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bio I can't write anything about myself; I end up sounding like a big dork. So instead, I get other people to write something about me. At least, that's the current plan. As it turns out, everyone writes stuff while they're drunk. There are so many metaphores and inside jokes and situations that no one but me can possible know about, that these descriptions are almost completely worthless to anyone but me. Maybe you'd prefer to view the album or portfolio?
Bryan James? Michael? Beck? Wow, who would've guessed? ;) What to say, what to say? Well, for one try navy blue socks. In all but the brightest lights they look black so it's a no-brainer. Not to mention friends and family will think the world of you just for changing sock colors. LOL! Speaking of slackers, where's the logo for our forum? And I just started another one, so now you got two to do. What's the chances of getting them next day? :D You're a cool cat Ducc; extremely intelligent, witty and and wise to boot. Maybe once you grad you can move to paradise? No state tax and mucho skinero. And it would be cool to meet you too. Well, as long as you're not farting or wearing color shifting socks. :) We'll c ya
around man. Badcrc James? Shit
man, where do I begin? I'd take a bullet for this motherfucker. It wasn't
always this way. Back in '68 at Da Nang, I saw this scrawny assed sonofabitch
stumble down the loading ramp of the C130, and as he clumsily bounced
across the tarmac, I thought, Jesus, he's going to get me killed. How
wrong I would be proven. '72. North of Hue. The sniper would've had me
if James hadn't whipped out his ten inches of throbbing love muscle to
get her attention. I guess the gooks aren't hung like that. But then again,
who is? Anyway, she missed with her first shot, and I was able to duck
behind the Gavin's right-rear quarter as James returned covering fire
(with schlong flapping in the breeze, I might add). I grabbed our radioman
and we leveled the building with arty. End of story. By 1992 we'd climbed
high enough in the Agency to get desk jobs. Kush gigs with cuff links
and monogrammed coffee mugs. But that wasn't enough for either of us,
no sir. James started it. Thanks to h! is prodding, by '94 he and I were
hacking our way through the jungle north of Bogota. You'd never know how
close to a war the "war" on drugs really is unless you heard
us tell our stories. The Afghan op of '99 was smooth. Couldn't have done
it so seamlessly without his expertise. And to think, we both could've
been sitting in leather high-backed chairs, getting blowjobs from big
titted interns while we played Minesweeper on the Agency's payroll. But
no. This asshole is such a selfless and dutiful cocksucker that we never
saw the carpets of Langley for more than a few days at a time. I'm out
now. My time expired when a piece of shrapnel from a Sudanese RPG7 lodged
itself in my spine, landing me on four wheels. James is God knows where.
Is he back from Iraq yet? Zero James Beck is a man of many molds. Some are broken (or at least should have been), and some merely threaten to grow on old scraps of pizza that lie around in the fridge with other scraps, less easily identifiable, and . . . uh, pizza coupons? What are these doing here? Well, moving right along. Do not ask him what color his socks are. Not if you know what's good for you. And if he asks YOU, always answer "green" then suggest that he think about seeing someone about his vision. Not his eyesight, mind you. No, that (to the best of my knowledge) is just fine. His vision. He sees things in a strange metaphorical sense, but this vision comes and goes. Oh, and if his socks ever turn out actually to be green, back away slowly. That's probably mold. Mutated, carniverous and quite possibly antagonistic. Tread carefully. Where were we? Let's see. How does one differentiate a man like this from his peers? Of course he couldn't be something simple, like a constant or a polynomial. Not even a hyperbolic trig function or natural logarithm. We may need to use numerical methods to calculate the measure of the man. There are some who would use more direct methods, but he seems a bit skittish about those. Fine. Let him remain somewhat vague and amorphous for a while. In some vision
there exist other potential molds yet to be constructed, or under construction,
which may yet shape this one into something -- unexpected. We are each
the architects of our own lives, with windows reflecting the city of those
around us, letting the light in during the day, and letting the darkness
in during the night. Who can say what goes on in the corridors within?
Sara Mister James Michael Beck is an extremely refined gentleman. He enjoys expanding his mind in the morning with the rigors of Physics and Chemistry. His afternoons are spent in exercise as he tweaks his wrestling skills with little Asian girls. Twilight finds him in front of his computer involved in the finer things in life such as eating beef jerky and passing gas. I fear that since Mister James Michael Beck is beyond words, he shall never find a lady equal to his extreme standards. We shall pray for him as he sneezes and hope that he purchases a speaker phone in the near future. Dear friends
and colleagues, we are indeed in the presence of glaring whiteness!
OLD NEWS *insert failed attempt at getting comments from somone* EDIT: As it turns out, no one wants to write anything about me. I say "Jen, write something about me!" and she says "Yay! Really? Can I? How long can I make it?" and I tell her "You can make it as long or short as you want!" And she says "Ha ha! You better not edit it." Today, weeks and weeks since then, do I have anything from Jen? Oh no. And Sara's a slacker too. I mean, I can understand why Tommy doesn't write anything; FOB Asians have a hard time talking, much less writing. But Sara? Jen? Mike? Ursula? You're all slackers. Oh, and everyone at Forum BX are also slackers. Especially BADCRC, who made excuses about why he didn't know me well enough. Jerks. I've known some of you for SIX YEARS! For those of you who have read this far, please don't get the impression that I am like my friends. I'm not. I'm a hard worker. I mean, if somone asked ME to give them a paragraph about them, I'd have it to them the next day. And I would include positive, interesting things about them. Unless it was Sara, Jen, Mike, or Ursula. There is nothing positive about them. I have no friends. |
