I’m the evil sensei; it’s my evil dojo

Most of my friends are in Sunriver this weekend, leaving me plenty of time to fritter away on nothing in particular. (Well, actually, I chose this fate myself: they’re going to be either skiing or playing video games. I don’t ski, and an entire weekend of video games isn’t my idea of a fun time.) I did use about a half-hour of the day to start purging old paper from my desk (one of my few productive acts of the last 24 hours), and three things caught my eye while glancing through that stack of paper.

First: I really took advantage of cheat sheets when they were allowed. Mechanical pencils allowed me to write tiny, clear letters—and I filled up any pages that were given me. Densely. [That actually helped me more that you might cynically think: I seem to learn by writing things down. I lose things almost immediately if I just listen (names are always a struggle); reading is somewhere between the other two, but more towards the listening side than I’d like.]

Second: I got a 94 on my essay about Keats’ Ode to Psyche for an (honors) poetry class. This is notable for a multitude of reasons (and being noted here simply because I’m recycling the paper itself): I actually took a poetry class in college—something those who know me might be surprised to hear—and I actually was halfway competent in it—something those who know me would almost definitely be surprised to hear. That 94 was earned, by the way: the professor had obviously set the bar higher because of the “honors” in the course title (despite the 100-level of the course).

Third, and finally: with friends like mine, I have no need for enemies. Back as high school seniors, Brian wrote a paper on my true, evil, nature. He commemorated that moment by giving me that essay, and I unearthed it today while cleaning.

No, I did not throw it out. I really ought to.

Nowadays I openly sing along to the start [and the start only, mind you] of John Kreese’s theme, The Way of the Fisting—from the musical entitled It’s Karate, Kid. (Think the the title of this entry.) Back then, however, my True Nature was a well-kept secret that Brian blew the lid off of.

Presented below, in its almost-entirety (little edits and such) and completely without Brian’s permission (recall that I am evil), is that historic essay.

Brent: Shy Charmer or Worldwide Menace?

I can go no further. I can no longer stand aside while our thoughts, emotions, and actions are manipulated by a seemingly innocuous boy. Veiled maddeningly beneath the guise of a sweet 17-year old, always acting so pleasant, always festering beneath the skin, lies a true evil, and the name of that evil is Brent.

I am enraged at the playful acts this charming demon puts on. He twists our perceptions to meet his twisted needs; wars and plagues occur that Brent may profit. He turns our best intentions into the very plans of Satan himself, and the unthinking masses blindly follow.

It is a well-known fact that a full 83% of the world’s problems are caused directly or indirectly by Brent. So why do we stand by while he rapes whole countries and spreads his hands of suffering to block out the very sun? How does he maintain his twisted façade?

Those who follow Brent’s twisted ways, his slaves, control his images. They create his sound bites; they control what we see and hear of Brent. We are constantly spoon-fed the mundane, ignorable kindness of Brent, and thus fail to see that he creates our misery for his profit and his purely evil pleasure. His minions know the true damnable mission that Brent has, and instead of rising up against him, use his plan for themselves that they may, too, profit in the destruction he creates.

If we are to stop the monstrous evil that is Brent, we must realize that we have too long been complacent and that we have too long been taken in by Brent’s unmitigated evil. We must rise up against him and crush his reprehensible establishment and overthrow his machine of the devil. We must cast out his soul-selling followers and destroy the unspeakable crime that we foolishly call Brent. Only when Brent has been driven from the land can the world begin to heal.

And I would have gotten away with my profitably evil plan, if it wasn’t for that meddling kid!

 

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