There was a dead man in my bedroom on YoVille today. I should know, because the dead man was me.
(click photo for larger version)
As you can see from the above photo, Ramzoid was noticeably upset at my untimely dispatching. In stark contrast, everyone else seemed preoccupied that I was wearing a bikini. They called me such mean names and falsely characterized me. Don’t you people know not to speak ill of the dead?! Betsy was particularly cruel. That made me sad because I’d never done anything to her while I was dead *or* alive. We’d never met! *sniffle!*
Lola poked me to see if I was still alive. She said I was ugly. Mean Kiva called me a cross-dresser, which isn’t entirely inaccurate I suppose, to the extent that my avatar *is* wearing a bikini, but I really didn’t care for her judgmental, condescending tone. But then Lola spread some lies about me liking other men, which is totally not true. She warned other males in the room to tread carefully, I guess she thinks that gay people can rise from the dead if there’s a hot boi in the room? Teenagers can be so mean and talk a lot of smack without knowing anything about jack shit, or jack shit about anything. Just because someone likes to dress up sexy doesn’t mean he’s gay. Duh! Hello!! Look at George Michael! Look at Elton John! Liberace!
Then this guy Justin comes by. He sees a dead guy in a bikini and I guess he wants to heul, whatever that means. He does look a bit green. Meanwhile, the little ignoramus Bubbles asks everybody if they know what a “dyike” is. Nobody responds. She asks again, “does everybody know what a dyike is? I don’t want to say what it is. Does everybody know?” She continues to bait, “I hope you know what a dyike is because I don’t want to say what it is.” When nobody responds to her baiting, she blurts out that a dyike [sic] is a post-op transsexual, “but I don’t want to say any more,” she says protectively. My ghost wanted to wring her idiot neck.
“Do ‘it’ talk?” Bubbles asked in reference to me. Sweetpea, “IT” wants to slam your head between the covers of an unabridged dictionary. Somewhere near Dyirbal and Dylperl. SLAM! The entire Internet is at your disposal but you can’t look up a word. You should be ashamed! *shaking my head*
Then this Justin character floats a dare to everyone in the room to have sex with me. Can you believe it? A corpse! But *I’m* the sicko because I wear a bikini, right? Sheesh!
Justin wasn’t the only necrophiliac. Trish, too, suggested that she and Vodkababe should rape me. Oh no! What’s a dead guy in a bikini to do? Unfortunately the G-rated YoVille wouldn’t let anything sexy happen. And then to add insult to injury she threatens to drop a deuce in my toilet. Sigh…
Inevitably some oppressor bully hit me in the face with a water balloon. Then some other ape threw a balloon, and another person tossed one, and another. Then an insensitive prick mocked me for wetting the bed and called me a fag tranny. Can you believe such grotesque inhumanity?!
There were a couple of good folks though. Colleen and Josh (below) were very helpful in my transition from earthly departure to the afterlife. My immortal spirit is appreciative to them.
And of course some more necro scamps.
Then some spitting on my face. And shitting on my face.
Kevin outs me as a comedy writer, but performs a nice, solemn memorial service while everybody else is trying to figure out how to steal my money and are conspiring to “rate down” my house, so I quickly forgive him. It was a fairly professional service. Ashes to ashes and all that jazz. He may have a future in the funeral industry. Vicki defends my memory by standing up to the bullies.
And this was me in better times, God rest my gorgeous soul.
[c] 2009 Russ of America
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