I received my new license plates in the mail today. Behold, the power of Kato.

Try to contain your envy, I know it must be hard to bask in my complete and total awesomeness.

When I was in high school in the mid-nineties, there was a popular comedy television program on NBC, "The Peacock" network. You might have heard of it, it was called Seinfeld. As a joke, my friends decided they would incorporate me into a little reenactment of a recent episode entitled "The Fusilli Jerry" (original air-date: April 27, 1995). Of course, I was not made aware of this little fact. That would have ruined the joke, now wouldn't it?

As I walked out in to the parking lot that day, I was surrounded by friends. This wasn't particularly unusual, but I wasn't sure why they felt the need to walk me to my car that day. Just being polite? Seems unlikely. Stretching their legs? I don't think so. Maybe it was because they were coming over to my folks' place to hang out right after school. That must have been it, it only makes sense.

I hopped in my car ('84 Sunbird, for those that care), started her up, and drove off. The aforementioned friends did likewise, and soon we had a small convoy leaving the parking lot. A short time later (some 15 minutes, I lived close to the school), I arrived at my parents' place, which was where I lived too, but seeing as how I was a teenager and didn't own the property nor did I pay rent, it seems unfair to call it "my place". Immediately behind me were my ragtag band of followers, and before I could even shut off my engine they were out of their vehicles and at my car door. I didn't think much of it, and I had probably lingered a few moments after parking, listening to the last verse of a rap by Dr. Dre or Snoop D-O-double-G.
I got out of my car and was practically escorted into the house. Of course I say this with the clarity of hindsight--at the time it was nothing other than my friends flanking me while they engaged me in distracting conversation. The day was warm and school was out, and I suspected nothing.

The jig was up when I stepped outside later on (for reasons I don't recall).

You see, in the Seinfeld episode "The Fusilli Jerry", Kramer goes to the DMV to pick up his license plates and somehow ends up with ones intended for a local proctologist. My friend thought it would be highly amusing to print up said license plate on a piece of paper and tape it over my real one. When I saw what was done, everything fell into place like the recap montage in the closing minutes of a suspense film. They delayed me in the lunchroom so someone could perform the dastardly act without me interrupting them. In the parking lot, someone always stood between me and the plate so I wouldn't see it. When I got home, they were right behind me, setting the pick so that it would continue to remain a clever secret. They rushed me inside to prolong the gag. Well orchestrated this plan was, like the plot-line of any television show where the main character looks like they have joined the bad guys but it turns out they were just trying to bring them down from the inside. And what, pray tell, did my new license plate read? Well, what do you think a proctologist would have on his plates: ASSMAN.

That's right, ladies: I'm Kato Katonian, The Assman.