How to Get Your Ass Kicked

There is a lot of advice out there about how to break up with somebody. I didn't realize there was a good way. I can't imagine dumping your significant other (or even worse, getting dumped) and thinking, "That sure was enjoyable! It's a good thing I didn't spoil the occasion by using email."

"How to break up with someone" is like instructions on how to get your ass kicked. Which, now that I think about it, might be more useful. So without further fanfare, I present to you:

Chris's Guide to Getting Your Ass Totally Kicked

In today's society where bullies rule and the rest cower in soulless despair, we sometimes have to cope with the challenges of getting the crap kicked out of us. If this happens to you, first try to muster the strength to fight back, but if you had sufficient willpower and martial skills you wouldn't be in the position in the first place. Quickly accept that you are way out of your league, take your lumps, and hope for no permanent damage.

Don't procrastinate. You will be living in extreme anxiety until it's all over. Find the most convenient time and place and take your medicine. Also, make sure you have no first dates or job interviews for the next several weeks. (Depending on the job or the date. Some may find a slightly tenderized candidate more appealing.)

Try to take the first shot in the face. This functions like anesthetic. The rest of the pummeling will be experienced in a dreamlike haze. Fetal position is a classic defensive posture that I recommend. It protects your nose, teeth and vital organs. You may lose a kidney to a steel-toed boot, but that's why you were built with a spare.

Once the alpha male's fists get tired and he wanders off to his next scene of carnage, get home. (You may want to arrange a ride with a friend ahead of time. It is polite to suggest he cover his passenger seat with plastic.) Clean yourself up and let the healing begin. Straight whiskey is a traditional post-ass-kicking beverage though beer is also acceptable. Protect what little manhood you have left by avoiding the girly drinks.

Now get out in public. You will be the center of attention for the next few days while you repeatedly share the tale of how you got that awesome shiner.

I Went to the Gym this Weekend

It may be difficult to see my bulging muscles, due to them being covered with several layers of winter blubber, but I assure you they exist and are awesome! I am like an Adonis wrapped in bacon.

I love the naive exuberance of a new gym membership - the endorphins released by body parts that have not felt oxygen in years - the belief that that this time I'll stick with it - my dream of landing a movie role as the sexy-but-shallow love interest opposite Scarlett Johansson. I am going to try to ride this wave of obliviousness as long as I can.

This pleasure is in addition to the ongoing show of sexy women huffing it on the treadmills in shorts and skin-tight T-shirts - "eye-candy" it is sometimes called. They get to check me out too, but that is more like "eye-pork-rinds". I like to believe they are thinking, "If he keeps working out, he might be good looking someday". I know that is what I think when I stand in front of the mirror and suck in my gut.

I got a free fitness assessment when I signed up. It included having to lift up my shirt in the middle of the gym to have my torso fat measured with calipers. That was motivating. Especially knowing that if I bust my ass for a few months I can get reassessed and lift up my shirt again. Then all heads will turn. Maybe even towards me this time.

To inject some levity into the gym orientation and fat assessment, I cracked a few jokes to the personal trainer unfortunate enough to be helping me. Instead of laughing, she'd stare at me blankly like I had spoken in Esperanto. My idea of humor is to think of the best thing to say and then say the exact opposite, so I understand when some people don't find it terribly amusing. When my act is bombing, I only have one solution: crank the silliness up a couple notches! I still never got her to laugh or even smile a little.

A week later I took my teenage sons in for gym orientation and the same trainer helped them. They told me later that she talked a lot about me and how funny I was. I guess she had been laughing on the inside. It's good know that that even though I am not in as good shape as I used to be, I still have my winning personality.

googleMate: The Dating Service of Tomorrow

Please hold. Your call is important to us. You will be connected shortly to one of our friendly googleMate customer representatives.

I love modern technology. The flying cars. The instant food dispensers. But I mostly love googleMate - built by personality researchers and brain scientists to find the best chick for you (or dude, if you are into that sort of thing.) It's so weird to think my parents met because they lived on the same block! No wonder they're miserable. (And refuse to get divorced, the stubborn old fools.) Seriously, what are the odds of finding your soul mate right next door? Millions to one I bet. There is no way those old farts could ever be scientifically compatible.

Thank you for holding. A googleMate customer representative will be with you shortly.

googleMate works. I've seen it first hand. When my second wife and I looked at each other yesterday though a haze of indifference and collectively said "meh", it was a modern miracle. We split up before the day was over. How the googleMate computers could predict we'd fall out of love simultaneously, I don't know. I can't explain how it works. I have just seen the amazing results in my own life.

We apologize for the long wait, as we are currently experiencing a high call volume. Please continue to hold.

The timing was not as good with my first wife. I was still into her when she started using the service again. I am not mad at the g-Mate though, because it hooked me up with so many hot rebound chicks that I screwed away my sorrows and soon found the woman who would become my second temporary true love. It all worked out in the end.

Thank you for holding. How may I help you today?

"Yeah, um, I think your service is broken. I put all my information in, and it didn't give me any results."

Let's check your account . . . I'm sorry but your results are correct. There are currently no women matching your search.

"What the hell are you talking about? The last time I had scads of babes to choose from!"

I'm sorry sir, but that was several years ago. Our records indicate that you've gained a significant amount of weight since then and your income level has not kept up with your age bracket. In addition, you have developed a tendency to be unreasonable grouchy. Perhaps you should change your match criteria to more closely resemble your age range?

"What are you saying? Lower my standards? No way! I gotta have a sexy woman! This is bullshit. "

I'm afraid I can't help you and I am ending this phone call.

"No, wait! What if I made my max chick weight 2 pounds more? Do I get anything then? Hello? Hello?"

Breaching Reality

"And what does Greg think?" The eyes of Math 418 - Advanced Concepts in Abstract Patterns - followed Professor Phillips to their star pupil. Greg looked up to give the chalkboard his full attention.

"I think the second half of your proof is unnecessary. You are trying to correct for what could easily be demonstrated in a more elegant way. I would try using recursive summation." The class muttered to themselves as the professors' eyes narrowed. None of them were surprised by his flippant answer. Greg had gained the reputation as a savant with problems such as these. Being a Freshman in a senior-level class added to his notoriety.

"Do you think so? Then maybe you should flesh out that proof yourself? The rest of you, please complete the normal homework set for Thursday. Class dismissed. Mr. Singh, please stay for a minute."

A year ago, Greg's plan for after high school was working at his parents' store. This was before he took an obscure math aptitude test as an excuse to skip class. His score must have been something special because Dr. Phillips had flown all the way from New England to speak with him. The professor explained to his parents that Greg had some special qualities that their math department was seeking. Yes, it was true that he was no model student, but they would make special provisions for him as well as a full scholarship to a prestigious University. His parents' enthusiasm gave him little choice, so he apathetically moved to Massachusetts and enrolled in Miskatonic's mathematics program.

College was not much of a struggle. He could see problems in ways the other students (and professors) couldn't. Mathematical logic made an innate sense to him, and he enjoyed the awe of his peers when he showed up the teachers.

Dr. Phillips loomed over the desk. "Greg, clearly you are ready for more challenging work. I have a special problem for you. One that no student or faculty member as been able to solve yet."

This piqued Greg's interest. Maybe if he solved this, they would give him his degree early and he could quit these silly classes. Dr. Phillips showed him a half page of mathematical notation: a stew of operators and Greek letters.

"Ha ha! Are you kidding me?" Greg could not believe the ridiculous problem handed to him. "This is all nonsense. It's a simple divide-by-zero mistake."

"Is that a problem for you?" Dr. Phillips raised an eyebrow.

"Of course it is. Everyone knows you can't divide by zero. It poisons the whole equation."

"Ah, I see Greg. Because some stodgy old secondary teacher told you you can't divide by zero, then you can't. I am surprised at you. I have never known you be this complacent."

Dr. Phillips had pushed the right buttons. "Well, um, I don't know. I suppose it's not that different than working with infinities."

"That's that Greg I know! Think about this for a while. If you come up with anything . . . interesting, please call me right away." He turned the page over to show a hand-written phone number.

It took many restless hours for Greg to succumb to sleep that night. He could close his eyes but could not stop focusing on the equation stuck in his mind, as if it had been tattooed on the inside of his skull. When he finally drifted off, it was in a swirl of symbols arranging themselves into a frame for a missing puzzle piece.

3:23AM - Something in his brain shifted sideways and snapped. He awoke violently, gasping for air. He fell out of bed, fumbling his pants pocket for his phone.

"Dr. Phillips? Something happened. Something is wrong."

"Can you meet me outside in 20 minutes?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Good. Try not to think about it. Hold on until I get there. I can help."

When the sedan rolled to a stop outside the dormitory, Dr. Phillips was not alone. Greg vaguely recognized the two men in back. One he was pretty sure was another math professor. The other he had seen around, but had always assumed was homeless. Was he the same crazy guy preaching doomsday around campus?

Dr. Phillips leaned over and unlatched the passenger door. "Get in. We need to get you somewhere safe."

Greg wondered what he needed protecting from but decided it didn't matter. He needed help. There was a pin prick in his mind around which all of his perception was being twisted. White flashes of pain alternated with waves of nausea.

"Hang in there Greg. Try not to think about it. We'll be at my place soon and we can help you."

The apartment was not what he expected, though he wasn't sure what to expect in a math professor's apartment. Certainly not this. In the middle of the room there was an office chair, a nice one. Around that three simple wooden chairs were evenly spaced, facing each other and touching the outermost of several concentric circles on the floor. Was it just the pattern of the carpeting or were those lines deliberate? Greg was instructed to sit in the middle chair and his arms were strapped in. "For your protection." smiled Dr. Phillips.

The three men sat in the surrounding chairs and Dr. Phillips began to speak. "Greg, I want you to listen to me carefully. Do exactly as I say and everything will be fine. We believe that you may have created a mental singularity."

That made a twisted sort of sense to Greg. The pinhole in his mind was shining brightly now. To focus on it burned like staring into the sun. But there was something there. Something behind it. Something forbidden. The more he concentrated on it, the more it wrung his mind, tearing his thoughts, but hadn't destroyed him. How close could he get without getting burned? Moving closer, the pain changed into an almost euphoric sensation. Even closer, and he could begin to see the other side.

"Greg, I want you to look into the point, but from a safe distance. I need to ask you a few questions. Can you describe what you see? Please, we need to know. This is the only way to help you. Greg? Greg! Stop!"

The homeless man rose from his chair and entered the circle. He snapped his fingers an inch in front of Greg's eyes with no reaction. "He's gone. He must have walked right into it. Reckless."

Dr. Phillips stood and kicked his chair over. "Shit! We almost had it!"

The homeless man peered up at the professor through his matted hair. "Settle down Howie. You'll need to get rid of the body yourself this time."

"I fucking know that. Shut up."

Finally the quiet professor nervously spoke. "People will be suspicious. The police will want to investigate! That's two students in as many years!"

"Bullshit. He was a weird loner. Nobody will be surprised when he shows up in the river." That thought calmed Dr. Phillips so he could think more rationally. "This was not a total failure. We learned. I learned. We need to be more clear with the instructions to stay away from the rift, do it earlier in the process. That's all. This will work. The next time, we'll get our data."

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Skinner's Cubicle

The bed swung away from the wall in an attempt to mercilessly dump its occupant to the floor. Alex's subconscious had been trained by the morning ejections of the last few weeks. He snapped at the last second, landing like a cat. In approximately 1 minute and 20 seconds, he knew the shower would begin spraying water for a steamy, luxurious 7 minutes and 45 seconds. Exactly 15 minutes after the shower goes dry, the front wall of his efficiency apartment will roll up to expose the waiting transport. He knew to be clothed and ready before then to avoid the embarrassment and unpredictable harshness of March weather.

The Corporation classified Alex Nicholson an H9 with certifications in software maintenance and creative writing. The creative writing cert was for his own amusement and meant zero for job assignments, but it made him feel like he had a speck of independence. He imagined They tolerated artsy training only to placate the level 9s. A few intellectual pursuits in the curriculum were the minimum They would go to keep the competent minority sane. The Corporation was heavily reliant on technology so highly intelligent workers were treated as a necessary evil.

This was not why he was stuck in H level housing, though he wondered if the writing cert was a small part of the reason. It was not why he had a miserable half job either. He assumed that many of The Corp's leaders had top intelligence scores, but were B quality behavior at least. He was too rebellious and afflicted with seasonal mood swings so never achieved better than an E on any of his annual behavioral evaluations, plus he had a habit of asking his superiors too many questions. He found no boss liked to be strongly questioned, especially by an inferior with a several point advantage in intelligence. It only took a year out of training to be demoted to an H which proscribed his current living quarters. He felt lucky to still have his job. Any H lower than 7 would be stuck with prison labor: mining, loading and hauling. He hoped if his current job went well he could get reclassified to a G next year and return to an apartment with a simple alarm clock.

As the haze of sleep finally began to fall away, he was relieved to see that the habitual areas of his brain managed to perform his basic hygiene routine and get his ass on the transport during his morning stupor. As his eyes began to focus, he could feel the transport slowing just before the door opened at his stop. He again silently thanked the basal part of his brain for being so responsible. Elevator to basement level. Sit in the stall. Log into the system. He was disappointed that he attained full consciousness so soon. His auto-pilot could have easily handled it all up to now.

The first debug project was waiting for him in the queue. Finally some real brain work. He had a theory that most of these tasks were fake. They had a lot of software sociopaths to keep busy and it would be logically impossible to always supply everyone with a steady stream of exactly enough work to go around. He stared at the first task which exhibited all the qualities of an excuse to keep him from falling asleep at work. He imagined D9s in some other cubicle whose only job it was to screw up good code to keep the H9s busy and out of trouble. He had seen a near exact copy of this mangled subroutine several days before so he quickly fixed the deliberate mistakes and pulled up the next task. Jackpot! This was a real cluster of crap. Corporate policy was to hire As and Bs no matter what their intelligence rating, believing their dedication and work ethic could overcome a total lack of ability. What a joke. The sap who wrote this was probably right out of Corporate brainwashing and completely lost. Not much choice than to write the entire thing over from scratch and send it back for its author to take the credit. This is where the mindless sycophants got their abilities: through an electronic nipple of a outcast.

Being immersed in that project made the morning fly by. He had nearly finished the rewrite when the break timer popped on the screen. He had 60 minutes to do whatever he wanted provided he stayed where he was and did no work. He decided to check the H9 message boards. He had posted his ideas about most of his work being unnecessary and fabricated and was curious what the other malcontents thought. Interesting. Not one comment or reply. That is strange. Usually somebody would at least flame him with random profanity. Unless. His head went numb and the pit of his stomach collapsed. "No, this is not that big of a deal. So what if my work is fake?" he knew that the H9 rooms were heavily monitored. Rebellious plus intelligent meant political subversive. Maybe he had crossed the line with that post. Hopefully nobody had noticed. Prophetically the entrance tone to his door rang and several men walked in.

"Good afternoon. Can we talk?" That was his boss, an extremely humor impaired B6. The other men he did not recognize, probably higher-ups or security reps. "How are your tasks going?"

"Pretty good. I am working on a major screwed-up piece right now, but it should work great once I am done with it." He was cursing himself internally halfway through the sentence. His smart-ass mouth was mostly to blame for his H ranking. He wondered why he could not just shut up.

"Yes." His boss drawled patronizingly. "Do you think it's real?"

Shit, shit, shit his head was swimming now. They read his post and it got somebody's attention. He figured it was time to back-peddle and hope.

"No, no, not this one." He wondered if his face appeared to wince as much as it felt.

"Oh, so which ones do you think are made up?"

"Well, it's not like I mind. The fake ones keep me sharp. They are a lot better than doing nothing." He wondered what happened to his plan of back-peddling. What he was saying was clearly not helping his situation.

Finally one of the Corporate thugs broke his mock tough arm-folded silence. "The Corporation does not have fake work. It is all important for all of our good. It is bad enough that you believe this crazy conspiracy theory, but trying to convince other employees that their work is meaningless is inexcusable. Do you know how many people have been complaining about you insulting their jobs? I am sorry, but for the good of the workers you are being reassigned."

They don't often reclassify before the annual review, but he knew he was now officially an I9. He wondered how bad digging ditches really was. The weather was getting nicer so maybe an outdoor job would be a nice change. Time to join the chain gang.