Tag Archives: Jason Bourne

Let me hold your crown, babe.

How am I special needs? Let me count the ways. I’ve listened to the same song for weeks now. We’re talkin’, hour after hour. Day after day. Week after Lindsay Lohan week.

And in seemingly unrelated news (to be said in the dulcet tones of a newsreader whose balls have most definitely dropped) … when I was a kid, I ate Muesli Flakes every day for months; until my Pop, like a cowboy galloping furiously to get ahead of this crazy train, bought twenty boxes to stock up for a special needs winter. I stopped the next day.

His defeat was more palpable than Pope Benedict on rye.

In joining these compulsively-aligned dots, it’s my weak (probably oughta strive for convoluted) theory that I’m mildly autistic. Not in a ‘star with Bruce Willis in a shite movie of Mercury Rising proportions’ way … but in a ‘if you smack your gums once more, I’ll hang you by a wedgie so atomic, it’ll set off ground alerts in Hiroshima’ kinda way.

I often find myself on sensory overload (making Cult Boy – with his slurps, hums, taps, smiles that assault my eyes like a novelty apron with inbuilt airbags – the gift that keeps on giving).

Cut to: listening to King of Anything so many times, my neighbours are now rocking back and forth in an extended foetal, sobbing uncontrollably, their ears bleeding at being assaulted by a song they once cherished like their first puppy (aka Robert Reed) (ergo Mike Brady).

I’m not without Repeaters Guilt (sometimes I’ll crowbar another track in), but I also can’t bear to turn it down. I dance, I sway, I clench my buttocks in an ecstasy not seen since We Are The World. (Except on this occasion, I’m the charity case.) I now understand that which my little brother always knew, as he’d grab his 20-cent cheeks to fuel an adolescent rage – one’s buttocks are the source of all ground swell (metaphorically speak-ing).

So! In addition to forming a girl-crush on Sara Bareilles for most enchanting of lyricals, it was on this autistic path that I found a pebble of thought; and here I pick it up and turn it over.

It’s possible that in listening to this glorious tune 10,001 times, I may be brainwashing myself. As in, behavioural modification, motherfuckers. We’re talkin’, Jason Bourne programmed to become a snub-nosed spy of “Red bag. Red bag. Stop right there!” magnitude.

Could my Bareilles bromance lead me down Assassin Avenue in the township of Treadstone, wherein David Webb resides as Mayor? After spending time longer than legs of Geena Davis harking this puppy, I gotta ask – what’s it doin’ to my cranium mush, yo?

Will I live in fear of equine, afraid someone’ll expect me to jump up on board with them, to ride off into their delusional sunset? Will I randomly karate chop those I suspect of making maps with my name on them (in all caps)? I mean. Fuck, man.

I could be programmed to kill the Mattress King or Sofa King. The kings of anything.

Hitman versus ninja … game ON.

Working in an office is akin to being a hitman – never sit with your back to the door, always be aware of impending threats and never lose your cool. Consider me at the top of my game. I’m livin’ by the rules and stayin’ alive (à la John Travolta). I’ve worked in many an office (yeah, I’m bitter) and among the many perils rife in The Game is that of remaining unseen by a hunter. With my computer screen often visible to advancing threats, my ears are thus so finely tuned, I can detect an unlawful approach at 15 metres.

“Bogey at two o’clock! Abort! Abort!”

You could be watching You Tube, checkin’ out Lindsay Lohan’s latest mug shot or worse, plotting your defection and peepin’ at jobs online. Whatever the infraction, a hitman’s reflexes must be lightning fast. Anything less will get you killed. I can launch paperclips like poison darts, type 100wpm and reduce my screen in a split, should I whiff danger on the wind.

Don’t kid yourself, it aint enough to be fast. Maintain your cover. You don’t see Jason Bourne screaming like a girl and assuming the foetal whenever he’s cornered.

Remain calm. Act natural. You just might get out alive.

But, comes a time, a hitman aint knocking ’em off as fast as he once did. Young bucks are comin’ up quick, prepped with superior skills and kills. Cut to today.

I’m in the bathroom at work (standing at the mirror, it’s important to note) and … I hear the air move. It could have been a fly, I tell you. I turn … and find an Indian woman beside me, a little too close to first base for my liking. What the? Where in heckfire did she come from? She’d slid up beside me like a motherlovin’ ninja. Ever the artful hitman, my double take was concealed, but my instinct was to reach for my metaphorical magnum.

How is it the running of a comb through my hair sounds like I’m dragging a dead body down a side-alley, but motherlovin’ Ninja exists within the Cone of Silence? I see you movin’ but … I stop draggin my corpse to listen … ? Nothin but eery silence.

I aint gonna lie, the locale didn’t help the creepy. I clock at least 10 toilet stalls ripe for body disposal, with not a pisser in sight. I’m made.

“I see your hitman, and I raise you a ninja.”

Ever heard the term, silent but deadly? It don’t only refer to the cutting of cheese, my friend. A ninja can do all a hitman can do, except they’re like, way cooler. They live between the shadows, carry a Samurai and have a proclivity for black.

Re-spect, yo.

Could it be, my protagonist had arrived? Yes… yes, it could.

Game on.

go to … Hitman versus Ninja: Round One


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