My name is Butch. I’m a bad bunny. I’m Aeryk’s bad bunny.
(what’s a bad bunny?)
You know Calvin & Hobbes, right? Specifically, Hobbes, the toy tiger/imaginary friend? Well, that’s me, except I’m not an imaginary friend, though Aeryk does have a cute little stuffed doll of me (see the featured image). It doesn’t come to life like Hobbes does for Calvin. Rather, Aeryk sees his doll as a physical manifestation of me. He thinks of it as a kind of totem in which he can capture my essence after some hocus pocus ritual, or some such derivative Stephen King crap.
I don’t particularly like Aeryk. Can you blame me after reading about the doll thing? The guy’s an arsehole. But I’m stuck with him.
I don’t know what I am, exactly. Some kind of emergent mental entity? Some kind of Jungian shadow archetype? I’m just pulling stuff out of my ass here. Whatever label you want to slap on me is fine. I’m just here in this neurotic mess Aeryk calls a mind.
I do know that I am able to push Aeryk’s buttons like no one else. To “fuck” with him, if you will.
A psychoanalyst would have some insightful thing to say here about repressed this, or self something-or-other. The reality is, it’s my raison d’etre. It’s what I do. If you need a more substantial explaination let’s go with this: I’m his binary opposite. Where he’s always whining about the existential plight, absurdity, and contradiction of life, I have a purpose, a plan, and I do my thing every chance I get.
Plus, it’s funny.
For instance, take his nightly ritual. He has to turn on the TV and run Futurama (at the moment, the show changes every now and again) in the background as he sleeps. It’s silly to have the TV running in the background while he flips through Reddit while simultaneously shoveling dinner down his throat, but at least then there’s a small part of him registering what’s happening in the background. Every so often a scene he likes, or whatever, will catch his attention and he’ll stop to watch for a while.
At night though, he’s asleep in five, ten, minutes tops. It’s a waste to have the TV running. It would be one thing if he set a timer, shutting down the TV after thirty minutes or so, but he keeps it going. ALL. NIGHT. LONG. When he wakes up to pee, if the show has timed out (Netflix and Hulu have built in timers), he’ll start it back up.
I used to love Futurama—and Bob’s Burgers and South Park and Family Guy, his other choices. Because I don’t sleep, I’ve seen them all so much that they drive me crazy.
So, last night I gummed up the servers at Hulu, leaving him without Futurama. A normal person would have grumbled a bit, rolled over, and gone back to sleep. Captain OCD went from peaceful sleep to perseverating meltdown. He was cursing at the remote, the Apple TV, and the internet provider. He scared the dogs so much they all left the room, tails tucked between their legs. After a few minutes he’d worked himself up so much the went to the trouble of unplugging all the devices on the home network: modem, wifi, computer, Apple TV, tablets, and even the phones. He stomped around the house for about five minutes to let . . . I don’t know what. Knowing his flights of fancy he was letting the electron booglins rest, giving them a chance to catch their breath, before starting it all back up again.
(but isn’t that how it works?)
Yes, but that’s not important.
When it was all back up an running, fifteen stress filled minutes later, he tried Hulu again and . . . Nothing. Ha! Fuses were blowing all over in his head. After thirty minutes or so of fuming he finally remembered to check if there were problems at Hulu (there’s a website for thathttps://www.isitdownrightnow.com). And . . . Erhm . . . there was. He flumped around for a few minutes in which he couldn’t find anything else to blame or be angry with, and switched to Netflix to “watch” Star Trek.
Dumbass. He could have done that from the beginning.
(you could have left it alone.)
He needs to learn to not be so uptight. And giving in to him wouldn’t have taught him a thing. That’s why I wasn’t going to put things back in order until the next morning, well beyond time for him to enjoy it. There’s a lesson in my tomfoolery.
(well, it was quite annoying.)
It was, wasn’t it? I’m rather proud of that.
(fyi, before you congratulate yourself too much, we’ve been working on a story, a comic book actually, with you in it.)
Really. Hmmm. The old first-thing-you-do-is-name-it-in-order-to-get-control-of-it thing, huh? Good for him. I’m not too worried though. He’s missing the follow through that’s necessary to pull it off, so there’s little chance of any problems. Thanks for the warning, though.
To be continued . . . ?