Caine in Kung Fu

(Buddhist monks actually have a history of violence.)

Yesterday, I woke up at 5 a.m. and drank a cup of instant coffee. Then I read the headlines on my smartphone while taking a nasty shit. A Buddhist monk in his 70s was involved in a real-estate deal that went sour. So he got in his vehicle and rammed eight other cars out of a sense of frustration. His children eventually called the police, and the crazy old bastard was placed into custody. People always assume that Buddhists monks are calm and peaceful like Caine in the television series Kung Fu. But they actually have a long history of outrageous violence which stems back to medieval Japan. Go figure, right?

I prepared bacon and hash browns for Rice-Boy Larry. He was sitting at the kitchen table playing a computer game.

I said, “I’m docking your pay.”

I give my boy 40 dollars a week for services rendered. For instance, he takes care of the garbage and pays my bills over the internet. Meanwhile, I handle all the other daily requirements such as vacuuming, laundry, and cleaning the bathrooms.

He said, “Why are you fining me?”

“You haven’t lived up to your end of the contract.”

“Bullshit.”

“Go out on the veranda. That bag is full of trash. You should have taken it out last night.”

“But I didn’t get home until eleven.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “Not my problem.”

“Well, suppose I take care of it tonight.”

I smiled at him. “You had better hope that I’m in a good fucking mood.”

Of course, I’m not going to steal his money. He’s the only true friend I have in all of Korea. And the last thing I want to do is break our bond. Yet the chores have to be done, and it’s a real drag having an apartment swamped in garbage.

I changed the subject. “I need you to wear a hat today.”

“But I don’t want to wear a stupid hat.”

“It’s twenty fucking degrees outside, and last thing you need is to catch pneumonia. Remember this. I’m the asshole who has to take you to the doctor.”

I caught the bus and made it to the office by 7:30 a.m. Then I read Breitbart News while surfing the internet. Prosecutor Jack Smith wants Twitter to turn over the records of all the users on the site who support Donald Trump. I guess he plans on putting more MAGA folk into prison. And Twitter will comply because Musk is just a big pussy like everybody else.

After drinking another cup of instant coffee, I called my mother using Facebook Messenger.

She said, “I’m not sure if Sis’s new boyfriend is a good catch.”

I shook my head from side to side. “I don’t understand her at all. She invited this guy to share her home before the ink on her divorce was dry.”

“He’s pretty much living there rent free, but he does help out around house.”

“Why doesn’t he pay rent?”

“How can he? The son of a bitch hasn’t got a dime to his name. His car note is over 700 a month. Plus he has a credit card bill that runs into the tens of thousands of dollars. By the time he meets his obligations, there’s literally nothing left.”

“Well, I’ve got no advice to give her. My love life is certainly no model of sanity.”

The rest of my day ran fairly smoothly. Nothing of note happened. That’s always a good thing.

Yesterday, I woke up at 5 a.m. and drank a cup of instant coffee. Then I read the headlines on my smartphone while taking a nasty shit. A Buddhist monk in his 70s was involved in a real-estate deal that went sour. So he got in his vehicle and rammed eight other cars out of a sense of frustration. His children eventually called the police, and the crazy old bastard was placed into custody. People always assume that Buddhists monks are calm and peaceful like Caine in the television series Kung Fu. But they actually have a long history of outrageous violence which stems back to medieval Japan. Go figure, right?

I prepared bacon and hash browns for Rice-Boy Larry. He was sitting at the kitchen table playing a computer game.

I said, “I’m docking your pay.”

I give my boy 40 dollars a week for services rendered. For instance, he takes care of the garbage and pays my bills over the internet. Meanwhile, I handle all the other daily requirements such as vacuuming, laundry, and cleaning the bathrooms.

He said, “Why are you fining me?”

“You haven’t lived up to your end of the contract.”

“Bullshit.”

“Go out on the veranda. That bag is full of trash. You should have taken it out last night.”

“But I didn’t get home until eleven.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “Not my problem.”

“Well, suppose I take care of it tonight.”

I smiled at him. “You had better hope that I’m in a good fucking mood.”

Of course, I’m not going to steal his money. He’s the only true friend I have in all of Korea. And the last thing I want to do is break our bond. Yet the chores have to be done, and it’s a real drag having an apartment swamped in garbage.

I changed the subject. “I need you to wear a hat today.”

“But I don’t want to wear a stupid hat.”

“It’s twenty fucking degrees outside, and last thing you need is to catch pneumonia. Remember this. I’m the asshole who has to take you to the doctor.”

I caught the bus and made it to the office by 7:30 a.m. Then I read Breitbart News while surfing the internet. Prosecutor Jack Smith wants Twitter to turn over the records of all the users on the site who support Donald Trump. I guess he plans on putting more MAGA folk into prison. And Twitter will comply because Musk is just a big pussy like everybody else.

After drinking another cup of instant coffee, I called my mother using Facebook Messenger.

She said, “I’m not sure if Sis’s new boyfriend is a good catch.”

I shook my head from side to side. “I don’t understand her at all. She invited this guy to share her home before the ink on her divorce was dry.”

“He’s pretty much living there rent free, but he does help out around house.”

“Why doesn’t he pay rent?”

“How can he? The son of a bitch hasn’t got a dime to his name. His car note is over 700 a month. Plus he has a credit card bill that runs into the tens of thousands of dollars. By the time he meets his obligations, there’s literally nothing left.”

“Well, I’ve got no advice to give her. My love life is certainly no model of sanity.”

The rest of my day ran fairly smoothly. Nothing of note happened. That’s always a good thing. 

(Did you like this post? Then read my novel for free. Click here.) 

(Give my message board a try.)

Feces

 

(My shit stinks to high heaven.)

Yesterday, I woke up at 5 a.m. and drank a cup of instant coffee. Then I read the headlines on my smartphone while taking a nasty shit. A rich 28-year-old man from Seoul left his plastic surgeon’s office loaded to the gills on narcotics. Unfortunately, he made the mistake of getting into his Rolls Royce before letting the drugs wear off. And you guessed it. He passed out behind the wheel and killed a young woman with his vehicle. To make matters worse, he fled the scene of the accident on foot. He now faces significant time in prison for his crime.

I prepared bacon and hash browns for Rice-Boy Larry. He was sitting at the kitchen table with his head in his hands.

I said, “What’s wrong with you?”

He shot me a puzzled expression. “Nothing. Do I look weird or something?”

“It’s your posture. You remind me of a guy with a hangover.”

“I didn’t get enough sleep. I’ve got a million tests to study for, and the work keeps piling up a mile high.”

I changed the subject. “How’s that pretty girl in your class doing? What’s her name? Mary?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “How the hell would I know?”

“I thought you liked her. Maybe you should try to talk to the girl.”

He sighed heavily and gave me the stink eye. “Everybody likes her, Dad. But this is Korea, and nobody our age goes on dates. Besides, we’re all too busy prepping for our exams.”

I walked out of my apartment at 6:35 a.m. to catch the bus. And let me tell you motherfuckers something. I’m really enjoying the hell out of public transportation. I kid you not. It’s so easy, and I no longer have to worry about filling up my SUV with diesel. Plus it’s economical. My costs for getting from here to there come to roughly a hundred bucks a month. And that’s including Rice-Boy Larry.

Anyway, I arrived at my office at 7:20 a.m. and drank a coffee with my colleague Richard Hurtz. He’s a giant of a man standing an impressive seven feet tall.

He said, “Do you know Jenny Gomez?”

I nodded. “She seems like a nice girl. Isn’t she one of those wonder kids who gets A’s on everything?”

“Yes, she’s a terrific student.” He took a sip from his mug. “But I don’t like her one bit.”

“How come?”

“She only runs with her little clique. I hate those types of assholes.”

“I stay out of their personal lives. Who they decide to run with is none of my business.”

Mr. Hurtz is a teacher who gets involved in the social affairs of the students. For instance, he knows who gets invited to the best parties. And he’s also interested in the romantic relationships between the handsome boys and the pretty girls. Personally, I don’t see the point. It’s a fulltime job just taking care of Rice-Boy Larry, and I’ve got other fish to fry.

Mr. Hurtz took another swallow of coffee. “Jenny’s one of those girls who thinks her shit doesn’t stink. She’s a real bitch.”

“Well, maybe it doesn’t stink. For all we know, her fecal matter smells like flowers. I wouldn’t waste another moment even worrying about it.”

My day at work went OK. I’m currently reading a couple of anti-war poems by Carl Sandburg with my high schoolers. One is called Buttons, and the other is called Grass. They’re both pretty good.

(Did you like this post? Then read my novel for free. Click here.) 

(Give my message board a try.)

Michelle Obama

 

(Is Michelle actually a Michael?)

Yesterday, I had a wild dream. I was sitting in a restaurant with President Joe Biden, and he was eating a pork cutlet that was smothered in a brown sauce which smelled to high heaven. He grinned at me vacantly as he shoved the food into his mouth, and suddenly I vomited all over the floor.

He said, “Do you know who I am?”

I nodded. “Yes, you’re the president.”

“Damn fucking right I’m the president.”

I was then immediately escorted off the premises by a couple of muscular dudes who weren’t wearing any clothes. That’s right. They were butt naked, and their Johnsons were dangling in the wind.

The alarm rang. It was 5 a.m., so I wandered into the kitchen for a cup of instant coffee. After enjoying a smoke, it was time for the bathroom. I read the headlines on my smartphone while taking a nasty shit.

A 40-year-old man from Seoul got into a dispute with his elderly female neighbor. It seems that water from his bathroom kept dripping down into her apartment. Needless to say, she was none too pleased with the situation, and she called him repeatedly to fix the problem. One morning, he showed up at her door with a knife and stabbed her to death. He also burned her body to a crisp.

I made bacon and hash browns for Rice-Boy Larry as he sat at the kitchen table playing on his computer.

I said, “What time did you get home last night?”

“Ten.”

“Did you have fun with your friends?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “It was all right.”

“What did you do?”

“We studied for a math test and ate noodles.”

“Sounds like a blast.”

“Well, I wouldn’t call it a blast. But I’ve had worse nights.”

The nice thing about living in South Korea is it’s one of the safest places on the globe. There really aren’t any dangerous neighborhoods where a guy can get his head bashed in. Don’t get me wrong. People are murdered from time to time. Yet the odds of being greased by a psychopath or a gang member are pretty much slim to none. Therefore, your kids are safe to go where they like.

I eventually got to the office at 7:30 a.m. and called my mother using Facebook Messenger.

She said, “I caught an awful cold over Thanksgiving.”

“That sucks.”

“Sis came with her two kids, and they both had fevers. I must have caught it from them.”

“Sometimes, Sis is a real asshole.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You’re an old woman who just had a stroke.” I paused for dramatic effect. “So why in God’s name would she bring her sick children to your house?”

“It was Thanksgiving.”

“Big fucking deal. It’s hard to celebrate the holidays when you’re dead.”

She smiled at me. “I’m not dead. I simply have a cold.”

I realized I was overreacting, so I quickly changed the subject. “What do you think of Michelle Obama?”

“Michelle Obama? What brought that up? She rarely even crosses my mind.”

“You realize she’s a transsexual, don’t you?”

Mom chuckled uproariously. “No, she isn’t!”

“She is. Just take a gander at her. And her husband is a huge gay boy.”

“So what? It’s a free country. More power to them.”

“I’m simply reporting the facts.”

She laughed again. “Your facts are bullshit.”

My time at work went smoothly. Nothing of note actually happened. I find that those are the best kind of days.

I’m trying to drum up users for my message board. So why not click on the link and shareyour opinion about Michelle Obama. It’s not like it will kill you. Thanks.

(Did you like this post? Then read my novel for free. Click here.) 

(Give my message board a try.)

The Discard Phase

 

(My boys are very angry with their mother.)

On Saturday, I had to work. So I took the bus to my office and spent the entire day crossing t’s and dotting i’s. I arrived at 10 a.m., and I didn’t get home until 6 p.m. Normally, I don’t toil like a coolie on the weekends. But every once in a while, it has to be done.

Rice-Boy Larry was in his room doing a book report.

I said, “Do you want to order sweet-and-sour pork for dinner?”

He shrugged. “I don’t care.”

“Then why don’t you go ahead and make the call to the restaurant?”

Korea is huge on food delivery. Consequently, the peninsula is teeming with mopeds which bring vittles to everybody’s door. The drivers get paid per order, so they tool around the streets and highways like a bunch of maniacs.

“I can’t right now. I’m in the middle of something.”

“Well, how long is it going to take?”

“About an hour.”

I nodded. “OK. Fair enough. I’ll just watch some TV while you finish your assignment.”

I sat on the sofa and enjoyed an episode of Wentworth. It’s a drama set in a woman’s prison in Australia. I’m a huge fan of the series.

Anyway, halfway through the show, I started thinking about the downside of ordering take-out. I would be stuck cleaning up the mess after we finished the meal. And who the hell needs that stress, right? Life’s tough enough without adding another chore to my list.

So I knocked on Rice-Boy’s door.

He said, “What is it?”

“No need to get all impatient.”

He sighed heavily. “Well, I’m trying to get this shit done.”

“I understand. But there’s been a change of plans. We’re gonna go to the chicken house, instead.”

“OK. The chicken house. Got it.”

To make a long story short, we ordered fried bird and a pitcher of beer. Of course, my boy isn’t old enough to drink. Therefore, he had a can of Coke to wash down his food.

We struck up a conversation as we stuffed our faces with poultry.

He said, “Mom sent me a message.”

“What did she say?”

“She told me that I could speak to her if I was feeling sad.”

“How did you respond?”

“I thanked her for her concern. Then she sent me another message asking when I was going to call her? But I pretended that I never got it. I have no interest in communicating with that woman.”

I frowned and patted him on the hand. “Don’t be too harsh. She is your mother after all.”

“Nothing productive would result.”

“Well, I’m not going to force you into anything. Do as you wish.”

The last stage of a narcissistic cycle is the discard phase. That’s when the narcissist runs away from her responsibilities. She’s done this on several occasions to both of my children. Needless to say, my kids are very bitter and angry. She’s treated them like trash throughout the years, and now they want nothing to do with her. But I’m a freak with a soft heart. I can’t help feeling sorry for her. She’s obviously suffering from some type of brain damage.

We got home at 8 p.m., and I switched on Fox News. Derek Chauvin got stabbed with a knife in prison. He’s the cop who was accused of murdering Saint George Floyd. I’ve set up a poll on my message board asking whether or not Derek got a fair trial. Why not click on the link and give your opinion. It’s not like it would kill you.

(Did you like this post? Then read my novel for free. Click here.) 

(Give my message board a try.)

Reclaim Your Manhood

It's Sunday, and I can't be bothered writing a new blog entry. So I've posted a sermon by Pastor Mark Driscoll, instead. But have no fear. I shall return tomorrow with more stories about my wonderful life.

Is Taylor Swift a Witch?

It's Saturday, and I can't be bothered writing a new blog entry. So I've uploaded a video about Taylor Swift instead. But have no fear. Soon I shall return with more tales about my wonderful life.

Orange Donald

 

(I love Donald Trump, but not in a homosexual way.)

Yesterday, I woke up at 5 a.m. and drank a cup of instant coffee. Then I read the headlines on my smartphone while taking a nasty shit. There’s a viral video in Korea showing a high-school girl mouthing off to one of her teachers. He’s telling her to get to class, and she responds by saying that she’s a precious daughter in the eyes of her family. Not too long ago, this child would have been lined up against the wall and belted with a cane. But the peninsula recently gave up using corporal punishment against youngsters. And I’m OK with that. A couple of detentions should do the trick. There’s no reason to get extreme in such cases.

I cooked bacon and hash browns for my boy as he dicked around at the kitchen table.

I said, “It’s fucking freezing out there today, so it’s important that you dress appropriately.”

He nodded. “OK. Dress appropriately. Got it.”

“I’m not joking. If I catch you wearing shorts or a t-shirt, then I’ll be forced to lay out your clothes on the bed.”

“You’ve got my word. Nothing but winter clothes.”

“Good man.”

I really enjoy living in Korea. Yet the peninsula has the worst weather in the world. You sweat your balls off like a coolie in the summer, and you freeze your nuts off like an Eskimo in the winter. Plus we never get a great amount of snow to cover up the urban ugliness. By the time December rolls around, everything just turns gray and hideous.

I eventually got to work at 7:30 a.m. and tried calling my mother using Facebook Messenger.  However, she never answered, so I listened to Jethro Tull’s Skating Away instead. For some reason, the song brought tears to my eyes. Why? I have no fucking idea. It’s not even that great of a tune. Perhaps I’m getting depressed or missing my youth. Your guess is as good as mine.

My friend and colleague Richard Hurtz stopped by for a visit. He’s a giant of a man, standing a full seven feet tall.

He said, “Are you OK?”

“Sure. Why do you ask?”

“Your eyes are all red.”

I chuckled at his words. “It’s these fluorescent lights. They always play tricks with my vision.”

He took a sip of water from his mug. Hurtz never drinks coffee. “Well, one of the kids reported me to his mother. She called the office and told them that I’m too strict. Now I have to see her this afternoon for a meeting.”

“Will the principal be there, too?”

“Yes, it’s a formal thing.”

I shrugged. “Then you’ve got nothing to worry about. The principal is pretty good about supporting the teachers.”

“It’s the depressed kid. He claims that I ostracize him too frequently. But nothing could be further from the truth. Shit. I don’t make him do a fucking thing in my class.”

“Have no fear. It’ll all blow over.”

“Rich children are so damn soft. The slightest gust of wind will blow them away.”

“In the future, just be extra kind to Junior. Try to pretend that you actually care about his future.”

My day at work went OK. I’m currently reading Walt Whitman with my high schoolers. He really loved Abraham Lincoln with a deep passion, and I understand his emotions completely. I feel the same affection for Orange Donald. In a non-homosexual way, of course.

(Did you like this post? Then read my novel for free. Click here.) 

(Give my message board a try.)