After another faked drunken “Urrmm, eh, wherrrre wurr I goin’ tooooo?” call to a friend of JB’s, I learned his whereabouts. He was on a metropolitan bus to – of course – an even more liberal area, a place so uppity it even dared call itself “Uptown.” Where was he headed? Take a guess. I’ll help you. Think of the gayest event that can take place in a city other than a Beatnik Smackdown. Got it? If you guessed, “an art fair,” you win the prize. I was told Mr. Bootyhole was headed to the starting place for said Uptown Art Fair, a central urban mall called Coon Square. With a name like that, I knew it would either be full or devoid of darkies. I was correct.

After finding ample wide-stall handicap parking for me and my Lil’ Rascal Obesity Scooter, I puttered past crowds of just about every color but black. White people sporting all manner of eye-burning hues of hippie and hipster and hip-hop and what-the-****-ever-word-with-“hip”-in-it colors shuffled past me with airy, purposefully-casual steps that seemed to drum out the word “omphaloskepsis” in Morse code. I neared the mall – which turned out to really be called Calhoun Square (whatever, I knew what it really meant) – and entered the heart of pastel-colored darkness.

I scooted past tables of overpriced “artistic” trinkets and other bull****esque bull**** and found a security desk, where I left my precious Lil’ Rascal with the way-too-helpful staff, in an effort to appear as “normal” and charming as possible during my fast approaching and destined confrontation with Bootyhole. For that purpose I was wearing a too-tight blue mini-striped bumon-up that only partically covered both my pubic hair and ample stomach lard. Working up a lathery sweat in only a few hundred feet, I struggled on foot to a central area of the mall that could not be avoided on the path to the Art Fair and camped, as I do for hours a day in Team Fortress 2. I was waiting for JB.

After a couple minutes of wait and rest, clarity of mind returned and revealed a problem. Oh, ****! I had no idea what JB was wearing. I knew what he looked like: greasy Guido haircut, pierced ears, bulging man-mammary glands with artificially-hardened nipples, general hippie air of hippyism. But without knowing what he was currently wearing, I realized, I’d never find him in this sea of similarly-dressed fops. Being the brilliant tactician I am, I improvised and yet again called up one of JB’s friends, this time from a payphone.

“Daaaaah, duuuuuude. Dissis JB. Eh? Uh. Question. I ah, got a littuh drunk an’ puked all over mah shirt. Gotta buy new one. DARNIT EH! …-hic- You ‘member what I’ze wearin?”

Oh, so simple – both the minds of his friends and my particular effort. Red LaCoste polo, and backpack full of gay porno mags and poetry binders. I had my target. Squeezed against a wall for both support of my mbumive girth and optimal stealth, I camped, waiting for Mr. Red Polo and Backpack.

Okay, so I admit I dozed off for a while and drooled on my shirt a bit. But I woke up without any bumistive devices, and did so just in time – it was perhaps fated – to spot a particularly fabulous person jaunt, which materialized into a shock of dark-brown pomade shaped like hair, atop a too-pretty face, which itself was atop a red polo shirt and backpack. It was Bootyhole Himself.

As JB neared the escalator, I burst forth in front of him with the sprightliness of Pillsbury dough escaping the over-compressed confines of its cardboard tube. Perfectly executing my plan, I purposefully fell to the floor like a bowl of Jell-O when I go into a temporary diabetic coma while having desert, pretending to have tripped – or been tripped – by JB, in an effort to pull at his hilariously naïve liberal sense of empathy. It worked splendidly.

Jalapeno Bootyhole and I walked out of the mall together and into a swelteringly hot street full of people who smelled of suntan lotion, incense and marijuana. JB must have smelled it, too, as the first thing he asked me during our time was, “Hey, do you know where I can find some weed and booze?” I mumbled something about not knowing but expecting to find alcohol somewhere ahead, trying to continue the charade of actually knowing where the **** I was. He seemed at least temporarily pacified by my answer, but then asked another.

“Ah. Well, how about some hookers? … Gay… ones?” He looked me in the eye, seeming to probe for my reaction. I stared back blankly. Quickly, he interjected. “Ha ha ha,” he nervously laughed, aggressively (or so I hope to this moment) patting me on the shoulder. “just jokin’! So, this art is pretty nice stuff, eh?”

JB and I walked slowly down a straight urban avenue lined on both sides by white tents containing various overweight and/or overly-mustachioed artists and their work. I made small-talk as we walked, and he generally replied with all sorts of completely uninteresting stories of his experience being in the area, of the Beatnik Smackdown (he could not shut up about this, and I wished I’d come up with a better, less-lame topic with which to start our encounter), being in Canada, etc.

We both variously pretended to have an opinion of some of the art on exhibition as we walked along, eventually getting to the end of one end of the street on which the Art Fair was laid out. We looked around, a bit bewildered by the abrupt end of the exhibits. I, however, had to pretend I knew what I was doing, so simply said, “I’m hungry.” Well, I was. I’m a big man, damnit, and I like my food. Luckily, JB was, too. He again asked where weed and booze might be, but this time also commented about wanting food.

As we turned to go back down the street from which we came, JB spotted a stand called “Simply Nuts and More,” and seemed drawn to it. I presumed he was drawn to the presence of the word “Nuts,” and was proved correct after he purchased a large handful of what he called “Pray Lines,” which I knew as “Prayleens.” I made a mental note to call him an idiot for that later, but ended up much chagrined by learning that it’s actually pronounced “Prah Leen.” **** us both. Anyway, he quickly told an anecdote about how a friend had told him to eat his nuts. The man wasn’t even trying to hide his tendencies, and I was, to him, a total stranger! Damning evidence.

We made our way back to our starting point, now both sweating from the urban heat: me from being husky and plump in the hot weather, he, probably, from being around what seemed like an endless flow of obviously homosexual men in the crowd.

We pretended to like yet more art, and walked some more. Once, JB asked permission to pop into a spice store, explaining that he had to bring home, to Canada, some gifts for his “friends.” Of course, he came out with nothing.

I tried to take my mind off the horrible taste by making conversation as I took tiny sips. I asked about Mr. Bootyhole’s work. He’s a writer, he said, for all sorts of thing, and does some marketing, too. He did bring up writing for and helping produce an internet game (hah! He had NO IDEA I was a spy FROM that game!), but didn’t elaborate, probably on purpose given its horrid nature. He specifically mentioned nothing about making a gimmick alt and finding work as a moderator there. Dastardly.

I asked about his home, and we talked about the housing market in both our cities. I accidentally mentioned that I lived at home with my parents, *and* that I’m 39 years old, but I made up a lie about having done that only to save up and buy a house, which I’d totally and triumphantly done at a steal of a price. He told me that his place was small, but that his home-town had ridiculously expensive properties. I just love how these elitist liberals find pbumive-aggressive ways to tell you how rich they are. It must be genetic. Again, he purposefully didn’t mention anything about moderating Forumwarz from his home under the name MELLTD FACE. Grrr.

I asked about his education, and future plans. He mentioned the idea of going back to school for video game design, which I enthusiastically supported. Forumwarz community, you owe me if this game ever stops sucking as hard. He also said he loves his job and the people he works with. By this I knew he was referencing his relationship with Evil Trout. He did say “loves” with that certain erection-voice. But again, he did not mention also loving roleplaying as MELLTD FACE.

We continued to talk, me trying to appear more and more fruity in an attempt to get the information out of him that I wanted. At some point, I must have really gotten into the role: I found myself genuinely getting into the conversation and actually feeling good toward him.

After a while, I had to urinate fiercely and excused myself to do so. It was then that I checked my watch and realized we’d been talking for nearly three hours, and I’d actually started enjoying JB’s company. I was terrified, obviously. So terrified, in fact, that I decided to abort the mission.

I returned to the table and made up a story about how I needed to quickly leave to get to IKEA before closing hours, to buy furniture for my fictitious new house. In reality, it was only a slight lie: I needed to get there for the all-you-can-eat Swedish Meatballs for $5. JB, being savvy, pretended to have a friend to go meet, too. I wondered if perhaps they were meeting to moderate Forumwarz as MELLTD FACE, but at that point didn’t care anymore. I had started to like Jalapeno Bootyhole. I had to get the hell out of there.

We exited the building and started walking back toward Coon Square. I began to feel dizzy from the combination of heat and terror, and also what I started to realize was a mbumive caffeine and sugar hit from the Spunky Monkey ****. My body seemed to drag along at a snail’s pace, never seeming much closer to getting away from the unforgivable situation. I prayed for deliverance.

God existed that day, for JB mentioned his “friend” again and said he’d catch a bus to go see “her” (lol) on the intersecting street behind us. We exchanged fond goodbyes and good-to-meet-yous, which at least were the least phony part of our day. After all, I was fondly saying goodbye and getting the hell out of three hours in which I did indeed inexplicably become fond of him, and I’m sure he was fondly looking forward to finding the weed, booze and gay hookers he was looking for. We parted ways and headed off. I was exhausted.

As I picked up my Lil’ Rascal Obesity Scooter and entered my car, I thought that the day’s efforts and frustrations and sheer terrors of enjoyment had all been for naught. I hadn’t found out whether or not MELLTD FACE was Jalapeno Bootyhole. I thought that all the way back home and to my computer, where I logged into Forumwarz. I thought it as I started summarizing my day in this post. But then I had an idea.

I looked through Melltd Face’s post history, and found one, “Posted On: 08/07/2010 6:35PM.” Converted to my local time, this is 5:35PM.

I checked my watch again, as well as the detailed diaries I’d kept. I’d physically been with Jalapeno Bootyhole from 3:45 to 7:15PM, and he hadn’t left my sight or done anything on his cell phone besides what looked like reading Jezebel.com, a feminist blog.

In short, Jalapeno Bootyhole could NOT be MELLTD FACE. MELLTD FACE posted at 5:35PM. I was with Jalapeno Bootyhole, in person, the whole time.

And I live to tell the tale.

—Bashy

Wow major Log in to see images!

But I think I am 99.9% sure who MF is.

Chawin Posted:

i kinda did the same thing but i just went “he doesnt have a star by his name”

I’m pretty sure I’ve seen admins with alts without a star beside the name.

CrinkzPipe Posted:

I’m pretty sure I’ve seen admins with alts without a star beside the name.

This.

AIDS woman's genitals Posted:

Wow major Log in to see images!

But I think I am 99.9% sure who MF is.

Prove It

Fran Posted:

Everyone who was in IDC last night knows who MELLTD FACE is.

I figured it out and asked him flat out. He told me along with a few of his other alts. i cant believe how generous he used to be from the stories ive heard.

for those dumb enough to believe chucks bull**** look at his voting status rofl

Hilarious, and perfectly accurate. Thanks for clearing my good name, eh?

And it was nice meeting you too, you fat bastard.