Animation by Plague of Gripes
The fall of ’79. A humid day. Dew still clung to youthful blades, rapidly evaporating. A young Jerry the Predator took his first tentative steps into adulthood, as he pulled taut his loincloth – packed to the brim with mighty, heaving Predator testicles – and took his first step into Orientation. Unlike many young Predators, he had already decided upon a degree: Hapless Prey Hunting-ology. It was, in fact, the only degree offered by this – the only university on their entire planet. Yet, the decision was still a difficult one to make. A counselor would later sum up the dilemma for Jerry quite nicely: “Would you rather hunt hapless prey… or be an adviser that advises students to get their degreein hapless prey hunting, because advisers hate their lives?” “You have a point,” said Jerry, as he boldly strode out of the adviser’s office, with the echo of a discharged firearm round and a spray of blood and splintered skull fragments not long behind him. Many new adventures lay in store for Jerry the Predator. Drinking. Sex with confused young girls who are misleading themselves into believing they are on a journey of self discovery. Drinking. That one time you get into a fist fight with a mascot because, hey, it’s pretty hilarious? Drinking. More sex with that one really hot teacher you’re pretty sure is only there because it’s her fetish. And drinking. Yes, there was much to learn for Jerry the Predator. None of it important. And the important things? Learned only long enough to satisfy an authority figure or prevent a major fire. Just like real adults! Jerry the Predator would soon learn that college was not about what you learn, but rather, how quickly you succumb to the horrible realization that life is a vacuum of futility, where no trophy nor laurel may ever sake the unrelenting thirst that wrenches the soul daily, always yearning but never answering the simple question of, “What do you WANT? How can I rid myself of the shadowed horror which parasites itself upon the heart of my being yet daily?” But fuck that shit. He would most certainly score at least TWO levels above his head, more than once through a combination of alcohol and youthful indiscretion. And what lay after? Why, a life of honorable combat, attacking midgets, with little more than sticks to protect themselves, with a plasma rifle and cloaking device that renders the user completely invincible! Totally honorable. His penis became rock hard at the thought. God damn, being a Predator is radical.