Goatriders of the Apocalypse


The job of a Software Developer is never done, my friends (except for after 5, when it's done). You work and you work and you fight and you claw and you eat and you poop and still there is more to do. And then, suddenly, there will be a lull. All will grow quiet and the only sounds will be that of your heart beat in your ears and a Neil Diamond record playing softly in the background.

That is the time you should fear.

I remember it well. I had finished up all my work and was leaning back in my plush leather chair when the phone suddenly leapt to life (not literally, of course). I snatched the handle off the receiver (or is that the other way around?) and a voice barked at me from the other line. I was confused at first as I rarely get calls from dogs of any breed, but then my confusion ebbed as the dog's owner took over the conversation. It was the president and he needed my help. I can't tell you what he said as it was of a highly classified nature and, well, the remarkably poor grammar is hard to translate to print. Suffice to say, it was time for terrorism to take a back seat to freedom.

So I hung up the receiver, put my pants back on, and called up my wife.

"Honey," I said to her, although that wasn't her real name, "Honey, put the frozen pizza back in the freezer, I'm not coming home tonight. Duty calls and freedom waits for no man." To which she replied something about freedom, food on the table, leaving me...the details are really not important, but she was behind me fully and I was invited to take as long as I needed.

Great was my haste and so I requisitioned the GROTA-copter and headed eastward. I bid adieu to my adopted homeland, the good old Windy City, as I knew I would probably never return. Because I would be dead.

I flew and then I flew some more until I reached the White House and touched down lightly on the helipad. As I dismounted my twirly steed (which I always bring with me when I take the GROTA-copter), the president approached me with a grave expressions on his drawn, haggard, everyday American face. Jason, he said, thank god you're here. He then made some sort of simile between a horse, three midgets, and 9/11 which I couldn't really followed, but the gist of it was that terrorism was bad and we had to stop it. And maybe something about a circus...possibly a pony...I'm not entirely clear on the details.

I leapt to action (some would argue it was a prance, but I'm sticking with leap) and started barking orders. Once someone pointed out that I was barking, I laughed and attributed it to jet lag, and began issuing orders in plain, American, freedom loving English.

(aaaaaannnd...fade out)

Hopefully that gives you a little taste of what my daily life is like. I'm not willing to claim to be the most important man alive, just let's just say that Jack Bauer comes to me for advice. Which is weird. Because he's fictional.

I'm most commonly described as "The American Matthew McConnehey" and when I'm not serving under the GROTA flag I develope the software that keeps America safe. Yes, you may call me a hero.

(Jason lives in the great city of Chicago with his wife and cat, who he like to dress up in baby clothes and carry around in a Baby Bjorn (the cat, you sicko). His apartment is just a Soriano's throw away from Wrigley and he can often be seen outside Bernie's attempting to start "Ge-o So-to" chants and telling people about his iPhone. Jason also remains the only GROTA member unwilling to speak of himself in the third person).

Sent from Jason's iPhone

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