First of all: Scientist, you dick.
Second: I had a wonderful time in Madison this weekend with the whole gang. It really was a relaxing vacation of frozen ears, coffee-house lounging with Vandover and the Brute, Irish Stew (and more Irish Stew, and yet more Irish Stew), irish whisky, and more (oh so much more)! I made a new friend, which in the end served me better than a punch in the face or a bottle of Miller Lite to the dome. I had a coffee (cobra (really beer)) clutch with many fine nurses of the UW Hospital, and spent my yearly budget at Jazzman and Soulman.
But back to what this post is truly about: the night I met Daniel Hinkel. Perhaps you remember him as Daniel “Fucking” Hinkel. Oh you didn’t know that people actually read this site, whazzmaster? Your ass better call somebody.
You’d assume, much as I did, that if that man ever met me in person I wouldn’t know it was him. I’d just get hit by a car, beer bottle, or road sign and slip into sweet, sweet oblivion without ever knowing it was a work of drive-by “internet retaliation” for calling him a douche on the interweb. Instead, here’s how it went down:
Saturday evening the Gang of Four (myself, Stacy, peterstiffly, and o’neil) took in a delightful long island iced tea at The Red Shed and then ran headlong into the Karaoke Kid. I desperately wanted to tear that place a new asshole, karaoke-wise, and so dropped a ten spot on the Song Man with my first request to get the ball rolling. As usual, I was the bee’s knees, and did many high fives, fives of the ‘to-the-side’ variety, and even a few down-lows. As I returned to our little group at the back, a man that I can only describe as what would happen if Scubby went through a mild cloning accident approached me and said, “You’re Moneypenny?”
“Yes,” I responded.
“From whazzmaster.com?” was the follow-up query.
Now, let me stop right here and right now and state that this is my new most-feared question to be asked in bars. Invariably, I am never told that I’m a hilarious wit destined to be a D-List celebrity on MTV dating programs. Instead, I’m usually backed into a rhetorical corner with a statement (as on this particular night) like, “You called me a ‘fucktard’ on the internet.”
Goddamn it, whazzmaster.
And now you’ve got me writing like a damn college journalist.
So, it turns out that Daniel Hinkel wasn’t so much in the mood to kill me. More in the mood to catch up on all his favorite characters from whazzmaster.
Him: Whatever happened to that guy? That crazy guy with the hair? Did he ever end up with a drunk driving ticket? Doesn’t he live in Minnesota now?Me: No, and yes. That’s the Madd Scientist.
Him: You know, after I had seen what you originally wrote about me that guy sent me an email and all it was was a link to the post. As if I didn’t know how to use google.
I direct you back to the first sentence of this post.
Him: What about that other guy that you worked at the Hojo with? The tall, thin one with hair?Me: *puzzlement*
o’neil: I think he means Kalish.
Him: I think it was… wirkus? Is that it? He’s in San Diego now, right?
Me: Jesus, he knows too much.
o’neil: But wirkus isn’t tall.
As you can see, it is somewhat sobering to realize that anyone really can read the garbage that I type on a every-coupla-days basis. I’ve had many people say to me over the past few months that they read the site but never post any comments because they don’t feel like they’re part of the ‘gang’. I’ll put that one to rest right now: anyone reading this, feel free to post a comment. I’m sure you’ll be heckled the first coupla times, but soon you’ll be spouting theoretical economics like a seasoned vet.
So anyways, back to when dude first announced that he was, in fact, THE Daniel Hinkel. I saw peterstiffly’s eyes get kinda wide and he did a double-take, and o’neil did a spit take of Miller Lite. At least that’s what it was like in my imagination. In reality, I didn’t take in any of the surroundings because I was waiting for the sneak attack with a shank that never came.
Daniel Hinkel was at the bar with his brother, who I believe objected to his brosef being called a fucktard by someone a half-continent away. I tried to sooth his soul by saying he karaoked a George Michael song really well (and in truth, he was That Damn Good, I had to retract my pre-song assesment to peterstiffly). I also whispered to peterstiffly that, should Daniel Hinkel be luring me in only to kick the shit out me later, could he please watch my back?
Later on I got back to the hotel and looked back on what I wrote about dude. Holy shit, I’d want to kill me. After he bought me a beer and praised me as an astute observer of some of the dumb shit he wrote in college, I came around to the idea that Daniel Hinkel is a good egg who likes wrestling and karaoke, and who buys me drinks. I hereby retract my previous charge that he is a “cock-juice drinking troglodyte”. Every man can admit when he’s wrong, and I made a misjudgement of the man (though I still stand by my assertion that YOU DO NOT GO TO VEGAS IF YOU HATE ALL THE THINGS VEGAS CONTAINS). I’m sorry, Daniel Hinkel, please don’t try to gut me with a broken Heineken.
That lady tried to excuse herself past us to leave. In retaliation I grabbed her
and forced her to have her picture taken with not one, but TWO internet celebrities.
–When they play my song in the club (they bang it)/See that thing on the floor? (I’m gonna bang it)/Your girl keep eyeing me (I wanna bang it)/She too damn drunk (I probably won’t bang it)
