Me and The Mall Cop
Since the dawn of time, memes have been circulating around the world. From "Kilroy was Here" to the latest meme on Instagram. However, with every good meme, there is a bad meme. And with every bad meme, there is a shit meme. Dat Boi, doge, and others have been circulating in the bowels of the Internet, such as Facebook and clone Vine websites. These memes are dead, but people still use them. Why? Nobody knows.
However, when all the planets are aligned with a total lunar eclipse, one special meme rises from the graves. He's 290 lbs, he works in a Las Vegas mall as a mall cop, and has hypoglycemia. His name is Paul Blart, and he's the legendary King of Shit Memes. Memologists studied this anomalous man since the release of the 2009 film. However, after 2015, he disappeared.
But this is not the story of an obese mall cop, this is the story of me, a 19-year old college student. I am a sophomore in the University of Delaware, and work in a local Wawa as a janitor. Terrible job, I am aware. But hey, I get hoagies.
So, why did I bring up shit memes? Well, it all happened in July 2017, when I got a copy of Paul Blart 3.
Chapter 1: The Bootleg
April 17, 2017. I loved thrift-shopping, so with $50 in my wallet, I went down to a couple of Goodwills. You never know what you can find in this fancy lil' store. I found VHS tapes of Super Bowl commercials back in the 90s, and even an Xbox 360. Granted, the white piece of plastic didn't work, but the tapes were enjoyable.
But it was that day, when things were peculiar. I got a PlayStation 3 for $39.99 with a copy of God of War II for $5.00. I was scanning for some movies to watch with this new game console, but there was nothing special. Shit movie, shit movie, German porno, and fucking Jillian Michaels exercise DVDs everywhere. It was an unlucky day, of course, but there was one movie that caught my eye. It was a cheap jewel case, with the only piece of labeling was the Goodwill sticker: $1.00. Just for curiosity, I checked the case. A burned single-layered DVD, with the title "PAUL BLART 3". It was more clichéd than a Jeff the Killer fanfiction, and I chuckled at the sight of this stupid little disc. But hey, $1. Nothing is lost when the only other options for DVDs are Adam Sandler films or a fucking exercise program with a screaming tiger of a woman. So I bought the bootlegged DVD, hoping there was some entertainment value.
I arrived home, with all of my content in a plastic bag. I hooked up the PlayStation on my television, and it worked like a charm. Sweet. With that out of the way, I played God of War 2. It was a fun game, spent a couple of hours or so on it. I don't know how long I was playing, but before I knew it, it was 9:00 PM. Dinner time. I cooked myself a cheese sandwich, and I plop the bootleg in the PS3.
The movie was nothing special. It was no story of Ben, or a man in black. It was just Paul Blart: Mall Cop 2 with Arabic subtitles that you can't turn off. Oh well. After watching the movie, I turned off and went to bed. 94 minutes wasted, it was not funny, and it was shitty. Now that I think about it, I wasted a dollar on a terrible movie with Kevin James. However, out of all the times I could've watched the movie, it was the day the planets were aligned. It was the day of Blart.
According to memeologists, whoever watches a Paul Blart film on the day of Blart, they are cursed, and are forever known as the Prince of Shit Memes. They will obey under the King, and if one does not kill the person that cursed them with the DVD within 24 hours, their soul is taken away by the Meme God Duane to Meme Hell, and their bodies will be nothing but automatons. Automatons that go on Facebook and post unfunny memes. What a horrible way to die.
Chapter 2: The Arrival of a Mall Cop
Midnight, April 18, 2017. I was browsing memes on my iFunny account, chuckling at the shit that I see. They were mostly reposts, but they were funny, I guess. After downloading a couple dozen memes into my folder, I heard a knock at the front door. Strange, I don't recall having guests, let alone at midnight. Nevertheless, I checked it out. I open the door, not expecting who or what to expect.
"Evening, sir."
Either I was high as a kite from a nonexistent drug, or I am hallucinating from sleep deprivation. I shook my head, hoping Paul Blart goes away. He didn't. In my mind, I was conflicted whether or not if I should scream, run, or both, but before I could do anything, he spoke again.
"Sir? Are you alright? You seem dazed."
It was not easy to grasp, but the fact that this obese man with the glued mustache on his face, riding on a Segway, is in front of me, in the entrance of my home. Eventually, I gather enough words to make a sentence.
"Y-You're Paul Blart.."
He nods humbly, as if this was not the first time he encountered such a reaction. Without a word, he grabs a scroll out of his pocket. It was crushed, of course, due to his weight. Nevertheless, he hands it to me, with a look of encouragement. Like a fragile origami, I carefully handle the scroll, and meticulously unravel it to see what is inside. The scroll was not written in English, rather in a foreign language in a typography I cannot recognize. "What is this? I cannot read it." I ask, hoping for an answer. He respond with an equivalent level of confusion. "I don't know. It is a language I am not familiar with. I gave it to you because I assumed that you would know what it means." I double-check the scroll, hoping if there was anything that I can recognize.
⏁⍜ ⏚⟒ ⌰⟟⎎⏁⟒⎅ ⎎⍀⍜⋔ ⏁⊑⟒ ☊⎍⍀⌇⟒ ⍜⎎ ⏚⌰⏃⍀⏁, ⍜⋏⟒ ⋔⎍⌇⏁ ☍⟟⌰⌰ ⏁⊑⟒ ⌿⟒⍀⌇⍜⋏ ⍙⊑⍜ ☌⏃⎐⟒ ⏁⊑⟒ ☊⎍⍀⌇⟒.
Then, epiphany! I knew a friend that was a linguist, who could probably decipher it. Subconsciously, I invite the mall cop inside. He followed without hesitation. However, before I call my friend, there was an important question that I forgot to ask. "Mr. Blart, why are you here? You're only a fictional character, played by a terrible actor." The second I asked the question, he makes a grimace, as if this is not a topic that can be trifled with. He sits down on my couch, with a whump and a creak, and reluctantly answers the question.
"Ever heard of a doppelgänger, kid? That is who I am, or what I think I am. I do not know who or what created me. A few hours ago, I woke up in someone's backyard, and a guy threatened to shoot me! So, I hopped on my Segway and drove away, far away from that guy. And while I was driving on this road, I felt this feeling; a strange feeling, I might add, to come to your house. And..." he sighs, "Now I'm here."
Baffled by this bizarre backstory, I had no comment. I ponder what to say, but I instinctively reply with a soft "Welcome to my home." With nothing else to say, I contact my friend, Ryan, on my phone. He was not pleased.
"Karl... Why the FUCK are you calling me at midnight?!"
Startled by his exclaimation, I stumbled my words. "I-I need your help. Please come over. Paul Blart is in my home, and he gave me a scroll with a language that he didn't know."
"Paul Bla-, what are you talking about? He is not re-" Out of nowhere, Paul interrupts Ryan and exclaims, "Excuse me, do you have any Skittles?" Ryan heard him, "He's real, is he?" "Yes, he is. And could you buy some Skittles? I don't have any." Ryan was silent for a while, and reluctantly accept the offer, and hung up. I look back at Paul. "Skittles? Out of all food and beverages, you want that?" He was slightly embarassed, "I have hypoglycemia. I need sugary food."
Oh my God, this is going to be one long night.
Chapter 3: The Deciphering
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