My experiment was to try living my life entirely by the roll of a 20-sided D&D die (read Part 1 and Part 2 here). After the dice commanded me to ask out a Walmart cashier, who then rejected me, I needed a drink. Like all good half-Irish men of middle earth, I enjoy drinking until I fall down, so I felt a rush of excitement as I drove to the local liquor store. With orange die in hand, I sauntered into the store, my head on a swivel.
I dropped the die, which hit my right shoe, bounced off a couple of wine bottles, and rolled between some dusty shelves. I sat on my leg butt and pulled my die out from the dusty hole. Shaking it up and down to clear the dust, I must have looked like I was enjoying myself in a public place.
By now, the NASCAR-shirt wearing troll of guarding at the money changer was eyeballing me. While there were many other half-Irish peasants shopping there, the shoulder carpet haired troll focused solely on me and my orange die. I decided that my earlier ritual of just rolling the die was not clear enough, so I began numbering each aisle as I walked past it, speaking aloud. "ONE, TWO, oh wait, start over."
As I reached the final aisle of the massive store o' spirits, I dropped the die from nipple level, which bounced off the beer cooler and settled right in front of me. I winked at the liquor troll, picked up my die, and headed to aisle number 3, where I found a large assortment of Australian wine. A couple more rolls, which I announced like Bob Barker, and I was up to the counter with a bottle of Australian wine. I don't like wine, and I hate Crocodile Dundee, so this was true sacrifice.
"What the hell are you doing?" asked the hairy troll. I gritted my teeth, muttering something about Darfur, and rolled the dice. I began to take a picture of the large NASCAR-wearing guy and the die, but he quickly reached over and slapped my phone. Just like the die, my phone bounced around a bit on the floor before dislodging the battery and the back cover. I gently picked up the remains of my phone as the mammoth troll made a reference to PL-102.42 which states that "You can't take pictures in here, you idiot." Apparently, there's some law about taking pictures of the great hair-backed Kansas trolls in a liquor store.
I was more in shock than awe. At that moment, I seriously thought about going all Darth Cheney on the guy, but my calm, cool inner jazz trombonist took over. "Dude, I'm writing a paper on probability but I need pictures as proof that I actually did the work," I explained.
The shoulder carpet man wasn't having it. He grabbed the orange die that was still sitting on the counter and attempted to throw it out the drive-thru window like a special Olympics shot putter. He missed.
I laughed.
He yelled. "GET OUT!" he screamed, as he pointed toward the sliding door with his gnarled, hair-permed finger.
I don't want to leave much public evidence of my future revenge, but let's just say a 2-for-1, 99-cent beer advertisement is on order for the next two weeks in the local newspaper.
This wasn't good. I was out both condoms and liquor, and I lost my die. Fortunately, I had a backup. As I removed the blue die from its plastic casing, I weighed my options. Like any small town with a -1% population growth (actual statistic), there are at least 10 liquor stores in close proximity. I raced to the "creepy" liquor store that has mannequins lined up as a theft deterrent.
The die commanded me to buy a 20-pack of Bud Light, which I brought to the counter, avoiding eye contact with the guy at the register. As I waited in line, I quickly rolled the die with the question: "1-10, I ask the guy if I can hump the mannequin. 11-20, I don't." The die came up 4. Curse the fates!
I asked the guy at the register if I could hump the mannequin, and surprisingly he said yes. "Thank you Boccob, god of magic, arcane knowledge, balance and foresight," I said as I moved into position. As I briefly humped the mannequin, the nice man instructed me to be careful since the thing cost "somethin' like twenty fi hunded." He then offered to take a picture of me reaching for her rather firm feeders of babies and small men +2. It was a happy moment, even without condoms.
I drove home and quickly broke into the 20-pack of Bud Light (a redneck favorite), rolling the die while asking "How many?" It landed on 10. That wasn't out of the question physically, but it was a school night. I hadn't been in school since the turn of the century, but my 05:00 wake up call was going to come early.
I threw caution to the broken wind, and proceeded to enjoy the 10 beers that the die had instructed, while watching re-runs of Golden Girls on DVD. I awoke some time around 03:00 with bits of carpet stuck to my face and a cramp in my left deltoid. This day was going to be tough, but I was committed to the experiment.
Following my mundane morning routine, all performed with a Kirstie Alley-sized headache, I drove to work. The experiment was going badly. I needed a head transplant, or I was going to end up throwing my dice at a homeless prostitute.
I considered my results so far. Rolling dice as you purchase something, or talk to someone, really makes you look weird. Most people are confused and some are actually angry -- not at the dice, but at you taking pictures afterward. "What would happen, however, if I were to dress like a D&D character, then roll the dice?" I asked myself. "Would society finally accept my probabilistic lifestyle?"
Every time I've faced a difficulty in life, I've found it best to dress up up as a combination of a superhero and retarded dwarf, then dry hump the nearest mannequin until someone tells you to stop. This time was no different.
Next: The Finale!
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