I’m a frequenter of the gas station by my house, mostly because it’s seriously a couple of blocks away, tops. It has the same kind of essence to it as the diner at the end of Spaceballs and it’s convenient for quick-notice beer, fountain soda, and crusty early morning coffee trips.
Anyway, there’s this guy that works there; big, obese dude with a soprano voice [drawing provided for reference]. He always seems kind of grumbly and upset with himself for being who he is. With that said, I shouldn’t have been surprised at all last night when I outed his true burning otaku nature.
My first mistake was wearing a Kikaida shirt, the Super7 T with the Ishinomori-style comic art on it. The place was empty, so it was safe for him to molt his shell like Hino’s Bug Boy. Next thing I know, I’m hearing about how he doesn’t have cable, but he can take his VCR to his mom’s on Saturdays to record Adult Swim anime until the tape spools out.
There’s a point to this story; an exclamation point, if you will. After lamenting the long wait between new episodes of Inu-Yasha, he looked at me and shook his head.
“Haven’t you figured out who I am yet?”
Then his eyes unexpectedly turned a bright amber hue and his nose flared like an angry savage. He grabbed me by my collar and shook me violently, screaming, “I’m YOU! I’M YOU!” It was like a bad issue of Slamm Dunk but exclusively with white people.
subhumanzoids 