"Bum Bashing"

Hank and Jimmy were the biggest bullies in our high school. They were the stereotypical “bad kids.” They wore lots of black baggy clothes and had multiple facial piercings. Hank even had a tattoo of a Chinese character on his forearm before it was a fad.

(Of course nowadays, since he wasn’t Asian, he might be accused of cultural appropriation, though it’d be hard to picture anyone saying that to his face.)

The two were inseparable, and if it weren’t for the rumor about Hank raping a drunk girl, on a sofa, at a party, it might have been thought the two were lovers.

The two were always beating up on nerds, scrawny kids, foreigners. There was a pudgy little Indian kid named Kartique (pronounced “Karta-kay”) and they’d kick the crap out of him, call him “Farta-kay” and steal his lunch money, damn near every day.

The worst I heard about them (well, maybe second to the raping) was that the two liked to go “bum bashing.”

Bum bashing, I didn’t even know what that was until my friend Tim filled me in.

“Bum bashing is when people go out, normally under the cover of night, and beat the shit out of bums, homeless,” Tim told me, in the cafeteria, as he chomped on a corndog.

Tim had gone on to say that Hank and Jimmy would allegedly carry baseball bats, pipes, hammers, whatever blunt object they could get their hands on, and then they’d set off in the night, find homeless sleeping rough in parks or in alleys and then savagely beat the ever-living shit out of the vagrants.

Tim and I then joked about dispensing a healthy helping of vigilante justice on the pair. Maybe slapping an electromagnet at Hank and Jimmy’s faces, watching it vacuum off their facial piercings. Then we talked about flinging gasoline on them, as they stood behind the gym, smoking cigarettes, setting the fuckers on fire.

We fantasized about numerous horror movie scenarios, numerous gruesome ways to murder the two. Even though they never picked on us as much as other kids, still, Jimmy had punched me in the stomach once and stole my Chicago Bulls stocking cap and Harry had slammed Tim’s head into a locker and stolen his Gameboy.

Yup, even though I already despised them, hearing about their penchant for “bum bashing” pissed me off to no end.

For real though, despite stinking worse than a bus station bathroom, the homeless in our city were mostly harmless. Most were elderly, with mental problems, many were Vietnam veterans. I always felt for those vets, too, since I’d had an uncle killed in ‘Nam.

For real though, those veterans deserved better. Dammit, that was the last thing they deserved, getting beaten on by those two snickering shitheads. The more I thought about it, the more my blood boiled.

 

Soon after that cafeteria chat, I saw a story on the evening news about a homeless man, in his 70s, who’d been found, beaten to death, not far from our high school. I’d suspected the perpetrators to be Hank and Jimmy. But I didn’t have any proof, aside from the rumor I’d heard. However, I’d considered calling the police.

As much as I hate snitching, murder, especially that of a senior citizen, now that’s fucked up, and the more I pondered it, the sicker I felt, and I contemplated calling the cops and leaving an anonymous tip.

But I decided not to after I heard the news.

 

It was a damp, chilly and foggy Monday morning, and I got to school late after missing the bus. My friend, Tim, who was my only friend, really, back then, had seen me in the hallway, between classes, and he ran up to me, giddy as can be. His breath smelled strongly of mint chewing gum.  

“Hey, you hear about Hank and Jimmy?” he asked, his eyes bulging and blazing with excitement.

Shaking my head, “Nah, what about those asshats?” I asked.

“They were out wilding last night, slashing tires, breaking windows, beating up on bums. But, like, a younger homeless veteran spotted them wailing on an old guy in a cardboard box, and the veteran ran over, went fucking Chuck Norris on the pair, beat the both of them... bad… Beat ‘em bad, I mean, reeeeeeal bad. Hank’s neck is broken. Dude might never walk again... And Jimmy… Yo… Jimmy is dead…”

“Dead?”

“Dead. Got his skull caved in. And the veteran is in jail.”

I lacked the language to respond, I was so floored by the news. Jimmy was the first person my age I knew who’d died. Even though I despised him, still, his sudden, violent death hit me like a gut punch.

 

Hank showed up to school, a couple months later. But he wasn’t the same guy. He was emaciated. He had these heavy bags under his eyes, making him look almost like a raccoon. He kept quiet and was transferred to the “special needs” classes, where he sat with the mentally retarded kids. Later that summer, he was convicted of the murder of the old homeless man, and was charged as an adult, sentenced to a lengthy prison term.

The young veteran pled guilty to lesser charges and got off relatively lightly, with only a short prison sentence.

I’m not inclined, usually, to believe in karma, but sometimes, sometimes I wonder…

 

 

"Oh Shit! I Shot My Teacher!" by Kim Cancer

SLEEP, EAT, FUCK, CLICK:

OH SHIT!

"The Tibetan: Tashi གསུམ་ (3)"

 

My time at the camp flew by. Perhaps because every day was exactly the same. In my dormitory, with 20 other men, we’d be awoken by airhorns at 5 a.m., tidy up our bunk beds, wash up, stand upright for a roll call, then go to the canteen, eat, then go to the classroom, study Maoism, Communism, study Mandarin, study the PRC Constitution, Chinese history, and watch propaganda videos.

Every lesson would begin and end with us passionately singing patriotic songs. Our teachers were police officers; all of them old, cagey, and having serious, sunken, grim facial features, with loads of bluish spots around their thin, jagged faces.

Then, after classes, we’d have lunch, which was the biggest meal of the day. It was standard Chinese fare, rice, noodles, meats, fried everything… I must admit that the food at the camp was surprisingly tasty. This was undoubtably due to the kitchen staff receiving specialized culinary training in preparation for posts at 5-star hotels, high-end restaurants, and military bases throughout China.

Following lunch, afternoons were spent doing light labor around the camp- cleaning, landscaping, farming. Everyone had an assigned task. Some were assigned to a factory on the site that produced children’s toys.

After dinner, we’d take evening exercise, usually running, walking, or marching in place. This was followed by nightly assemblies, where speakers, generally police or low-ranking party members, would deliver motivational speeches or we’d be shown propaganda films. Afterward, we’d return to our bunks and wash up before lights out.

Most there, including myself, followed the program. I told them what they wanted to hear. I read the propaganda with gusto. There were few who resisted. I only saw one who talked back to a guard, in the canteen, and he was beaten severely by that guard and the guard’s guard comrades. The guards made a point of beating him in front of us, kicking and lashing the man, who’d crumpled up and sobbed into a defensive ball on the canteen’s white linoleum floor.

There were “points” we could earn for informing on a fellow prisoner, points which could help us possibly get released early. But I never saw or heard of anybody doing anything suspicious or subversive. And I don’t think I’d tell if I did, although I might have had to, because if I didn’t, there were also penalties you could receive if you didn’t tell the guards about suspicious or illegal, immoral behavior.

So I kept quiet and avoided any unnecessary interactions with my fellow prisoners. I kept my head down. I followed orders.

 

Now and then, at night, if I couldn’t sleep, I’d lie in my bunk and would reflect on what my grandfather had said, about this being karma, Tibet’s punishment for abandoning the dharma. Would this be atonement? Keeping quiet? Shouting Chinese slogans? I hoped so. But most of the feelings, ideas I had soon died. My mind went quiet. My soul was numb, like my back and shoulders had turned when I was beaten. I stopped having feelings and allowed my place, my spot in the universe to be whatever it would be. I surrendered…

 

At my release hearing, I was praised as a model prisoner. I was assigned a job as a tour guide, which shocked me, because it was nothing I’d ever done before. But I realized that if they feared the foreigners receiving bad news about Tibet, I would be the perfect person to not spread bad news, since I was fully aware of bad news’ and rumors’ consequences.

Once I’d returned home, my family, my wife, and young daughter, were overjoyed to see me. Springing at me with soft puppy dog eyes when I walked in the door of my home, they hugged me tightly. We cried tears of joy and anguish. I hadn’t seen them in three years. 

We’ve never once discussed why I was gone. There’s no need. Others in my village have had the same experience. Many remain in the camps. I know how lucky I am to return. Buddha is merciful…

 

Tibet is often closed for foreigners, so most of the time, I’m in my office, which is on the second floor of a government complex, just outside the city. The complex is enormous. It’s a long horizontal line, a series of identical square, glassy concrete office buildings. However, most of the buildings and offices in the complex sit empty, unused...

I’m often sitting alone in my office, watching soccer, or I’m with a Chinese coworker from down the hall. I don’t know what his job is, and I’ve never asked. He doesn’t appear to work much or ever be in a hurry. Many days, he doesn’t show up to work at all.

There’s a Tibetan security guard I play cards with, in my office. We smoke cigarettes and chat. Our talks are always about European soccer. He hinted once at gambling on matches, but I pretended to not hear it.

I collect a regular government salary, which is generous, more than I earned as a teacher. I’ll have a good pension. My family receives state healthcare. Life’s okay.

The foreigners they assign me are almost always curious to know about Tibet, its culture, history, but few ask about politics. Many ask me to help them buy drugs. They think every Tibetan smokes hash. I’ve never smoked anything but cigarettes.

Occasionally a foreigner will ask about the Dalai Lama or a sensitive issue; they’ll twist their eyebrows into question marks, speak in hushed tones, innuendos, expecting me to utter a revelation, picking at me for something they can post to Facebook. But I don’t answer any of the foreigners’ questions that would have me in trouble. I avoid unnecessary interactions. I stick to the script. What would it matter anyway? What would it matter if I spilled my guts to one of these snow-skinned, yellow-haired, blue-eyed men or women?

My grandfather told me that the world knows of Tibet’s plight. I read of it online, too. I read of it before, in an internet café, when we could access foreign media sites. I’d use the BBC, YouTube to study English, to gather learning materials for my classes. I saw articles about Tibet. Maybe they still speak of Tibet, I don’t know. I can’t access those sites anymore. They’ve been shut down.

And these days, I wouldn’t even try to find them. In a neighboring village, a college student was recently arrested for selling VPN software that enabled users to bypass China’s internet censorship controls, allowed access to foreign news. For his crime, he was sentenced to two years of hard labor…

Not only is foreign media banned, but there are times, too, around holidays or anniversaries, the entire Internet is shut down for a day or week…

Does the world know about Tibet? Does the world know of our plight? Does the UN know? Yes, of course they do! The world knows everything about us. They know about our leader, His Holiness, The Dalai Lama. They know that it’s illegal to place a picture of the Dalai Lama anywhere, even in our private homes. They know it’s illegal to fly the Tibetan national flag, even in our private homes. They know. They know! 

They know what’s happened here and what is happening here. But, to be frank, they do not care. No one cares about Tibet. Most Tibetans don’t care anymore. Our youngest children can barely speak Tibetan. Tibetan language has been banned in schools. There are Tibetan children in Lhasa who only speak Chinese. There are children in Lhasa who call themselves Chinese.

And no one cares. No one cares. The world has turned its back on us.

Tibet is a country that doesn’t even exist. We’re just ghosts. 

 

"Killing Mr. Potato Head"

 

The evening’s reception was a resounding success. There must have been over 100 people in attendance!

Smiling through sweet sips of champagne, Mr. Wu gazed proudly around the pristine reception hall. The place was nothing short of immaculate, with its teak walls, jade sculptures, marble-top tables, and crystal chandeliers...

Mr. Wu drew in a deep breath. Then he nodded in satisfaction, and his eyes twinkled as he soaked in the sights and smells of the feast, and his ears perked up at the clinking of wine glasses, hum of chatter, and choruses of laughter.

This was it. His years were coming to fruition. He’d bought a big house and a fancy car. He’d married a beautiful woman and had a beautiful baby. Yes. This was it. He was on his way to being a true tiger. He could see it now. The IPO, the private planes, Swiss bank accounts, luxury ski trips, interviews on TV. It was happening. By Buddha, it was happening!

 

Mr. Wu’s daughter, Lin, eyed her father with disgust. Her eyes blazing as she sat rooted to her chair. Watching her father drink and be merry, it made her sick. Watching him brag about “his” business… Ugh, it boiled her blood.

Lin hated everything about her father, starting with his personality. She hated him as a person, first and foremost. But she also really hated his appearance. Particularly his head. The shape of his head, it was weird. It was like a big, boiled egg, like his face was just a drawing on a boiled egg. Oh, and the way his forehead slopes at too sharp an angle, like a ramp, as it curves to his scalp, to her, that was also highly unnerving.

Not only did he have a big stupid weird head, but she hated his short legs and arms too. With his short legs and arms and big bald head, her father reminded her, unflatteringly, of a Mr. Potato Head doll.

How could any woman be with a man like that, she’d pondered, in dismay… She’d suspected her mother had had an affair. That he wasn’t her real father.

God, she really hoped he wasn’t.  

 

Mr. Wu’s wife, Shan, sat by his side, like always, steeped in silence. While Mr. Wu bloviated, Shan incessantly checked her phone, tapped on her tablet, kept track of products, sales, and clients. Shan was a shrewd, serious, silent, and solemn woman. A woman with eyes like crystal balls. A woman with eyes that always appeared to be staring directly at you, like an Andy Warhol painting.

Shan was a woman of few words. But when she spoke, her words were elegant and refined, shot at measured clips.

And when she spoke, people listened. 

 

Lin glowered at her father, thinking of ways to kill him. She’d most enjoy murdering him with a blunt object of some sort, she fantasized. To feel the flaying of his flesh… To feel his bones breaking as she beat him to death... His big stupid head bursting and squishing open like a watermelon…

God, she hated her father. She hated him more than anyone. It was a secret hate, though, one she’d never confessed. It was a secret hate that manifested itself in fits of silence, lack of eye contact, and, during college, a series of online “hookups” with older men, of varying ethnicities.

She’d read once that a woman’s first relationship with a man is the father/daughter relationship, how that sets the tone for all future relationships with men.

The mere thought of that made her want to jump off a bridge.   

 

 

As usual, they left before the drinking games began. Above them hung an inky-black, starless sky, featuring only a fuzzy outline of its low-hanging crescent moon, and Lin and Shan crossed through the parking lot, in lockstep, arm in arm, stepping swiftly in the heavy cold and its growing darkness.

Shan clutched Lin’s arm tighter. Her opal eyes bulged. Then she peered around, panoramically, and swung her gaze, touched her lips to Lin’s left ear, and whispered in wet hot pulses that perhaps the car had been bugged. That Lin’s father had possibly planted a listening device in the vehicle’s dashboard.

The pair swallowed their words, piled into the Porsche. Their ride home featuring a symphony of sighs, sign language, screenshots and knowing nods.  

 

It was just past midnight when Mr. Wu stumbled home, stinking drunk. His unwelcome arrival like a sudden nosebleed. His arrival announced as he slammed the door, shaking the house’s foundations. In a form of mimicry, a madman’s cries cut the air, and he was acting the fool, kicking the couch, shouting incorrigibly.  

Shan, her face twisted in broken sleep, padded forward, her arms crossed defensively over her chest.

In a red flowery bathrobe, she descended the winding staircase.

The noise hushed into gaping silence. But only for a minute or two. Then the screams began, grew louder, shriller. Shan’s pained shrieks echoing, piercing the character of the night, rousting Lin out of bed.

 

Lin groggily stepped down the winding staircase. Then a frisson of fear passed over her like an electric current. Words were dead and meaningless as she laid weary eyes on her father, Mr. Potato Head… Mr. Potato Head all red-faced, in the atrium, gripping a brick-shaped butcher knife. Mr. Potato Head pinning her mother against the double door. Mr. Potato Head pressing the blade of the knife to her mother’s throat.  

Lin ran to the kitchen, grabbed the first blunt object she saw- a frying pan from off the stovetop- then dashed into the atrium, and cocked back the frying pan like a baseball bat and whapped her father upside his horrible big bald head.

 

Mr. Wu grunted, and the air left his lungs as he dropped the knife, the knife landing with a clink on the hardwood floor. Then Mr. Wu crouched and wallowed in pain, cupping his hands defensively over his skull, and he waddled sideways like a crab, in a lame attempt to escape the oncoming blows.

Lin continued to hammer at her father’s big stupid head with the frying pan, hitting him again and again. The pan clanking as it beat at his skull, the metal reverberating in high-pitched jangles, like a blacksmith hitting hot iron.

Lin lost herself in the violence. It felt so good. Her serotonin surged. Bashing her father’s big bald head was such a release, such a huge release that it was almost orgasmic.

It was the first time she’d ever fought back against her father. After everything he’d done. And there’d been a lot he’d done. There’d been countless slaps and shoves. There’d been countless threats. He’d beat her, her mother with impunity. He’d belittled them. He’d been such a tyrant.  

But that was ending. Ending now. And Lin let a bloodcurdling, celebratory howl. And she swung the pan harder and harder, heaving it at her father’s horribly ugly head, which was gushing blood and beginning to resemble a pepperoni pizza, the way his yellow skin was peeling back over his skull to reveal thick clumpy red patches.

 

Mr. Wu lay unconscious. Shan then tugged Lin away, hugged and comforted her. Lin dropped the blood-splattered pan, curled and cried into her mother’s bosom.

Lin begged her mother to finish him off. It could be self-defense. They could finally break free of him.

Shan gently broke their embrace. Shook her head. Rubbed her red face and stared off into the unknown distance, wistfully.

 

Mr. Wu woke up late the next morning, in the anteroom, his head throbbing and pulsing, his skull feeling like someone was tap-dancing on it.

He pushed himself up from the floor, lurched into the kitchen. No one was there.

Then he moved slowly and lifelessly, like a zombie, making his way into the backyard, where he threaded through the freshly planted rose garden, and he purposely stomped on a few budding plants.

The garden led him to the bean-shaped, empty swimming pool, and he circled the swimming pool, the bright blue crater, a few times, unsure what he was looking for. Perhaps someone just to tell him what happened to his head, and why he’d awakened, on the floor, in a crown of blood.

 

 

"A Visit to the Dalai Lama's House"

 

Aside from the Jokhang Temple, Lhasa wasn’t as crowded or peopled as Hong Kong. Perhaps there aren’t a whole lot of people who’d want to live in a place that high off the ground. I wasn’t sure how people could live there, really, living up in the sky like that.

Back in Hong Kong, I’d read an article about how Tibetans had evolved differently than other humans, developing special genes and anatomies that enabled them to survive at a higher altitude. Their very existence, like, an example of Darwinism, these people of the skies…

The Tibetans were interesting people, man. They had a different appearance to them than the Chinese. They were something of a hybrid between the Indians, with their shorter stature and dark brown skin, and Chinese, with slanted eyes.

Visiting different spots around the city, I noticed immediately how friendly they were, the Tibetans. And I’d laugh at how the street peddlers would cajole us, some even trying, absurdly, to wrangle us, pull us into their street side stall, so they could sell us tchotchkes, sweets, or whatever they had sitting under canopies or large umbrellas.

I didn’t know what they were saying since most were speaking Tibetan to us. But it was obvious they were hawking their wares, pointing to things, shoving them in our faces. It was comical, really.  

Although, man, it was sad, some of the street beggars we saw. There was a time or two, when a beggar, holding a little baby, would literally hoist up the baby and thrust it at us, while pleading for money. Welshman said not to be fooled by it, however, because, apparently, in parts of Asia, there’s a “baby renting” racket, where “professional” beggars will rent a baby for a day, to elicit sympathy…

There were little kid street beggars, too, skittering around. One beggar, looking no more than 6 years old, ran up to our group, wrapped himself around the tall lanky Londoner’s leg and wouldn’t let go until the guy gave the kid a couple bucks. It felt more like a form of emotional extortion to me… But really, it was sad, man, to see that level of poverty, to see little kids doing that…

I mean, dude, I grew up rich. I pretty much grew up in a castle. The worst thing I could remember witnessing was a friend in summer camp, on a hike, stumble into a beehive, and get swarmed by angry waves of bees, stung up and down his back. I was roughly 20 feet away, viewed the horrific scene as we trekked up a path, by a clearwater mountain stream. I remember the bees, the buzzing mass, the hovering shadow encircle and swallow him in its clutches, the army of flying insects jabbing and stinging at him as he wallowed, his voice cracking in misery, pain and terror.

Amazingly, he didn’t die. But his back, his face, and his arms and legs were swollen, sheeted in red lumps. Dude looked almost like the Elephant Man... It was ill…

That was likely the worst, saddest thing I’d ever seen in person. But I’d never seen such wide-scale suffering until I traveled to the developing world. I had never seen truly grinding, truly generational poverty. I had never seen such inequity, corruption and failure of leadership until I traveled to Latin America, parts of Asia, the Middle East, Africa. Man, it was fucking visceral, seeing that. Seriously, like, I’d take the worst slum, the worst neighborhood in America, any day, over the slums I saw. Americans really don’t understand how some people are living.

I remember, as a kid, seeing that fat lady in those infomercials, pleading for money to feed starving African children. I didn’t see her anywhere, in my travels. I was thinking maybe I’d spot her in some slum, on the outskirts of a city, filming an infomercial. But I didn’t. I remember that we’d always joked, my friends and me, that she’d been eating all those kids’ food, or she was like a cannibal or some shit, kidnapping and eating the kids. But after seeing those places, for real, all that became less funny. I wonder what happened to that lady. I don’t know.

But, seriously, man, like I really became aware of how fortunate I was, in so many ways, after traveling the world, for real…

Most of the Tibetans we came across had obviously not traveled much outside of Tibet. Most had obviously never seen white people before, with how they were looking at us, gazing at us in wide-eyed, happy amazement. The rural, farmer types in particular. They’d point, wave, stare at us. Here or there one would speak to us, in Tibetan, smiling and asking us questions.

Welshman whispered to me something about how it was a far cry from the first foreigners who’d visited Tibet and were hissed at and spit on. Nope, we were treated far better, thankfully…

When the Tibetans would speak to us, wave, say stuff in Tibetan, we’d just smile back, shrug our shoulders. Our tour guide, you might have thought, would have translated some, but he kept quiet, dour-faced as always; his lips firmly pressed together at all times.

As he led us around, his hard face betrayed little emotion, and he kept his eyes fixed to the ground or in a straight line toward our destination. He only translated when a transaction of cash was necessary, like at restaurants or buying entrance tickets to temples or if we wanted help purchasing a souvenir.

 

It was striking, to me, how positive most of the locals’ attitudes were, given the circumstances, and how much random people on the street smiled.

I only knew a bit of the history. I’d read online, before we came, how the Communist Chinese had invaded Tibet, occupied it since the 1950s and declared it a part of China, how they expelled the Dalai Lama, considered him a terrorist. To the Chinese, the Dalai Lama was like Osama Bin Laden. It was all strange to me, seeing that I’d always viewed the Dalai Lama as a peaceful, friendly old man.

I’d read too that the Chinese had even banned the Dalai Lama from being reincarnated. Man, the Chinese had things in Tibet so locked down that they controlled reincarnations! I wondered how that worked, if the Chinese government had paranormal police, like the Ghostbusters, and if the Dalai Lama’s ghost would be thrown into a paranormal prison, a purgatory of some sort. I couldn’t quite figure that one out. The communists are weird, man. 

 

Speaking of the Dalai Lama, we were able to visit his house, the Potala Palace, which is an immense, mammoth red and white structure atop a hill, in the old city area of Lhasa.

Driving in and stepping out of the van, we tossed our heads back, gawked and gasped at the sight of the palace. The palatial structure towered and skied above us, sat imposingly with the sharp teeth of the Himalayas as its backdrop. Its grandiose appearance gave it a curious aura of seclusion, and to enter the palace, we had to trudge up a small mountain of steps that were almost like an unending stairway to the heavens.

Walking up the vertiginously ascending, zigzagging, endless flights of white stone stairs was like climbing an obstacle course, with how thin the air was. We were all parched, huffing and puffing, hands on knees, once we reached the stairs’ summit, but our moods were slightly lifted upon being greeted by the snow lion statues at the entrance. We then wordlessly panned our gazes, appreciated and soaked in the jaw-dropping views of the Tibetan plateau. 

In contrast to its bewildering façade, the palace felt curiously empty inside. But it was definitely worth seeing for its panoramic views of Lhasa and its environs. Not to mention the breathtaking, lush wooden architecture, columns, and inward sloping walls painted in iridescent reds, golds, and greens. The walls were beautifully decorated, too, meticulously painted in detailed Buddhist scenes and images. With the overall craftsmanship, scale of the 32-acre complex, with its 13 storeys and over 1000 rooms, one could easily understand its UNESCO status, designation as one of the “Wonders of the World.”

Despite its grandeur, there really was an empty feeling in being there, I thought. As if we shouldn’t be there. The palace was a graveyard of sorts, a house of ghosts, a place in enemy hands. It felt like Paris, the Eiffel Tower, during the Nazi years.

Just being a tourist there felt wrong, guilty in a way. I felt like a graverobber, like I was prying open and exploring an ancient tomb…

"The Welshman"

 

So my mom’s been spazzing… Man, she’s petrified about moving into the new house. Claims it’s haunted. It’s certainly haunted by bad vibes. There’s no doubt about that.

Everyone heard of what happened there. That kid going nuts and blasting his family, then attacking his school. Oh, and his trial, what a spectacle. They’d actually tried “demonic possession” as a defense. His lawyers even hired some quack to testify on his behalf. This quack was a famous ghost hunter, and he testified about his “examination” of the house and played, in the courtroom, these hissing and popping noises he’d recorded, claiming they were “voices of the dead.” The whole fucking shitshow was on TLC.

If you ask me, the “ghost hunter,” the quack, was just a clout chaser. He was trying to cash in on the tragedy. Look, he sold a book about it, went on TV shows afterward. He was an asshole, as far as I’m concerned, a bullshit artist, same as those psychics and mediums, those parasites who exploit misfortune, target the naïve, rake in blood money… Fuck him and fuck every one of his ilk…

I’m not sure if I believe ghosts are sentient beings. I imagine them more as forces and energy, but indifferent, not malevolent or benevolent. They’re basically the same as a gust of wind or the pull of gravity. They’re a part of nature.  

Ghosts make for fun flicks, though. I’ve watched a lot of horror movies. When I was younger, I’d be scared by that stuff, too. Carrie freaked me out. The frothing, fucking demonic bitch. I could have seen some lame chick I pumped and dumped going batshit like that. I could see her covered, head to toe, in blood, chasing me down a school hallway, shooting fireballs from her ass…

Nowadays, there are tons of Carries, right? Aren’t a lot of these kids, shooting up schools, a Carrie? It’s the revenge of the nerds out there. Nerds going homicidal. You know, like the middle school kid with dental headgear who got his face splashed in the toilet a couple years ago and then opened fire in the school cafeteria. Or that kid at a high school a few towns over, who got a banana shoved up his ass, at a houseparty, by jocks, and later went out and shot up a football game.

Carries, nerds. Man, don’t fuck with the nerds anymore…

But people still do. I bet they always will. It’s human nature, to fuck with people. And like nowadays, with the cyberbullying, it’s even worse. Like, remember the retarded kid with a lightsaber? That video went viral. Millions of people saw that. Millions of people saw and laughed at an 11-year-old retarded kid’s worst moment. It’s terrible. Really, it is. That kid will grow up to be a mass shooter or a serial killer or some shit.

Not that I’m innocent. We pranked lots of kids. We gave kids atomic wedgies. We did that shit. And the older kids did it to us. It’s a cycle. An ecosystem of abuse. But I never thought of anyone shooting up my school. We were fortunate that no one in our class was the type. But shit, if I’d been living in Colby Oswald’s neighborhood, right?

Yeah, dude, I was scared more of ghosts, as a kid, than school shooters. I believed in ghost stories, I believed in Slenderman and urban legends. I believed, at one point, for real, that if I said “Candyman” three times, into a mirror, Candyman would show up and kill me. And while I don’t believe in Slenderman or Candyman, anymore, I still sort of do believe in ghosts. But in a different way.

Look… my views changed. My outlook changed. I changed after I traveled the world…

That’s one thing I’m most proud of doing. Traveling the world. It’s one thing no one can ever take from you, your travels.

I remember hearing an interview with the rapper Lloyd Banks. He was once famous, on top of the charts. These days, he’s not, and an interviewer asked him about it, asking him euphemistically how he felt now that his time in the spotlight was over.

Banks, being cool as fuck, like he is, replied by saying something about how the money, fame, that comes and goes, but the experiences he had, especially traveling the world, that’s something no one can ever take from him.

And I feel that, man. I feel the same way.

Lloyd Banks, in that interview, was reminiscing, talking about visiting beaches made of volcanic sands, these black sand beaches, in the Canary Islands. Yo, I saw that too. I went there too, man. I actually saw that. I walked, barefoot, on volcanic sands. It was absurd...

Man, I floated in the Dead Sea. I strolled through areas of the Middle East that have been inhabited for over 10,000 years. I trekked through Aztec, Incan, and Mayan ruins in Central and South America. I chased after an alpaca that ran up and stole my phone with its mouth. I rode a donkey in the Andes Mountains. I hiked in the Amazon, went scuba diving in the Philippines, spearfishing in Tahiti. I visited the Roman Coliseum and the Eiffel Tower.   

As cool as all that is, the most spectacular place I’ve ever visited, and the most unforgettable, most transformative experience I ever had, without a doubt, has to be… Tibet.  

 

My perception of the world, of life, of virtually everything, changed, drastically, after I visited Tibet.

I’m lucky to have ever gotten in. Mere entry is strictly controlled. If you want to enter the country, and you’re not a Chinese citizen, you have to be part of a Chinese government-approved tour group, be part of a Chinese government-approved tour.  

I was fortunate enough to have joined such a tour group, along with a handful of travel buddies I’d made while staying in a hostel in Hong Kong. The idea was instigated by my bunkmate at the hostel, an older British “bloke,” this former S.A.S., heavy-drinking Welshman. Dude was fucking nuts. And cool as shit.

I mean like here we were, in this pub in Kowloon, and out of nowhere, his eyes bulge and he blurts out, “I want to climb Mount Everest naked…”

I thought it was a joke, that it was the beers talking. We really were shooting the shit, slamming pint after pint in that pub...

That pub. It was an authentically British place. The Brits seem to have a system, a network of British pubs, in every city in the world. I’m sure you’ve seen one. A place with pictures of soccer players and cricketers on the walls and Union Jack flags hanging from the rafters. This was one of those places… A place that served bangers and mash and pork pies and eggs and baked beans and black pudding and haggis and all the other weird shit the Brits eat.

Yo, I tell you, man, like I’d always heard British food was disgusting, but when I tried it, it was delectable. Traditional British food is far better than advertised… Just don’t ask what haggis or black pudding is made with…

Anyway, this crazy Welsh motherfucker was slugging down pints of Guinness. Using the side of his forearm to wipe away the froth from his thin lips, he starts getting serious, his face tightening, and he’s going on, writing an itinerary, plotting a voyage to the Himalayas. He proclaimed to have been to 82 countries, but said he never saw the Himalayas, never went to Tibet.

He was 43, he said, but looked 35 or so, and had a head full of scraggly blond hair. As with most Brits, he was shockingly pale, looking like he’d taken a bath in bleach.

Although he didn’t have any scars or wrinkles, aside from a couple light forehead creases, he did appear as the sort who’d been in his share of fights, had his share of drama, but, given his disposition, it was easy to picture his opponents faring far worse than him in any dispute. Dude was pretty jacked, I gotta say, looked like he pumped iron or did hundreds of push-ups every day. He had that natural, tensile type, corded musculature…

Yo, for real, how is it that so many of these army dudes stay ripped, even after they’re discharged? My Grandpa was like that. There’s something about what being in the army does to those guys…

But yeah, dude was bemoaning his traveling days coming to an end, confessing that he missed Wales. During his lamentations, with his face crinkling, and the way the neon light trickling in from the pub’s front window flashed off his face, I remember starting to think that he looked older and that I could see him being in his 40s.

At least I was able to understand him. His accent was clean. Unlike some of the other Brits I’d met, most notably the Scots.

Some guys from Glasgow, I could barely understand. Coolest people, funnest people in the world, the Scots, but I couldn’t comprehend what they were saying, half the time. I’m not even convinced what those Scots were saying was even really English. Maybe it was a kilt and bagpipes, fucking Gaelic language or something. Part of it was English, I’m sure. It sounded like English, anyway. I’d seen the film Trainspotting, so that helped. Too bad the real live Scottish people didn’t come with subtitles, though…

Oh, and I remember asking a couple Scots if they’d seen the Loch Ness Monster, and most of them just looked at me funny, shook their heads, though one responded that “I don’t think anyone’s ever seen it...”

Oh, man, fucking British people, they’re great. They say funny shit! Like, even if they’re mad and yelling, it still sounds funny, just because of how they talk. I’d always thought of the Brits as only being these tea-drinking, “posh,” jolly fucking Prince Harry, Lady Diana Jane Austen type of assholes. But nah, they get rowdy!

Especially around soccer, which I can understand, since it’s so boring. Those soccer hooligans, they gotta beat the shit out of somebody to make a game that stupid and boring into something more exciting. I can understand it.

Part of that must be related to the drinking. Those Brits get wild when they drink. You feed the Brits a few pints and all that stiff upper lip shit vanishes. And man, seriously, they drink hard. Like, having been in a frat, I saw heavy drinking, but the Brits, they were fucking animals. They took it to another level.

Oh man, they’re great. I loved those British guys. They were the best…

Tough bastards too. Lotsa shaven heads. Missing teeth. Ready to brawl in a minute. A real warrior culture over there. Like, that island, how fucking cold and rainy it is, you gotta be tough to live there.

I visited Britain, too, and loved it. It was so green, like even greener than the Irish Spring commercials, all the rolling hills, fucking Leprechauns hiding out there with pots of gold and shit. Oh, man, it was bucolic, truly beautiful, but those people are wild. They’re fucking animals.

Why don’t we get those sorts, the wild Brits in America? The “yobs” as they call them there... We don’t get those in America. We only get the goofy fucking Monty Python, Benny Hill, and John Oliver types or the classy types, like the Royals, and rich businesspeople, the “Excuse me, sir, might you have some Grey Poopah” riding in a Jaguar Brits, or the rock stars, or the Harry Potter magic wand waving Brits, or handsome Harry Styles or David Beckham soccer ball kicking motherfucker Brit.

The rest, they don’t get passports, probably. They do a good job keeping their animals hidden, caged up in that cold crazy island.

The UK doesn’t let its maniacs out. But America does. Any American abroad is likely either in the army or a criminal or evil businessman or all three. Or an escaped child molester. Or worse- a missionary. If you ever see an American abroad, run away! Nah, I’m only kidding. Sort of.

Some of the maniacs do escape Britain, though. I met a few maniacs, like the Welshman, traveling in Asia. And I have to say, they were pretty fucking cool.

 

Back to the Welshman, first time I met him, in my hostel. He was lying on the bunk above me, reading a book about the Korean War, and was wearing a t-shirt, a fucking t-shirt, and blue jeans, in the middle of winter. Dude had some big biceps, too, a pair of guns on him…

It was so cold then, too, in Hong Kong. This shit cold. This thickly humid cold. This damp cold. The cold was almost like a living force, a sinister, malignant being. It was everywhere and touching everything. I never experienced such nasty cold. It was miserable. And it was made much worse with the rainy, misty weather.

And then here was this Welsh dude, with this tattoo of a green dragon on his muscular arm, and he invites me out for pints and starts talking jokingly, then seriously about hitting Tibet. His sweet beer breath fogging over us, he was getting hyped up, his blue eyes bulging as he started talking about really going there, not to hike Mount Everest naked, but going on a legit tour.

Damn skippy, I’m with it. Tibet? The rooftop of the world? To me, it was the most exotic place imaginable. It was the farthest end of the Earth. I’d come to Asia without much of a plan, was just gonna bum around, check out different countries, and I was stoked to check out the wildest one possible…

We booked the ticket, tour from a travel agent nearby our hostel in Kowloon and left a few days later. It wasn’t the most opportune time to go, being winter, and colder than a witch’s cunt, but Tibet was open and way cheaper, at that time of year, so we seized the chance.

(Welshman said China would frequently close Tibet off around “sensitive” times of the year, like an anniversary of an uprising or holiday…)

 

Man, just flying into the place was a thrill. We flew first from Hong Kong to Chongqing.

Chongqing, somewhere in southwest China, was so foggy that, as we descended and approached the city, I could barely see anything from our plane’s windows until the black tongue of the airport runway appeared, almost magically, and mere seconds later we touched down with a hard bump.  

At the airport in Chongqing, we had a short layover, part of which I spent hitting on a cute young Chinese chick working at a souvenir stand. She was petite, with sky high cheekbones, big brown eyes, and straight shiny black hair reaching to her flat belly. She was wearing a tight red sweater and hugging blue jeans that complimented the curves of her flawlessly trim figure, and looking her over, I was starting to grasp the concept of “yellow fever.”

She spoke about 20 words of English, and I couldn’t speak a word of Chinese, but anything I said was making her laugh like I was a standup comedian. I asked for her number too, but she just kept laughing and giggling. I did the phone hand signals and everything. I don’t know if she didn’t understand or just didn’t want me calling her. Eventually I gave up and rejoined my travel crew, sat by them on a metal bench facing the gate.  

The Welshman swung his gaze at me as I sat down, and he snarled. With his snarling, his thin upper lip curling, his face reminded me a little of Sid Vicious. But like a blonder, older Sid Vicious. A wiser Sid Vicious. An in an airport in China middle-aged Sid Vicious. A Sid Vicious who hadn’t murdered his girlfriend and overdosed on smack. A Sid Vicious if he’d joined the S.A.S. instead of the Sex Pistols.  

I couldn’t really imagine Welshman doing smack, but I could see him murdering people. I could see him murdering lots of people. Shit, he was in the army, the S.A.S., so who knows how many bodies he had… I could see him in gully suits, running loose in jungles, jumping down from trees, his face slathered in green camo paint, all that Rambo sorta shit. Yeah, man, I probably didn’t even want to know the crazy military shit he’d done… Accordingly, I made a mental note to stay on his good side…

Welshman was sipping on a can of Coke, and he declared that Chinese chicks were hot; “fit” was the term he used. (“Fit” means “sexy” in spoken British.)

Though he warned me about Tibetan girls, proclaiming that Tibetan girls have hairy armpits and bad teeth, stinky breath. He was one to talk, really, considering his teeth were a train wreck, but his breath never stank, except of alcohol. His generalizations would have triggered people on Twitter, I bet. I sure hope he never took to tweeting.

He was tendentious, a skosh borderline racist to everyone, though; an equal offender of sorts, so I didn’t care, and again, he did frighten me a bit, so I kept quiet about his occasional inflammatory remarks…

"Super Bowl Loser"

 

“Super Bowl Loser”

 

I was so frigging scared I thought I might die. Anyone who tells you they weren’t scared or nervous, anxious before playing the Super Bowl, they’re full of crap. Everyone on the team was amped up. Our mouths were dry. Our hearts were pumping. I must have pissed 5 times before we hit the field. It was the biggest game of my damn life, everything I’d dreamed of since I was a little kid.

I didn’t sleep a wink the night before. I was running on fumes. It was pure adrenaline and passion. I was just so amped up…

But once I hit the field, it became another game. However, the hits were harder. A lot harder. The intensity was certainly higher, super-charged, really, but the game was no longer an idea, no longer a fear; it was a game. It was the game I knew well, every movement, every formation, everything was inside me, in a physical, damn near spiritual language. I was a cog in the team machine. And we were in motion. We were grinding, and I was pushing and moving as my body had for years.

Until the final drive. That was something else. I’d never been so excited in my life. The rush returned. My mouth was filled with salt. My mouth was like a damn desert, it was so dry.

And I felt alive, so goddamn alive! There was a divine power running through me, a feeling like some sort of superhuman strength, like when a mother can lift a 10,000-pound car to save her baby. This is how I felt. I think I could have picked up a semitruck and thrown it across an ocean. That was the energy I had. That was the voltage thumping and surging through me. A force of God was pumping through my veins.

I remember trotting onto the field after that long Super Bowl commercial timeout. I remember my eyes were squeezed to slits. In the huddle, I was shaking, I was so fricking amped! The crowd noise was deafening. I can still hear its hiss, like an airplane engine, I can hear it; it’s blurry, but I hear it. Goddammit, when I have the flashbacks, when I have the dreams, I hear… I hear the hiss...

We were playing in the Georgia Dome, and usually, for Falcons games, that place was quiet as a library, aside from when they pump in fake crowd noise, but for this game, this noise was real, and running like a power saw in my ears. This was the damn Super Bowl, and on that final drive, my ears were in pain. Dammit, I’m not lying, I think my eardrums were ready to bleed.

We were fighting, pushing and scrapping, charging our way down the field. I wasn’t letting their sack specialist DE have any piece of my QB. I was pancaking his bitch ass like nobody’s business. They talk about the NFL being a “family game,” but, let me tell you, the stuff that’s said on that field would make a nun faint.

And, dammit, you should have heard the trash talk in that game. Their superstar DE, goddamn, he was cussing, talking the worst trash talk I think I’d ever heard. He was talking about my mother. He was talking about my ugly horse face. He was calling me a fag and a bitch and a honky chickenshit motherfucker and everything under the sun.

He was one to talk. He was one ugly sumbitch. A teen wolf looking motherfucker, looking exactly like Michael J. Fox in that shitty 80s movie. The dude looked like a fucking werewolf, with his big buckteeth. I think he really was a goddamn werewolf. He was one mean man, a tenacious competitor. Hell, I hated the shit-talker but respected his game. He was fierce.

But I kept him in check. I pushed him off on every play. I was a wall, I was a man of steel, I was a barbed wire fence, I was standing taller than a wall surrounding a prison or an army base, dammit. I was Fort Knox.

Dammit, fucking dammit, I felt invincible that whole game. I didn’t allow a single sack. We scored 28 points. 28 points. It should have been enough. It should have been...

My senses were so heightened that game, that day. I’d played football my whole life, but I never really noticed the stink of the game. I’d never noticed the smell of piss, shit, vomit, sweat, farts, blood, any of those, probably because I’d be so super-focused on the game. But in that game, especially that final drive, my nostrils were flaring, burning with smells…

We were neck and neck the whole contest. Then they kicked a 52-yard field goal, right after the two-minute warning, and seized the lead.

Then… that last drive. It was magical, like it was in slow motion. We clawed down the field. Our QB was throwing bullets. He was throwing daggers. Precision passes. It was surgical. He was Tom Brady. He was Joe Montana. He was cold-blooded, sweating buckets of ice water. He was stoic. Methodical. Moving us like soldiers. Inching us forward, inching us forward, yard after hard-earned yard.

I was feeling it. I was tasting the champagne. It was that storybook ending. We were going to Disneyland. We were fucking going to Disneyland, I kept ensuring myself. It was my mantra… 

Then the last play, from the 15-yard line. Shotgun formation. Then the snap. Then the throw. The catch and the dive. The receiver wrestled down, the receiver reaching out his long wiry arm, touching the ball toward the goal line. From my vantage point, I thought he made it, I jumped up and roared. I thought we were going to goddamn Disneyland. I was there. I was on a float in a parade. I was in fucking Disneyland!

But when the refs waved it off... But when the refs shook their heads, when they shook their heads and slashed their arms, when the confetti fell and THEIR side ran hooting and jumping and dancing onto the field. I stood in disbelief for a couple minutes. I was thinking there had to be more time, one more play, just one play, just one more play, dammit, that’s all we needed.

I was frozen in shock for a couple minutes. My body seized up. Then the humiliation hit me, crashing over me like a wave of shit, like somebody had scooped out shit-water from a toilet and dumped it over my head.

Goddammit, we lost the Super Bowl. We lost the fucking Super Bowl. We’re the biggest losers in America. We’re the biggest losers in the world. Everyone, even people who don’t watch football, saw us lose. Everyone was at their Super Bowl parties, sitting on their couches, eating potato chips, drinking beers and pointing at us. Everyone was laughing at us.

We lost. We were fucking losers. We disappointed everyone. We’d have to go back to our city as losers. There would be no parade for us, only an empty, cold airport. There would be no afterparty, just a depressing hotel room. There’d be no champagne, no chummy interviews with the press. No fucking trip to Disneyland...

Dammit, the way the media guys in the locker room were speaking to us, sad faced and solemn, really, it was… as if we were at a funeral...  

The locker room after the game, it was dismal. You could hear a pin drop. Barely anyone said a word. A couple guys cried. The whole world saw us lose the Super Bowl. We were losers and we all knew it. Every dream I’d had as a kid, growing up, playing football, it was to win the Super Bowl, to hoist that shiny silver Lombardi Trophy, to kiss that trophy. And here we were, in the game, fighting and scraping until the last minute, but we just couldn’t get it done.

We were losers.

I can’t imagine how horrible and soul-crushing it must have been to be on those Buffalo Bills teams that lost 4 straight Super Bowls. I don’t know how those guys were able to show their faces in public again after that. Honestly, just losing one had me thinking of checking into the witness protection program or disappearing to a deserted island in the Pacific. I was so ashamed.  

My old man told me there is no second place. Only a first to lose. He’d never played in the NFL, but he played D1 college ball at Army. When I made the NFL, I thought, “at least I’ve done something HE never did.” I felt so proud. When we made it to the Super Bowl, I thought I’d wear my sparkly Super Bowl ring to every Christmas party, and then… maybe then… then... he’d be proud of me.

Just once, I’d like to have seen him smile. The man never smiled. Never. Not even on holidays. Weddings. Nothing. He’d never once congratulated me. Not when I played D1 ball, not when I got drafted, nothing. It pushed me to be better, and I won’t whine or anything and I love him all the same… But it’s just… that I looked up to him, playing ball. I looked up to him, when I was a kid. I mean, dammit, he was a colonel in the US Army. My dad was a bona fide hero. He was my hero.  

And I’d thought of him patting me on the back, hugging me during our victory party. It’d have made him proud… It’d have made him smile… He could’ve bragged about it to his buddies at the VFW, shown them my Super Bowl ring…

But no. I lost the game. I was a loser.

I couldn’t look my old man in the eyes afterward. And I never got a second chance at a Super Bowl. I never got back to the big game.

Not that I could really face my Pops, even before that game. But after that, dammit, I never could really talk to him, not even when he was on his deathbed.

Dammit, I made millions. I was an all-pro. I played 16 years in the NFL. But the only time I got to the big game, I lost. Losing that Super Bowl, being the biggest loser, having to face my old man, my family, after that game, having to explain to my children that we lost, that was the worst moment of my life. That was far worse than losing my money.

Goddammit, we let everyone down. And I have to live with that. I lost my pride with that Super Bowl. I will never have a second chance. That game, that drive will haunt me forever.

That game… The noise, the crowd hiss… That sea of camera lights flashing… Me, shoving forward, beads of hot sweat burning my eyes as I was looking up over the rows of helmets and knots of padded bodies… Me, seeing our guy twisting on the turf, stretching his arm to the white chalk of the goal line, and then… the whistles, the fireworks, the reckoning, knowing our guy came up just inches, dammit, just inches short, that… that wakes me up in the middle of the night... It fucking haunts me.

I only watched that game tape once, during the offseason following the Super Bowl. Otherwise, I don’t ever want to see video of it. Not like I need to, anyway, since it often creeps back, runs on a loop, in my mind.

When I flashback to that Super Bowl, that’s pretty much the only time, really, these days, I think much about football. I don’t even watch the Super Bowl anymore, unless I go to a party…  

My wife’s been talking about this haunting crap. I don’t believe in it. I believe in real ghosts. The past. Traumatic memories and lost opportunities… The ghost of Super Bowl past. The ghost of lingering disappointment and lost pride. Those, dammit. Those are my ghosts.

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“The Ultimate Fuck Trudeau Selfie” by Kim Cancer

 

“The Ultimate Fuck Trudeau Selfie”

 

Careening toward the Canadian border, we are snow-blind, forcing forward, following fat clouds.

Finally, we arrive. Join the juxtaposition and encounter a lengthy line of snowmobiles, hockey players and Bigfoot. Peering up at the checkpoint, we see motorists collared and searched, probed, and the rectal exams begin, asses hanging from car windows, border-crossers stood spreadeagle, Canuck Grim Reaper Bots extending robotic arms, latex gloves snapping back in coruscating flashes of light.

My Adam’s apple bobs up and down as I dart a glance at a Bigfoot bending over, propped against a plastic palm tree, a gloved Canuck Bot’s hand halfway up Bigfoot’s butt. Then a gust of wind splashes a sheet of snow at our windshield, coloring everything milky, blurry white…

“We should have just snuck in through the woods or taken a hot-air balloon,” Melvin affirms as he’s probing his nose with pliers and plucking nose-hairs meticulously in the rearview mirror.

But what if the Canuck Bots caught you? I ponder…

The Canuck Bots nor the Canucks are usually violent. But they could be, right? All that politeness. All those niceties. I’ll bet inside every Canadian, there’s a raging monster, an anger, a pressure cooker, a bomb waiting to explode. Any Canadian could be a merciless killer given the temptation and opportunity. 

An aggrieved Canadian, that could be the world’s most dangerous animal. Aside from playing hockey, the world doesn’t know what the Canadians are plotting, what they’re doing up there. I envisage dark, insidious actors, underground ice-bunkers, and cutting-edge weapons in the hands of polite and helpful neighbors.  

“Jeffery Dahmer was a Canadian,” mentions Melvin, who’s slapping rhythmically on the dashboard, along to the drumbeat of Led Zeppelin’s “When the Levee Breaks.”

Shaking my head, I proclaim that “no, he was a Wisconsinite… Similar accent, though.”

Melvin curls his upper lip in disgust, mentioning that that explains everything, and there are “no worse people than the Wisconsinites.”

Oh no, the Canadians are way worse, I insist. Their Mounties are monsters. The Mounties created like Frankenstein, monsters made from assembled body parts, the evil beings born sniffing for blood. Officers of Satan, the Mounties. The Mounties, militaristic, riding on battle moose, moose themselves perfected in laboratories, moose decked out in body armor, moose fitted with jet engines and wings, moose on clandestine flying moose missions; the flying moose fitted with machine guns, missiles, and laser beams blasting from moose asses and antlers.

It’s like I tell Melvin, moose run incredibly fast, too, for an animal that size, moose reaching a peak running speed of 35 MPH…

“Even if they don’t fly the moose, just imagine those Mounties on moose back, those moose hoofs clattering and the Mounties making morbid battle cries, sounds worse than Celine Dion’s most dreadful multi-octave wails.

“Imagine Frankenstein riding a rodeo bull like a racehorse.”

“Or a war elephant,” Melvin opines, and I nod my head tacitly, and I continue, “It’s sinister… Far worse than the Wisconsinites’ black bear trampoline terror campaigns and rattlesnake catapult attacks,” I assert, plainly, and not even Melvin will argue this…

 

 

Our car inches closer. Melvin is practically licking the windshield. The snow slips wet, clearing the screen, leaving us with only the fuzzy outlines of oncoming Canadians.   

Melvin has been stirring in his seat. Says the last time he attempted to enter Canada, the immigration officer refused his entry, without explanation, aside from hinting that Melvin looked too poor to be able to fund his stay in Canada.

It’s like I tell Melvin, you can’t wear dirty basketball shorts in winter and turtleneck trench coats in summer without repercussions… At least today he’s in a pink tutu, glasses/nose/mustache disguise and a wrinkly old Wizards Jordan jersey…

 

The line speeds up, fast. We unbuckle our belts, prepare to be fingered.

“Heck, I might even enjoy it…” I mention, reaching down to unzip my fly.

The stink-hungry border guards are 30ish; they are red-faced men, troglodytes, with slow-moving eyes and potbellies. They only peer at our passports, and one of the border guards pops his head into the car, scans around, then grunts and nods. These Canadians are far gruffer than I’d pictured. They speak in a trembling tone that sounds forced, and one of them only speaks French to us.

But they let us pass, unmolested, and I feel a sense of release ease over me, a burden lifted.

Not Melvin, though. Heading through the Canadian immigration checkpoint has reanimated his PTSD.  

Melvin reiterates his negative experience, relives it, and reminds me there are indeed Canadian cunts, that they exist.

“Cunts exist everywhere,” I affirm, scratching my eyebrows; after crossing into Canada, my right eyebrow begins to itch incessantly.

Melvin cocks back his bald head. His scruffy red lumberjack beard looks itchy too. He scratches at it again but paws at his face in a way that appears contemplative.

I wonder if the border guards threw itching powder at us or something. I could see the French-speaking one being shifty like that. I didn’t like his man-bun. I don’t trust a man with a man-bun.

Melvin shares my disdain for the man-bun. Says he hopes to witness a mullet resurgence and rambles about the repercussions of hiding in some bushes, or up in a tree, then jumping out, like a ninja, and snipping off the policeman’s man-bun, with a pair of garden shears…

 

The sun starts to set, the bloody orange ball sinking into the panorama of the purplish-blue horizon. The sky here is heavier than home. The air up here is way cleaner. Everything is cleaner. The streets are so sanitary that they are aglow, gleaming like ice rinks.  

 

Melvin is apoplectic, angrily scratching his face, and still ruminating on the stubborn border guard from two years ago, saying he wanted to go find him and…

We nose into the parking lot at the mouth of the Niagara Falls. The old box Chevy had died so I’d been behind the car, pushing it like a loaded shopping cart for the last three blocks.

Melvin yanks the parking brake, hops out and hurls invective, then spits at the car, kicks the tires, and screams something in Spanish.

 

The Falls are raging. A violent hiss, a vibration, a smell of powering water wafts and swirls about in the air, and I forget my itch.

Melvin and I pop the trunk. Inside are the squirrel suits. We zip into them.

Melvin laments that America never conquered Canada. That we tried in the War of 1812 and failed miserably. He says we should have annexed Canada and Greenland, a long time ago, for the oil, wood, and maple syrup.

“And the Tim Hortons,” Melvin asserts, convincing me that he’s a true expansionist, a proud imperialist, the last of a dying breed. “Teddy Roosevelt was America’s greatest president!” cries Melvin, climbing the protective fencing.  

“I’m partial to Martin Van Buren,” I retort, and I climb up next to Melvin, flanking him. A crowd forms, encircles us. Fingers point, phones aloft. When the police race over, one riding aggressively on a Segway, shouting polite Canadian police things, it is then… it is then that we know… We know the moment has arrived.

“And we’re keeping William Shatner!” hollers Melvin, his head tossed back, his eyes toward the purpling heavens. His nostrils flaring, the veins on his neck popping like cables, he then swivels his gaze toward me, snorts and sneers.

Together, on the count of three…

One…

Two…

Three…

And we dive, face first. FOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOSH… Our plunge propelled by the Lazar engines in our suits. Our dive is like an inverted parabola, first plummeting down, then straightening out, then arcing up and angling to a perfectly parallel, horizontal approach, flying full force forward toward the Falls.

Foooooooooooosh… And we’re zooming like fighter jets over the animosity and immensity and indifference of the pooling water below. Zooming over its frothy white bubbling, its supernatural strength and uninvited violence.

Zooming in a straight soar, we then angle and twist, slip under, bend behind the Falls, the curtain of water, the mammoth of motion, and we glide the tunnel, snap the ultimate Fuck Trudeau selfie and then shoot out the other end, ascending, and we’re over, backflipping a guardrail, touching down to a battered path, paved with blood and broken teeth.

Then we peel off our squirrel suits, disrobe, and run, naked, screaming names of recent Stanley Cup winners. Our naked, hairy man bodies, our shaven chests and backs painted in anti-Trudeau, Banksy-style artworks.

Naked at last, the itch returns, intensifies, overtaking us, as if we’d been bitten by a thousand mosquitoes, and as we run, we stop every few feet to flail, grunt, and scratch. Yet we somehow sustain our suicide sprint in the direction of the border, doing our damnedest to achieve the dash and to meet the simplicity of selection.

 

 

 

 

 

 

"COLT"

 

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“Colt”

 

Dude! I love that our house was bought by Jack Thee Jackal! I sent him a DM, congratulating him on buying the house, offering to show him around, party with him, but he didn’t reply. No probs! He either didn’t read it or didn’t believe it. He gets thousands of DMs, I’m sure. 

I tried making a YouTube channel like Jack’s. I’d grab my bros and we’d go out, do stupid shit, copycat Jackass stuff. We did one where we dressed up in girls’ lingerie and played golf in a graveyard.

And we made another series, where we preyed on victims at school, or around the mall, or the neighborhood. Our goal: to find them, and fart on them. We’d stalk, hunt, hide, and then jump out of bushes, burst out from behind closed doors, or jump up from the backseat of a car or leap down from a tree or fire escape, either naked, wearing only a pair of assless chaps, or in just a pair of briefs, and then we’d unleash ass, point and fire unfiltered farts at friends and classmates.

Sometimes a classmate might open a door to a classroom and find one of us, pants pooled around our ankles, bent over in their direction, ready to launch a stinky ass attack.

Possibly the worst of the videos was the “Fart Alarm Clock,” where a buddhi bandit would patrol the library, sneak up on a sleeping classmate, drop trou, bend over, lean his ass in, and just let out a booming burrito fart, ass mere inches from the sleeper’s face…

“Bare booty fart ATTACKS! The most vicious, NO FILTRATION!” was the title and theme. But no one watched. Except a couple people, who told us that we suck. That we “suck RAW!” I think those were the exact words.

Then I tried making music, rapping. I wasn’t good at that either. I got even worse feedback on that when I uploaded my tunes to the interwebs. In my mind, though, I sounded dope. I sounded like Eminem. I was going to BE the next Eminem. But then I saw the comments I was getting. In fact, one song went sort of viral- but for the wrong reasons. Thousands of people watched my video, cracked jokes about it, called me all sorts of shit, a “wigger,” mostly, “wack AF” and I even received death threats and a couple guys challenging me to fistfights.

All over a free video, a basement rap I slapped together on my computer. A song about smoking weed in my school’s handicapped bathroom!

(Handicapped people were the most pissed about it. One even asked, “Dude, where am I supposed to smoke weed?” Looking back on it, he had a point. It was pretty fucking wack...)

Posting stuff online, I guess it’s pretty easy to discover your limitations when you get that amount of instant feedback. Man, reading hundreds of people telling me that I sucked, I can’t say it was good for my psyche. 

Oh… Well.. Fuck them! I was still living in a house big enough to have its own zip code. I was always aware of that. Particularly since my earliest memories, from when I was a tiny kid, were of being in a cramped apartment, with my parents, back when my dad had first started playing pro football. But once he signed that big contract, ah man, life was pretty easy.

My life has always been easy. Maybe too easy… I’ve spent countless hours just watching and rewatching gangsta rap videos, smoking weed… I’ve never been too motivated… My sister, a few years younger than me, was always a nerd. She was always hitting the books...

Not me, though. I’ve never found a calling. I never took to football, like my old man. I got more of my mom’s DNA. I’m not that tall, only 5’11, and am thin, like her. I’m not super coordinated, either. I’m just not great at sports, which kinda always made me feel like I was a disappointment to my father.

Not that I didn’t try. When I was little, I joined Pop Warner. Dad didn’t force me into it or anything. But I thought he’d want me to be a jock like him. When I sucked at football and quit, however, he never mentioned anything about it. I didn’t know quite what to make of that then. I still don’t.

He was always a bit distant, my Pops, off in his football world. But I respected him, I must say. I looked up to him. He was big and powerful. He gave us a great life. He was gone most of the time, and was aloof, but that’s just his temperament. He’s a quiet man. He lets his deeds do the talking. And I respect that. My dad is cool. He was good to us. I mean, like sure, he’d spaz out, break stuff around the house and scream after games. It’d scare the shit out of me and my sis, but it was never directed at us and he never got violent. He was never abusive.

Him, nor my mom, never really disciplined us, ever, that I can recall. There were a few babysitters and maids who’d get in our faces, from time to time. Usually they’d be on my case for my shitty grades and a couple Jackass stunts the school got upset about.

But other than that, I never got in too much trouble. As a kid, I was pretty mellow. I still am. I think I’ve been in one or two fistfights in my entire life. I’m just laidback. So much so that people might think I’m on Xanax or something. But nah, I don’t take drugs too often these days, aside from an occasional bump or two of the nose candy and, of course, smoking weed, but that’s a plant, not a drug, in my opinion…  

Nah, man, my biggest problem has been, and continues to be, my lack of direction.

I mean, like, at first I’d wanted to be on Jackass. Then I’d wanted to be Eminem. But since none of that transpired, I don’t know what to do. I didn’t have a Plan B or C.

Lately I’ve been working odd jobs. My degree sucks. Like, I went to a party college, got drunk, and copied all my papers from the internet, paid nerds to do homework for me. Even with cheating, though, I still barely graduated college. I failed English. WTF? I speak English! How the hell did I fail English? Damn…

I guess part of the problem was that I was never interested in learning the stuff they taught in school. In math class, I’d be thinking about learning to fix my engine, buying parts for my car. In English classes, I hated Shakespeare, but I liked reading other stuff, like Tucker Max, and thrillers. I love thrillers! My friend in high school got me into Bukowski. His poetry kicks ass. Reading it, I couldn’t believe anyone would actually write shit like that. It’s the only poetry I could ever enjoy.  

But the stuff they assigned me to read in class was terrible. It was always so fucking boring. The only assigned reading I ever liked from English class was Mark Twain. That dude was fucking cool. Emily Dickinson? Beowulf? Nah, not for me. Jane Austin? Yuck. Fuck off!

To me, that’s the problem with school. You’re forced to learn this or that. It’s something about being forced into it that turns me off. If I’m into something, if I want to learn it, I can’t pry myself away from it. I’ll spend hours on Wikipedia sometimes. I’ll dive down intellectual rabbit holes, reading all sorts of shit. I fuck with knowledge; it’s not that I don’t enjoy learning. 

I could just never find that spark in school. Maybe I just wasn’t lucky enough to have a Dead Poets Society jump up on the desk “OH CAPTAIN, MY CAPTAIN” type of teacher. You know, a teacher from one of those 1980s movies…

My degree was in Business Administration. But I had no idea what business I wanted to do. I still have no idea what business I want to do. In fact, I don’t even like business. I don’t like the corporate world.

What do I like, aside from pranks and jokes? Women. Oh, man, I LOVE women. They love me back too. I’m not that tall or muscled-up, but I’m sinewy, and have been told I resemble the actor Robert Pattinson… I’ve never had a problem meeting chicks…

Women, yeah, dude, I’m really a fan of their organization… Every time I hook up with a new girl, take off her clothes, I feel like a little kid opening a Christmas present… I love their soft skin, their hair, their scents, their makeup, stockings, high heels; the way they walk, talk, the way they dress, their shapes, curves. Seriously, if there were a job where I could just stare at women all day, that’s what I’d do.

My dream job would be that, or maybe a photographer, snapping photos of models all day. Nude models. Or a pornographer. But I’m not too into the hardcore stuff. I prefer the more tasteful, Playboy stuff, or nude paintings. I’m not into chicks spreading their snatch and doing gangbangs, anal, or weird Japanese stuff... 

To be frank, I’m not sure what I’ll do for work. Before, I never worried about money. But that was before my parents went broke. Now that I can’t count on inheriting millions, I’ve suddenly got to make my own way.

Since I like women, nude women, in particular, I’ve been working as a DJ at an upscale strip club. I got the gig through a friend who bought into the club. I should have bought in with him, scored a loan from my old man, back when he had more cash. Same as my Pops, I guess, I’m not a good businessman.

But, thems is the breaks, as the old-timers say. And I’m doing okay, DJing, rocking trap tunes, looking at fine babes every night, fine NAKED babes.

I’m even allowed to audition “talent,” watch aspiring exotic dancers shake it for me and the manager, other staff. I’ve dated like three of our strippers, but can’t say it’s my favorite thing to do, dating our dancers.

Man, I caught feelings for one, this petite Latin honey. She was chill, funny, and freaky in the sack. A damn dimepiece. The chick had a cobra tramp stamp and killer curves and the most gorgeous face ever. She was stunningly pretty, with that intricate, exotically sumptuous type face that only Latin babes have. She was just stunning, with or without make-up, that hot of a chick. 

We only dated a few weeks, but I fell for her, I admit. And it fucked me up, watching her from the DJ booth, her down on the stage, her doing splits, prancing around naked, wiggling her ass in dudes’ faces, seeing dudes ogle her bare body. The worst was watching her do lapdances, bumping and grinding on middle-aged creeps or fratboy asswipes. The wolf-faced fucks. Dudes running their hands on her body. It fucked me up. I felt like a cuckold.

I mean, man, I dated this Instagram model chick. A butt model. That was all she did, all she did was take pics of her butt, post it on the ‘Gram. Every day, a different butt shot. Bending over, walking up stairs, leaning against a wall, lying on her stomach... She was creative with it, too, like an artist, a Picasso of ass, coming up with all sorts of different contortions, angles, lightings, all sorts of truly ingenious ways to present her butt to the camera. She did things with her ass that I couldn’t imagine possible, for real...  

And look, I didn’t care. I didn’t care that she showed her butt, in thongs, lingerie, and bikinis on Instagram every day. I didn’t care that she cashed in on her looks. I know there were like millions of dudes across the globe jerking off to her. But I didn’t care.

Like, for real, more power to her. She’s a clever and enterprising chick. I could see her one day having a reality show like the Kardashians. I mean, everyone thinks those Kardashian chicks are stupid floozies, but they’re not. They’re smart businesspeople and are raking in billions. I respect that. I respected my butt model chick too. She was fucking cool…

But there was something different, man, seeing my girl on stage, seeing the dudes in person. It was different, seeing their pervy faces, seeing their hungry eyes. It kinda fucked me up, man… It was a kick in the balls…

She didn’t stay long anyway, the Latina. She moved to another city once she’d saved a bit of cash. She told me she was only doing the job to help pay for her dad’s heart surgery... I lost touch with her after she moved, and she deleted me from her Snapchat... 

Thems is the breaks. Better to have loved and lost, right? I’m not sure if it was love, really. But it fucked me up. It fucked me up for a good minute…

After her, I stopped dating our dancers. These days, I’m back on Tinder more, hooking up. To be honest, I’ve never had a serious relationship, only hookups, short term things. If I’m with a girl too long, I start losing interest in her, start seeing her like a sister or something, I don’t know, why. It’s weird. 

But, like, yeah, man, my life isn’t too bad, altogether. The future… I guess that’s what bugs me. I don’t know, for sure, what I’ll do. The more I think about it, the more I feel lost. I just want to have fun, really.

I mean, seriously, man, why is it that we have to do something? Why can’t I just be? The world is so full of demands, complications. It’s never as easy as it is on TV...  

I mean, like, dude, when are the robots coming? Aren’t the robots supposed to come and take our jobs? Do the shitty stuff people don’t want to do? And then Amazon or the government can give us money, and we can all chill, let fucking Alexa, Siri, and R2D2 do shit. Then we humans can just chill, eat and fuck, just live like the French. Yeah, man, I think the future will be awesome. Yo, I can’t wait…

But at least for now, at least until Larry David or Andrew Yang becomes President, like, I don’t know, I don’t know, man. I don’t know what I’ll do.

I spent a couple years traveling the world after college. That was for sure the best time of my young life. I traveled Europe, Asia, South America. I backpacked. I worked bar gigs out there. I taught English. I thought my travels would help me “find myself.” But they didn’t. I didn’t exactly find myself, but I found something else in Tibet. Man, I found something far greater and far more important.

And it’s helped me. Helped me a lot. It really has...