(Yes, I really am afraid of the real Tie Domi finding this site and kicking my ass. And when I'm on the phone, I do sound like a ten-year-old boy.)
Well, I finally caved. After years of resistance, I figured it was high time I explored the Internet and computers. I used to leave all that stuff to an assistant of mine, but then I realized I wouldn’t always have him around.
After some hunting and pecking, I found Google. Then, just for giggles, I searched my name—just to see what happens. After looking through a bunch of fight videos and other stuff, I found two words that deserved a punching:
Who the hell is this punk calling me a loser? What a jerk! He’s probably a Sens fan or something. Make fun of my name, will ya? Nobody makes fun of me and gets away with it, except for me and Rick Mercer.
After talking with some geeks at Futureshop (why do they call it Futureshop when they don’t even sell the future? That’s what I want to know) I found out you can figure out where people are based on where their Internet comes from. At least, that’s how I think it works. I’m still new to this computer stuff. After some computer stuff, I found out where Loser Domi was. I set out to teach this jackass a lesson.
I found the house where his signal was coming from. I limbered up a bit, since it’s been a while since I beat the tar out of somebody. I knocked on the door and hollered “Loser Domi! Where the hell are ya?” A voice that sounded like a ten-year-old boy replied, “Hang on, I’ll be right there.”
“Why would I kill you?” I asked. “I’m here to teach this Loser Domi fella a lesson!”
“But…” she stammered, “I’m Loser Domi. I’ve always been afraid of the day when someone would show you my site and you’d think I was making fun of you and kick my ass!”
I was stunned. I started “Well…that was originally why I came here…but I didn’t know they let girls on the Internet without showing their boobs. And I REALLY didn’t know they let them on to write about hockey. Hrmmm…tell you what—do you like burgers?”
She nodded, “Yes.”
“Do you like beer?” I continued.
She answered, “Uh…yeah. Yeah, I like beer.”
I smiled and added, “Then how’s about we go over to Wendel’s and talk about it over some burgers and beer?”
She looked confused and said, “But…don’t you realize that Wendel’s is a few hundred miles away and in another country?”
I shurugged. “So? You got a passport?”
She nodded yes. I answered, “Well, then, get your coat and let’s go.”
At Wendel’s, she taught me all about the Internet and how “blogging” really isn’t some dirty Swedish sex act.
“Well…anything that promotes the Lefas and bacon can’t be all bad!” I said.
“Yeah!” she answered. “It’s really fun and…holy shit, it’s Wendel Clark!”
Wendel turned around and said, half-jokingly, “Hey! No goddam swearing in my fucking restaurant! Hey Domi, you ever find that jerk who was calling you a loser on the computer?”
“Wendel, does this mean you’re gonna punch out all of my blood now?” the girl asked nervously.
I explained to him how I found her and who she was. Dougie grinned and asked “Any chance I could get you to babysit my kids?”
She chuckled. “Only if you show me the cow tights.”