May 7, 2007

Ein Tag im Leben von Michael Sims

05:45 The first strains of Das Lied der Deutschen surranged from Michael's speakers, shaking the headboard of his waterbed. Opening a bloodshot eye, Michael peeled the comforter off and crawled to the edge of his bed where he reached out and slapped the space bar of his keyboard.

iTunes stopped the nationalistic hymn, leaving the room a vacuum of silence. Turning to the window, Michael opened his Venetian blinds and inhaled as the sunlight hit him. It was going to be a fine day.

06:00 Michael was still damp from his shower. He'd had just fifteen minutes to soap, scour, and shave before he was due in front of his computer. Michael's rigorous routine was self-imposed as a method of keeping rigid discipline and utter efficiency. Otherwise, he would become soft and weak. He itched his scalp where he'd nicked himself shaving. The blood would stop eventually, Michael thought. The shallowest wounds always bled the most.

Michael loaded Safari and watched as his RSS feeds filled with new posts. He sneered as he proceeded to read the latest from Censoreware.net.

07:45 Michael stretched and cracked his neck. After almost two hours of scouring every site, blog, and post by Seth Finkelstein, Jamie McCarthy, and the entire Slashdot staff, he was stiff. He always tensed when he read the meandering lies of the poisonous vipers that had taken his rightful place on the Internet away from him.

In fact, he noted as iCal alerted him, he had an appointment at the dentist today to address his bruxism. Michael had been told he sounded like a trash compactor at night as he slept, slowly chewing his teeth apart. He only remembered his dreams of vengeance.

08:30 Reading the latest issue of Time magazine, Michael sneered at the media's latest attempt to besmear Adolf Hitler by likening Saddam Hussein to him. Hussein was just an amateur, Michael thought. Germany would have marched through Iraq and taken it without a shot if it hadn't been for the inept Italians losing North Africa.

His fantasy was interrupted by the cute blonde receptionist as she called him to follow her back to his exam room. As he clomped to the back of the building in his jackboots, he saw that her roots were just as blonde as her ends. Michael paid close attention to people's hair and clothes. How rare a thing real blonde hair was in New York nowadays, Michael mused. Too bad she was female.

11:00 Michael looked at the mouthguard his dentist had given him and recounted his bad luck. He blamed Finkelstein and Malda, the traitorous bastards that had backstabbed him so many times. Were it not for them, Michael deduced as he clenched the steering wheel of his VW bug, he wouldn't have to use this mouthguard. Or the testosterone shots. Or the Viagra. Or the special, embarrassing combo cock-ring condoms. He was worked up now, breathing hard and near tears.

Michael reached for his mobile phone and called Eric Raymond.

12:37 "This is not what you trained me for. Sitting and waiting while our own people disavow me was not part of the plan!" Michael whined into his pink PEBL.

Michael was crying, tears streaming down his cheeks. He couldn't believe how even Eric Raymond, his mentor and commander, was shitting all over him. Any other time that would be just fine but not now. Not when Michael's fragile ego was taking a beating.

"Listen, Michael, I'm speaking at a Linux conference this weekend," Eric said. "If you can just settle your ass down and wait a couple days we can get together and talk things out. I know this must be hard for you."

Michael perked up, happy to hear his Teutonic gas-master would be in town soon. "Can– can we go out?" Michael asked, a tremble of hope in his voice.

"Sure, Michael, anywhere you want," Eric said. "Maybe we can check out the leather district. I haven't been there in a while."

"Oh, I know just the place!" Michael cooed. "There's this place called the Forearm and they have free Crisco!"

"That sounds good, Michael," Eric replied. "Just go home and keep busy until I call you Saturday night."

"Okay," Michael said. "I'll polish my ᛋᛋ uniform. Maybe you should bring your bear-claw mittens!"

"I was just looking for them, Michael," Eric said. "But I have a half-finished bottle of the ol' Jager calling me, so I'm going to take off. I'll see you Saturday night."

"Oh, alright. I'll be ready. Thanks, Eric, I feel a lot better now that we talked. I can't wait to see you."

"Me too," Eric said. "Bye-bye, Michael."

"Bye, Eric," Michael said before he flipped his phone shut.

He put on Wagner's The Flying Dutchman as he turned his bug into traffic toward home.

13:30 The aroma of sauerkraut, knockwurst, and black bread filled Michael's apartment as his microwave churned back and forth. Michael wanted to eat quickly so he could get back to work, monitoring his enemies' sites.

Just the other day someone had posted to Slashdot calling him a Nazi. That wasn't a problem, but the accusations of censorship had been. So what if Michael had chosen — no, had been forced by his enemies — to modslap an entire discussion thread of thousands of comments over and over again? It was his right and duty as editor at Slashdot when his sacred mission of homosex and Linux was threatened by the tentacles of subversive information.

*BING*

Michael's meal was ready and he snapped out of his reverie. He would equalize things soon enough.

14:00 Michael had fifteen tabs open in Safari, each with a page of Finkelstein's, Malda's, or some other lying subhuman's open. His eyes scanned each back and forth, desperately seeking new acts of betrayal.

Without taking his eyes off of the Slashdot post he was reading, Michael opened iTunes and began the prelude to Tristan und Isolde. In the background DVD Player was showing Der Untergang, Michael's favorite movie. He had watched it sixty-seven times since he'd ordered it from Blockbuster. He was in the zone now, his mood set and his mind hard at work. He had a while to go before he was done.

You never knew when one of eternal betrayers would post something malicious on the Internet.

17:43 Bingo! Michael found a post on a christian music forum talking about how great his latest album was. Not only had Michael not released a christian music album, he couldn't even sing. Years of smoking unfiltered German cigarettes and shouting along to his favorite Oi songs had rendered his voice a gravelly hiss, as if a snake had gargled broken glass. He could only wonder what sort of tricks the rogue's gallery was up to with a post like this.

He emailed the link to Eric and messaged a few of his buddies in #retakedeutschland. After a gaggle of links and questions he still didn't have any leads, but one of his friends promised to crapflood the forum later that night. Satisfied with that he noted the time and decided to hit the gym. If there was one thing the East Village was good for, it was places to work out. Michael grabbed his bag and ID card and headed out the door. He would change down there.

18:09 Pump You Up was busy at this hour of the night, men just getting off work and stopping by for a quick workout before they returned home for the night. Michael scoped the landscape and noted a few promising individuals as he headed toward the locker room. He stripped and put on his spandex shorts, black leather suspenders, and black biker cap. He took some cinnamon oil and rubbed it on his nipples, gave his underarm a whiff, and headed out to the weight room.

Michael zeroed in on one of the guys he'd eyed on the way in, a tanned twenty-something with short, sassy hair and a Totenkopf tattooed on his lower back. He was lifting and needed a spotter, which Michael took care of.

Michael stood over the young twink's head, watching his arms thrust up and down as he lifted. Michael's penis and nutsack were just inches from the lad's face, and Michael imagined that the edge of his penis would just tickle him if he took his shorts down now. But no, Michael told himself, let it build. Let it build like Eric taught you back in boot camp. Michael always liked giving in at the end though. His shorts bulged.

20:00 Eight o'clock and Michael was home on the dot. He'd had just enough time to manhandle the young queen at the gym, shower, dress, and speed back home. His nuts were sore as his handsome young sexual partner had been into penis-and-ball torture and had really given him a workout.

They had role-played a scene where Michael was the Wehrmacht commander in charge of defending Berlin and the young boy was the newly-appointed gauleiter. They had disagreed on tactics and had only settled the matter in the battlefield of a steam room with piano wire and brillo pads

Michael was now spent.

Just as he was putting his bag away, Michael noticed an iChat bubble on his screen. Clicking it, he found a message from the young boy in question.

rapekampfer08: im only 17. do you think that makes it hotter?

Michael sighed in disgust and closed the window. Would he have to start asking to see these peoples' licenses before he rapefucked them? This was the third time this year he'd been duped by an underaged boy and it was only a matter of time before the authorities got involved. He could always stop picking up boys at the gym, he thought. Like that would ever happen.

21:00 After showering and shaving again, Michael began tweezing his eyebrows, highlighting his hair, and bleaching his teeth. It wasn't easy staying good looking. Bedtime was coming up soon and he was eager to end his day.

22:00 10 o'clock exactly, Michael noted as he jumped into bed. He had an hour of reading to do before lights-out. He slept his mini, turned his swastika-shaped nightlight on, and jumped under his original issue SS field blanket, cozying in.

Opening Mein Kampf, Michael turned to his bookmark and began reading. After a chapter of the Führer's theories on Communists and Jews, he had a chapter of The Cathedral and the Bazaar to get down, tonight about how Linux was the answer to the software industry's shortcomings.

Sighing as he read, Michael's shorn head slumped once, twice, and three times toward his chest. He caught himself, waking, and closed the book. The reading would have to wait until tomorrow when he was more awake. The Führer and Eric would forgive him.

After all, he was the most fanatical of their soldiers in the war for faggot Linux Nazism.

Michael clapped twice and the swastika went dark, leaving him alone in his room. He began snoring, senseless to the world until the next day when Das Lied der Deutschen would rouse him from his slumber and he could begin the struggle anew.

2 comments:

  1. I'm shocked that he didn't use Horst-Wessel-Lied as his alarm.

    This account of his day is probably fake based on this error.

    ReplyDelete
  2. I'm not sure who invented the "Day in the Life" troll format, but if it wasn't Trollaxor himself, it was certainly he who elevated it into an art form.

    ReplyDelete