Do you find me sadistic? I bet I could fry an egg on your head about now, if I wanted to. No kiddo, I'd like to believe, even now, you're aware enough to know there isn't a trace of sadism in my actions... Okay - Maybe towards these other jokers - bot not yours. No, Kiddo. At this moment, this is me at my most masochistic.
- Quentin Tarantino, Kill Bill

Chapter 6: Massacre at Two Pine-Sols
On Sunday night, I spent about an hour fighting a shit demon that'd been nesting in the belly of my toilet bowl for the entire weekend with a unraveled-then-re-raveled-then-unraveled-again coat hanger, a pair of gloves, the Brentmeister General's trusty plunger, and a bottle of Pine-Sol (TM).

The incident in which My Crazed Roommate flushed his brush down the drain, setting this whole icky story into motion has since become legend. For some reason, I've always found his rather simple and straight forward explanation of what happened somewhat dubious.

Why had he urinated and not flushed the toilet immediately after? Is it possible he was peeing with one hand and brushing with the other? He said he was brushing his hair, but upon reflection, he never specified which hairs he was brushing. Was his inability to fish the dropped instrument due to the high urine content of water, or was it clear water but his Seinfeld-level anality couldn't permit him to do the dirty deed? Did he really not think that the brush would be flushed, or was he simply trying to get rid of all evidence of his pubic hair grooming? If not, why not use the plunger to hold the brush at bay? And what of the brush itself? Did it some how clear the treacherous slope of the S-bend and lodge itself deep in the recesses of the Holiday Arms plumbing system, where no coat hanger or closet auger can reach it, or is it still resting in the porcelain throne of the Barrio, like God as described in Garth Ennis' immortal classic, True Faith: a blockage in the pipes of humanity?

There's just no telling, I suppose. Guess I'll just keep shitting at A & S 'til things work themselves out.

Chapter 7: The Lonely Grave of Charles Schulz
I've given it some thought, and I think I should probably be at the Wizard World Chicago Comic Book Convention right now, trying to force an eleven-page Spider-Man Unlimited story or a pitch for ESU or Prowler into the hands of Tom Brevoort. Or I could at least be freaking out Joe Kelly with the same unbridled passion and enthusiasm that's sent so many women screaming for the hills, or I could be asking Paul Jenkins about the odd misogynistic turn we've seen in the last couple of issues of Spectacular Spider-Man. (In issue #15, Peter told Mary Jane that he thinks all women might secretly be supervillains, because they all seem to have the uncanny ability to distort reality, and in the lastest issue, Mary Jane shrewdly henpecks Peter into going to an absurd Star Trek-themed wedding, despite the fact that he's noticeably transforming into a grotesque spider-monster.)

Instead of making ambitious career moves or just generally geeking out, I'm in Columbia, and my great career concern is that they've finally dropped Spider-Man 2 at The Ocho, and I only got around to seeing it seven times instead of the necessary eight to best Jeffries and Titanic.

(Oh well. There's still the Kansas City I-Max.)

I woke up this morning, and once again, I couldn't get the image of Charlie Brown trying to kick a football and falling on his ass out of my head. Eventually, it occurred to me that there are probably more important comic book figures to concern myself with, because after all, at this point the whole strange dynamic between the amazingly idiotic Charlie Brown and the spectacularly beguiling Lucy Van Pelt is a rather moo point -- and no, that's not a typo, I really mean it's a moo point, not moot.

It just doesn't matter. It's like a cow's opinion. It's moo.

I mean, come on. Chuck Schulz is dead after all.

Chapter 8: The Cruel Tutelage of Pikachu
I've fought a few more legion of yellow bastard pokemon since last we spoke on the subject of Smash Brothers Melee, and I haven't done any better.

How could I? It's three against one. One man against 99 rats. I don't think My Beloved Tin-Tin himself could beat them. It's a lost cause. But I'll keep fighting them until My Crazed Roommate rips the Game Cube out the wall and goes back to the dorm.

Is there some lesson to be learned from fighting the fights you know you can't win? I'd like to think there is. Because I've finally learned how to use the Green Missile move to save myself when I've been thrown too far away.

That's got to count for something, right?

Chapter 9: Erin and I
I'm done doing what I swore an oath to Stan Lee 28 months ago to never do again. I've had one of those "seemingly life-altering conversations that in fact changed absolutely nothing." And I wonder (and I paraphrase Brian Michael Bendis when I ask) how many times am I supposed to have this talk before something actually changes? How many times do I have to do this for it to have meaning?

How many times?

(It's okay. I can ask that. No one reads blogs anymore.)

Some would describe this type of thing as "suicide by tiny increments," but I'm sorry to say I've always been a bigger Grosse Point Blank fan than High Fidelity.

I've heard love described as a circle -- a loop with no beginning and no end that goes around and around with its own ups and downs. Are they talking about wedding bands or viscious cycles? Is it just cynical to think there's little difference 'tween the two, or is this thought actually my own twisted kind of optimism showing through? Or are they someone else's words typed by my hands?

Christ. I can't even tell anymore. And I still haven't really said anything.

Last Chapter: Face to Face
I rented Kill Bill Vol. Two during one of those second weekends I'll take in the middle of the week sometimes. It was the first time I'd seen it since, well, the first time I'd seen it, and the repeat viewing only confirmed for me -- again --that Volume Two's the better film.

I'll be honest with you. As much as I love the Pai Mei scenes and watching the Bride bust herself out of that coffin and the catfight to end all catfights with Elle Driver, what sky-rockets this flick into the highest reaches of my esteem are those nine little words Bill says in that pivotal scene before this tale of bloody revenge reaches its climax:

As you know, I'm quite keen on comic books...

And the fact that he shows what borders on a disdain for Peter Parker in his preference toward Superman is just about damn perfect.

So much so that every time I watch it, I start to think that all this stuff about the pen being mightier than the sword is just bupkis and I wonder how strange it is that I almost wish someone loved me enough to kill me.

...

I gotta tell you, that ended up sounding a lot nuttier than I intended.

The swan has been reunited with her ugly duckling, but all is not right on the pond.