Your name is DIRK.
Holy SHIT do you love PUPPETS.
You possess the extreme dexterity to operate your FALSE FRIENDS UNSEEN,
that is, when they are not pre-ambulatory through your LOVINGLY IMBUED
MECHANIZATION. You dig writing COGNITIVE ALGORITHMS FOR SAID APOCRYPHAL
MEN, and you think maybe that's FUCKIN' DOPE. Guess what else is dope?
Everything ELSE YOU DO. You're a sickwicked autodidact on ANCIENT
CIVILIZATIONS, a selfmade MASTER OF MYTHOLOGUE, and a PRETERNATURAL
If you weren't so DAMN ALOOF and actually let people GET A LOAD, you
might get described all kindsa ways. Maybe tagged as a RENAISSANCE
NINJA, PHILOSOPHER PRINCE, and FLASHSTEP PUPPETEER. Or perhaps a
PANTHEONIC IRONICIST, GANGSTA LOGICIAN, LUCID WAKER and DERSITE SPY.
Screw descriptors though, as if the shits you give ain't nil. You're
cool with dabbling in the FINE SEQUENTIAL ARTS, and your work could be
viewed by some as BORDERLINE PORNOGRAPHIC. And to those philistines
you'll be heard wondering, what the fuck do you mean BORDERLINE?
Against the better judgment of one your age, you BUILD ROBOTS, SET THEM
TO KILL MODE, AND SPAR WITH THEM TO DEATH. That is, when you're not
SENDIFICATING THEM TO FRIENDS, or DUELING THEM WITH RAP LYRICS. But you
try to cool it on the deathmatch stuff when your BRO is looking, which
is virtually NEVER. And considering he's had a reputation staked on some
order of MARTIAL NOBILITY, this strikes you as a STAGGERING OVERSIGHT
IN BROTHERLY VIGILANCE. You don't have the HEART to hold it against him,
What will you do?
As told by Hussie.