I Am Still Trying To Kick Your Ass

jeopardy

OK, Little Man, so you’re a millionaire now (though, in fairness to real millioaires, who earned their money in more dignified ways, just barely). And do you know what happens to millionaires, besides the aforementioned ass-kickings? People kidnap their babies for ransom–you can look it up: the Lindbergh baby, the one in Raising Arizona. It happens. I’m definitely not in the kidnapping game, so don’t worry about me taking your baby, if you even have one. I’m just warning you because the ass-kicking, should it finally occur, should happen in front of your baby for maximum nerd humiliation. Your streak continues, and my lust for nerd-beating grows in a directly proportional ratio. With every question answered and each Audio Daily Double successfully played, my rage grows.

Expect it.

Resign yourself.

Stock up on iodine and Ace bandages, Stephen Hawking. And please, no authorities. Just me, you, an ass-kicking, and the wreckage of your motorized wheelchair.

I Still Haven’t Forgotten About Kicking Your Ass

OK, Mr. Genius Mormon Gameshow Man, I bet you think I’ve forgotten about you. You may think I’m stupid, but I understand how television works, and I know that you’re on a six-week hiatus from breaking any more Jeopardy! records. That’s it, isn’t it? You think I’m sort of nerd-pounding troglodyte who believes that you’re just a tiny little man standing behind a tiny little podium and living inside my television, protected from imminent ass-kicking by some glass and a cathode ray tube (CRT). Even if that were true, I wouldn’t go smashing my TV just to satisfy my urge to kick your smug, Trebek-baiting, know-it-all ass; some of us haven’t won US$1,321,660 and can’t afford to go destroying a perfectly good piece of Korean electronic workmanship just because decency demands that the wee nerd in the TV be knocked around until he cries or screams his safety word. Decency never replaced a shattered screen, I promise you that.

No, Ken, I’m quite satisfied to wait and let my rage grow with each passing day like a McDonald’s dumpster during a sanitation worker strike. Would a troglodyte come up with such an apt simile? I think not, Mr. One Day Jeopardy! Earning Record. You will return soon enough, finally lose to a librarian from Winnetka, and face your ass-kicking comeuppance from me or a suitable ass-kicking representative chosen by me. And if it’s a proxy ass-kicker that completes this mission, another non-ass-kicking representative will be there to digitally record the event for immediate uploading to KenJenningsAssKicking.com, which I’ve preemptively registered in case my foot is not the one repeatedly connecting with your ass.

In the meantime, Ken, I feel like I should share my thoughts on the closing ceremonies of the Democratic National Convention with you. You’re rich now, probably making you a Republican, but bear with me. Keep in mind that indulging my musings will not in any way mitigate the severity of your ass-kicking, but it may serve to momentarily get your mind off the humiliation you’ll eventually endure.

*It seems that John Kerry’s election has been mandated by God, since God narrated a video about Kerry’s life. OK, Morgan Freeman was the narrator, but he played God in Bruce Almighty. There may be a slight disconnect in this argument, but I missed the chapter on syllogisms in a recent Continuing Education class.

*Alexandra Kerry is incredibly hot. I’d normally be inclined to detail an imaginary romantic encounter between the two of us in this space, but I fear running into her at a Hollywood cocktail party and being embarrassed as she reads back my clumsy attempt at erotica in front of my peers. Secretly she’d be very flattered and demand a sweaty tryst in a dark alley, but her public charade would shame me. I can’t have that, Ken. I have a reputation in this town.

Actually, those are my only thoughts on the DNC. I fell asleep during a speech by a one-armed man in a wheelchair and dreamt of the peace I’ll experience once your ass is thoroughly and freshly kicked.

Peace, Ken. That’s all any of us really want. And to watch the way you hop as my foot connects with the seat of your pants.

Enjoy your hiatus.