.

Therefore it is you, baby, that will have to go out and forage through the wreckage for food and medical supplies, and also to make sure that my beloved turtle is alive and well. In the event of an earthquake, please set your feet as firmly as possible on the ground so that I can wrap my arms around your legs and use you as a support girder. Should you have to fend off looters in the wastelands of suburbia then you can count on me being at home, waiting for you to bring me some medicine and those chocolate pop-tarts that I like. You know, the ones without the marshmallow bits.
The disaster I fear the most, of course, is that ever-hungry gorgon with dollar signs in its eyes (NOT Sandra Bullock), the financial disaster. Should the bottom ever drop out of the bush-league, pop-culture-obsessed Internet humour market, then we’re in a great deal of trouble. Or, to be more exact, you’re in a great deal of trouble. I think it’s safe to say that we’ve already established that you are the number one candidate for the position of ‘bulwark against the black waters of ruin’ here.

We both know that you’ve been squirreling away provisions for a rainy day, or a trip to Venice. Well, let’s not get our hopes up about riding gondoliers just yet, shall we? That would probably be the best approach for the long run. Especially if I don’t get this gambling addiction cleared up soon. Who would have thought that placing exorbitant sums of money on wagering which celebrity would next appear in a Limp Bizkit video would prove to be so damn exciting? Between you and me, I still can’t believe Paxton fucked me like that. I thought more of him. I really was convinced that I was onto a sure thing.

It’s OK though; don’t worry about a thing on that front- Halle Berry is a lock. A fucking lock. She’s an Academy Award winner – there’s no way she’ll ever sell out to Durst. I’m sure to make all my money back and more. And then maybe I’ll take those karate classes and buy that new mirror that I’ve been talking about.

Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I don’t want to help. It’s just that I believe that we would both be better served by you putting yourself, as it were, behind the 8-ball. In certain situations. Certain situations involving some kind of danger, whether physical, psychological or financial danger, to my person. And perhaps the phrase ‘behind the 8-ball’ should be ‘between me and the bicycle-chain-wielding motorcycle tough.’

On the plus side, if the disaster should take the form of something along the lines of zombies, werewolves, mummies or vampires, you had better believe that I am your go-to guy. The time that I could have spent familiarizing myself with what to do in the event of an emergency I spent watching monster movie marathons on late night television. While this has severely detracted from my ability to deal with real disasters or to wash clothes, should supernatural enemies rise up in the depths of the night then you can thank your lucky stars that you’re dating a guy who can quote most of Evil Dead 3: Army Of Darkness, especially the scenes with Bruce Campbell. I know exactly where to lace garlic, how to cover ground quietly in the case of either a zombie OR a robot attack, and how to dispatch a here-to-fore beloved girlfriend who has been captured and converted to the forces of darkness. Interestingly, the same technique will also work if you become a member of the Nazi party.

Also, as a final note, if we’re ever trapped at sea and beset by sharks, I sure hope that you know how to use a harpoon.

When Disaster Strikes. Baby.


Joined December 2007

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