Joe Camel

(I used to smoke two packs a day.)

Yesterday, I woke up at 6 a.m. and drank a cup of freshly brewed coffee. Then I read the headlines on my smartphone while taking a nasty shit. A firefighter from the city of Gimhae was driving to work when he noticed a lady sitting on the side of the bridge. She was swallowing pills and had blood dripping down her arms and legs. He pulled over to assist the poor woman and that’s when she tried to jump to her death. Fortunately, he managed to grab her before she could complete the act, and he stayed with her until help arrived. It turns out that she had taken more than twenty sleeping pills and had washed them down with three bottles of soju. She’s currently recovering at the local booby hatch.

I ate hash browns for breakfast as I watched the news on YouTube. Eric Swalwell is a democrat from California. He’s the guy who had sex with a Chinese spy named Fang Fang. Anyway, Eric claims that former 49ers fullback Bruce Miller is threatening to murder him over at Twitter. And Swalwell is right. Bruce claims in a Tweet that the congressman should be executed for being a fuckin’ traitor. His words, not mine. But here’s the deal. A guy who banged a Chinese operative has no business being on the American intelligence committee. It rubs people the wrong way. In fact, the very thought of it is like waving a red cape in front of an angry bull. And I fear that my country is heading toward a revolution. Perhaps I’m overreacting, but I just feel it in my bones.

The Dragon Lady entered my room.

She said, “Our son glade not good.”

I said, “What?”

“His school glade. It not good.”

“His marks are bad?”

“He onry made da C in ritature and da C-prus in history.”

“But there’s no money in literature or history. How did he do in math and science?”

“He made da A.”

“Well, there you go. Everything is fine. Math is where the money is.”

“But you da Engrish teachah.”

I nodded my head up and down slowly with a sorrowful expression on my fat ugly face. “And just look at me. I don’t even have enough cash to buy a bicycle.”

Yet here’s the straight-skinny truth. I’m simply too old to be Rice-Boy’s father. The child was a wonderful accident. I had coitus without wearing a condom, and—viola!—here he is in all of his glory. I’ve told Larry in the past that I no longer possess the energy to fuss about his marks in school. And there’s nothing I could do even if I had the gumption to be a good daddy. I can’t remember algebra or biology or chemistry, so I’m pretty fucking useless when it comes to academics. Therefore, he will have to handle the load himself.

My day at work went well. The middle schoolers asked me about smoking.

A girl named Sandy said, “Mr. Woodd, what is your opinion about cigarettes?”

I said, “In all honesty, I used to be a heavy smoker back in the day. But times were different when I was growing up.”

“How so?”

“My high school actually had a smoking area. I would get off the bus at 7 a.m. every morning and run to the cafeteria. After that, I would purchase two Hostess cherry pies and a big can of Hawaiian Punch. Then it was time for a Joe near the dumpsters.”

“A Joe?”

“Yes, my brand of choice was Camel filters. The mascot was Joe Camel. My friends and I were huge fans of his.”

“Wait. He was an actual camel?”

I smiled at her. “That’s right. A cartoon camel.”

“Man, talk about messed up.”

I sighed heavily. “Even so, I miss those days.” 

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