After murdering a man in <REDACTED>, I fled to Asia and began a vision quest. I traveled far and wide, escaping the Taliban in Afghanistan, helping build the Burj Khalifa in Dubai, whaling off the coast of Japan, walking the length of the Great Wall of China, I did it all on my adventures, but I came no closer to self-enlightenment or, more important, redemption. I then enlisted the aid of a young sherpa and began to scale the Himalayas, taking nothing with me but a coat, a harmonica, and a well-worn first-edition print of Chuck Palahniuk's Survivor. It traveled for eight weeks, well past when my young sherpa collapsed of exhaustion, until I came to a golden temple. Weary from my expedition, I collapsed at the front door.
The next thing I remember is waking up in the softest bed you could ever imagine. The air was perfumed with incense, peacocks arrogantly strolled across the warm tiled floor, and there was a tray of fruit waiting at my bedside next to an old, old man slumped in a chair. I dared not wake him, and stayed awake for three days before he opened one eye, looked at my suspiciously, and said the following words of wisdom: "Kid, I've been waiting here for a week for you to try something. Now get up, you've been shitting yourself for three days."
Over the months that followed, I studied under his guidance, learning the ways of wisdom, harmony and good penmanship. Finally, I had moved straight to the head of the class (It does help when the rest of the class is a bunch of eight-year-old monks and an orangutang) and I was ready to take the Test of the Weeping Knives. It was a long, arduous, almost-fatal test and not many of us passed, but I emerged triumphant, bleeding, and covered in matted bits of orangutang fur. I was finally ready to obtain my redemption.
Atop the tallest mountain peak, higher than even Everest and accessable only to those with pure hearts and dazzling eyes (Seriously, they're amazing, you should see them sometime), I sat in front of my guru as he bestowed upon me the Sash of Knowledge, the Dagger of Justice, and most importantly, my ceremonial name, to be used only in the most sacred of circumstances. I was expecting something multisyllabic, difficult to pronounce, and Asian-sounding, like a ninja.
"Master," I asked breathlessly (There's not a lot of oxygen up there, mind), "What will my name be?"
"Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm," he thought for a long time. "Lee Harvey Kennedy."
"Master, what does it mean?" I asked in confusion.
"Beats me," he shrugged. "I'm no mystic, I just run this place as a tax shelter. My real name's Barry."
And that's how I got my username and my fear of large monkeys.
Topic: What's the origin of your username? (Read 13337 times)
