Friday, March 19, 2010

Swede Boy ... You're so special ...

His name is Oscar. Poor little Oscar is from Sweden. He’s flabby and wears his hair in a fashion common to gay-boys … five years ago. So out of date! He’s twenty-one, he says, though he acts more like a petulant fourteen year old. I wonder if his parents know. … Oh of course they do. … I notice that he slipped up and gave his real age as eighteen. I’d love to see his birth certificate. I’m positive he’s either fourteen or a mental midget.

Someone told me his last name and sent me a photo of him holding a guitar and another of him on his skate board, but I’ll omit them from this post. Let’s just say that if I want to run him to ground, down to his street address, there is no where for this pervert to hide.

He used to skateboard. He had skateboard buddies. They were all better than he was, and he resented it. He’d like to think of them as his friends, but they laugh at him behind his back. Does he still get on the ol’ skateboard? Dunno. The memory of false friends probably keeps him off it most days.

His life is gaming. He has no other life. He’s unemployed, living off his mommy. Poor mommy. Oscar thinks a temper tantrum gets him attention and forces others to give way. Unfortunately for him, in real life a temper tantrum doesn’t work. He is hesitant with his peers. “I hope you guys think I’m alright,” he wrote. Oh my loving God and little rabbits! Of course we don’t think you’re all right. We think you’re a temperamental, unrestrained twit who lacks social graces, employable skills (other than being adept at the gentle art of making enemies and being a second rate stake-boarder.)

He’ll never get that job because he sits for hours in front of his computer playing silly little-boy games. In the past week he spent 37 hours, the equivalent of a full-time job, playing one game. … That doesn’t count the time he spent on Second Life. Oh my Sweet Lord! No wonder the boy’s belly is going to flab. … Of course, his mind was never anything but Jello with a moderate flow of electrical pulse.

Oscar moves from gaming site to gaming site. He’ll tell you it’s to find a more exciting, challenging game. It’s really to escape the ridicule he receives on each site. “We went our own ways,” is his excuse. They drove him off is more in tune with truth.

He finds the Second Life virtual environment to his liking because it lets him “be part” of something. Only trolls, morons, the sexually challenged and fools associate with him. Oh and the old woman who tries to seduce little boys likes him because she can manipulate him. He doesn’t even see it.

He plays guitar, he says. Ever hear him? My six year old can play guitar that well without ever having had a lesson. His musical tastes run to Snoop Dogg, Doctor Dre, and 50 Cent. The boy needs some culture, but then he needs an education, a paying job, and to stop sponging off his parents and the state. None of those things will come his way. He’s too busy killing pixels on game sites.

Pitiful Oscar lives near Västerås. There must be some cultural resources there. Too bad he can’t find and use them. Though I haven’t checked yet, I understand that his actual residence is in Kungsbacka, but he avoids what little social scene they have. He was banned from the internet coffee house for being ugly. He hangs out in the skate park with the little and underage boys. Draw your own conclusions.

Oscar sees himself as a comedienne. “I provide lots of lulz,” he says. Ignoring the poor grammar and “internet speak,” how he would ever see himself as having a talent for humor is beyond me. I’m sure there is someone as moronic as he is who finds picking belly button lint and shouting vulgarities funny. But real humor escapes him, probably because he leads his life in virtual worlds and can’t face reality. Or his lack of humor and good judgment may come from his oft repeated phrase (You can’t call it a thought. He doesn’t have those.) “I wish I had some alcohol.”

Oh, and Oscar, dear, do take down the pinup photo of Dolly the Sheep before your mother notices.

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