For those of you with a Generation X attention span, or worse yet Generation I, the ovipositor comment is a reference to a previous comic. In the future we're going to try to keep our references and allusions current to within the last week, but there also won't be any more hand-holding. We're trying to assemble a fanbase here, not a bunch of fucking crybabies.
When I was growing up on the mean streets of East Vancouver and on alternate weekends the docks and muddy wagon trails of North Vancouver, I spent a lot of time sitting. If I'd known the cruel joke fate, and more specifically Gordon, had in store for me I would've spent every waking moment running and frolicking on my fully functional legs.
But, like all kids my age, I was too stupid to see what was right in front of my face. Even if the thing in front of my face was the barely legible scrawl of an escaped mental patient spelling "Im gonna brake yer spine Deacon" in five-foot-high capital letters on my dad's garage door.
Back then I used to race go-kartsóor on alternate weekends dog sledsówith the neighbourhood cops as I smuggled drugs and cream soda across the US border. The dog sled didn't go very fast in the mud of North Vancouver, especially uphill, but fortunately the county sheriff was an 80-year-old deaf mute with a game leg and a weakness for cream soda.
Back then I'd never used a computer or even heard of the internet (actually, no one had because it was still a military secret) and I thought Garfield was a pretty darn funny comic. Like I said, kids are stupid.
As further proof of this stupidity, I didn't stash away any of the thousands of dollars I made selling contraband, instead blowing huge sums on rare comic books, hockey cards and Atari 7800 games. Back then there was no eBay so if you needed a specific card you had to find someone who had it and either trade or purchase it. Or if you're an undersized yet athletic boy trying to break into the local syndicate, you can break into their bedroom and steal it while they sleep, totally unaware, mere feet away. But then you can't show it off, and that's kind of the whole point.
Too soon, though, those carefree days were over. The sudden, though brief, availability of authentic A&W Vanilla Cream Soda in the early '90s cut my smuggling profit in half, and my subsequent paralysis put the proverbial window-cleaner-tipped crossbow bolt in the coffin of my criminal aspirations.
Like all things in life, there's always an extra twist in the path, and Gordon and I end up being best friends after he went back on his meds and felt bad about almost killing me. Or at least as good of friends as two people can be when there are old, festering wounds involved.
I still haven't gone back to North Vancouver since that fateful, foggy day in August. I hear they have a gas station and a traffic light now. I'd rather remember it as it was then, with schools of moss-covered beavers swimming along the roads and me able to run along beside them. Or at least think about going running outside while I sat on the couch playing Centipede. God, I was a stupid kid.