We Need to Talk

For quite some time, I’ve been preparing to begin my blog here at Chess.com.  I’d readied a list of a number of topics that I could discuss in great detail in my own fascinating and inimitable way.  May 1, 2008 was to be the kick-off – the Grand Opening, if you will – of my PGP blog.  Alas, the best laid plans of mice and men . . . 

Yes, something -- or more accurately, someone -- has torpedoed my intentions . . . someone of a quite unsavory nature who has laid to waste all my original plans.  Let me just get right to it: My clone is the biggest a$$hole in the universe – and that’s putting it mildly.  Soulless, scheming, diabolical, obnoxious, loathsome . . . those are his good points.  My clone is not simply a thorn in my side – he’s a cactus . . . one about the size of the Washington Monument.

Bad advice?  He offers nothing but!  Who urged me to quit my job as a political writer and to seek employment as a greeter at Wal-Mart?  My clone.  I would have never acceded to such a request had I not been vulnerable, emotionally, at the time.  My clone knew that – and he moved in like a vampire and sucked the blood right out of my career.

While I was working at Wal-Mart, who encouraged me to shoplift the Billy Ray Cyrus Greatest Hits Volume III cd?  My clone.  The arrest was bad enough, but the ridicule was beyond humiliating.  “Who the hell would want to steal a Billy Ray Cyrus cd?” indeed.  I can still hear the Barney Fife security detail laughing like so many hyenas.  It didn’t help that I was sporting a mullet at the time.  And whose fault was that?  Hmmmm?  I’ll give you one guess.

Suffice to say that my clone has been the very bane of my existence, yet I mostly held my tongue . . . until now.  The proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back?  I’m so filled with bile that I can barely type the words . . . I’ve discovered that the insufferable b@$tard has been tapping my account here at Chess.com.  Yes – it’s true.  Twenty-four losses?  You think I’d actually lose that many games?  Puh-leeze.  My clone is an inferior chess player and he’s sabotaged my record.  Even worse, I have no way of knowing how many people he’s messaged here at the site – and my God, who knows what he might have said.  I’d apologize – in the dark as I might be – for whatever dreck he might have said to other members of Chess.com, but I’m sick of taking the fall for that godforsaken blight on society.

Let me just say this – be wary of any messages you may receive from “Pretty Go Pale,” as there is really no way to tell who is actually sending the missives.  I’d change my password, but it’s pointless – my clone always figures them out.  Did I mention that my clone laughed when Dale Earnhardt died?  See?  I told you he was the biggest a$$hole in the universe.

You know what is really irritating?  He doesn’t even look like me.  Yes, my clone is a genetically-engineered Xerox of me, but he wears his hair differently; I part mine on the left, he parts his on the right – every time I look in the mirror, there he is, flaunting the difference.  I decided to show him up one day – parted my hair in the middle.  I go look in the mirror, and what has he done?  He’s parted his hair in the middle, too, only horizontally -- from ear-to-ear.  What a b@$tard!!!

This is all I have time for right now – I’ll blog more later.  There is so much more I need to get off of my chest regarding my clone.