Ez az angol nyelvű bejegyzés eredetileg a The Last of Us című játék rovására elsütött viccnek indult, és nem is lett volna belőle több, ha egy jó barátom (tudod ki vagy) nem piszkál, hogy rakjam ki ezt az írást. Mindenki örömére végül is engedtem neki, és mivel eldöntöttem, hogy kirakom, át is dolgoztam, és kikerekítettem egy kicsivel olvashatóbb, teljesebb, gördülékenyebb szöveggé. Remélem elnyeri tetszéseteket. Angoltudást igényel.
I HATE SHROOM PEOPLE
You heard me. I hate shroom people.
They move in and the neighborhood goes to shit. Since they arrived in my city, there are more murders, gun violence rose sky high, not to mention that looting and robberies are everyday occurrences now. They literally killed all commerce and culture, they squat in every goddamn building now, roads and infrastructure, all gone to hell. We are a goddamn sinkhole now because of these fucking shroom people. And the chatter in their shroom language all the time – I mean HELLO, this is AMERICA, speak English, goddamnit! I can’t belive it’s been twenty years since they showed up. I still don’t know how I should call them, or how shroom people prefer call themselves, because I just can’t bring myself to go near those bastards willingly to ask. Not that it would matter. My guess is, it would sound like someone gargling with mouthwash for a goddamn minute, just like everything else they say. So I just call them shroomies or shroom people, although “people” is too kind a word for them.
Just to illustrate my point: The other day, I was scavenging for food, being all old, brooding, rugged and awesome like I usually am, when this shroom guy just comes into my scavenging territory, like he owns the place! He staggers around gargling out something in his shroomspeak, and then he starts spraying his spores, because evidently he thinks it’s okay to do so in polite company. I had to bash his squishy shroom cap in with a chair leg, because he wasn’t stopping anytime soon. These shroom guys are always staggering around by the way, I haven’t seen any one of them walking in a straight line, not once. I was taking a midday walk some time ago, going about my buisness, and I see no less than five of these shroom guys that were just out and about, loitering, staggering and gargling to themselves, being drunk as fuck I assume. Who the hell drinks in the middle of the day? Fucking shroom people, that’s who!
I get agitated just thinking about them. I mean, I know I am old and cranky as shit, and I hate everybody, but not like I hate them shroom people.
Take for example the Scavengers. They are insufferable assholes, but in a honest-to-god good American way; they belive in competition, personal achievement and hard work. Problem is, since things went to hell in a handbasket, some of them also began to belive in looting, robbery and outright killing other people for a stick. I will kill ’em if they come after me, of course, because I want to keep my stick (I need it to bash squishy shroom caps in) but I can still respect ’em for having goals and working hard to reach them. But those shroom people? They live in goddamn colonies, laze about all day, chatter to each other in their shroomspeak, sometimes they let out a cloud of spores, and that’s it. They also are goddamn cowards, and gang up on you all the time, the bastards. Once I was stuck in a basement and to get out, I repaired a generator – because that’s what working hard is, you know, not destroying the shit out of everything? I took a keycard for a door earlier, and when I went for it – BAM, twenty shroom people came to fuck up my day, because evidently they thought the lights going on meant a rave will start. I goddamn hate shroom people, so I fucked right off, but I took a peek before I got out, and let me tell you, they shat all over the place in seconds; it needs to be fumigated and maybe demolished now. Goddamn shroom people.
There are like-minded people out there who see shroom people as I do though, thank God. The other day I was on a road trip with this little girl, and we were stopping to visit my brother, Tommy – and we met his wife and the people they hang out with, too. Now, you gotta know that Tommy and I had a decade-long falling out, but he’s still a cool guy. We went back to his compound with the girl to talk and do some other stuff. I admit the words ‘little girl’ and “compound” in sequence sound a bit suspect without proper context, like I’m some pedophile and this place is where some religious nut will make her drink the special Kool-Aid to meet space-Jesus, but no. I’m just a guy, and this compound is just a farm where some like-minded survivalist people keep pigs and grow corn. They’re self-governed, have a lot of guns, and hate shroomies; God bless America!
But, back to Tommy; My brother hates shroom people as much as I do, and even back in the day we used to tell each other all the time how much we hate ’em. Now, one story that Tommy told on this visit stood out for me. He told me about this guy, Dan or something. Most shroomies are so fucking high on PCP or some other shit that they don’t usually notice you – when you don’t get up in their faces that is – but this guy Dan, he was asking for it. He went outside on a dare, you see, and when he saw this shroomie, he walked to it, and punched it in the face – not that there’s anything wrong with that, I like to do that too as my regular stress relief; it actually feels like hitting a pillow, very relaxing, and doesn’t hurt the wrists at all – and the shroomie turned around and started spraying spores! Dan got angry as fuck, and hit the shroomie again and again and again, but busy laying a beating as he was, he failed to check the environment, and didn’t notice the other Goomba behind him. When Tommy Said the word Goomba, I suddenly remembered where he got it from; a game called Mario, where you had to regularly stomp some agressive mushrooms or they’d eat you. I laughed my ass off at Tommy’s reference, of course. Who the fuck would’ve thought twenty years ago we would end up the same as fucking Mario and Luigi, the mushroom murder brothers?! But back to Dan… suffice to say that he ate shroom fist that day, and I guess he acquired the taste, because a week later he grew a mushroom cap and is hanging out with shroomies now, busy gargling their shroom rap songs, spraying the spores, the same shroom shit. I’m sure the liberals would’ve seen his transformation as some monument to tolerance, diversity and social justice, but they all got eaten or shot on their first week in the camps.
Anyway, I am almost at my breaking point. The shroomies are getting unbearable, and polite and patient as I am for a psycho pushing past fifty, I sometimes do go out of my way to even things out a bit. One time, I saw this shroomie in a gallery, or museum or something, gargling at an empty frame. I think it thought that it was modern art or something. It may as well have been, I don’t know, and I didn’t really care, since I was looking for useful stuff in a cabinet on the other side of the room. At one point I hear a barbershop quartets worth of dissonant gargling, so I turn around only to see three more shroomies gathering around that frame. I think to myself, goddamn shroom people, maybe they are gonna spray spores on the walls or twist their heads or perform some other jerky „shroom custom”, but I then get the idea… So I take my trusty brick, and aim at the frame. Now this frame is HUGE, and it’s fastened to the wall, but the guy who took the canvas from it dislodged it, and now it’s barely hanging by a thread. So, I take my trusty brick, aim, and throw. The Shroomies are startled as the thing falls and crushes one of them, and I am almost shitting myself because six other fuckers are attracted by the noise. Afterwards I crept around for two hours to avoid all of them, and got the hell out eventually, but that one moment, it was worth it. I also got some bandages and a bottle of Vodka from a cupboard. I do miss my brick though.
Fucking shroom people.