As a young teabagger (NOT the Republican kind) I often wondered what kind of man I would become.  By which I mean, I wondered what I was going to be like when I died tragically at 21.  Rather cruelly, I was allowed to live beyond the legal drinking age.

So little time…

Somewhere between Han Solo, David Lister and Henry “Indiana” Jones, Jr., I realized that it’d be awesome to be awesome.  I’ve been working on that for a minute and am currently developing into a fine, musky man, reaping the fruits of half a lifetime’s half-assed-effort, which roughly works out to a quarter-ass job that I’ve done on and for myself.  You’re welcome, me!

“Musky,” isn’t just a word; it’s an ass-job behind a Vietnamese dumpster

In that vein, I have a brief but winding tale detailing the souring of the milk of human kindness within the ice-box of my heart.  That’s not a metaphor, either; I’m a refrigerator sent from the future to ruin the lives of everyone I know.  (You’re welcome, every woman who’s ever loved me).

So, Jackie, Stu and I were maxin’ and relaxin’ by that one coffee shop where đường Nguyễn Văn Trỗi turns into đường Nam Kỳ Khởi Nghĩa (you know the one) when I noticed an old man squatting and straining across the street from us.  He lived in the house around the corner behind the coffee shop and was, apparently, trying to shit-out a frozen hotdog sideways in plain view of the three coolest crackers he’d ever seen.  I’ve done some foul things in bathrooms all over the world, but never has anyone said, “No!  You leave this place and you shit in the street!” to me.

Fun Fact: If it went in, it can come out, but not in this house, Mr.


The horror.  The horror.

So, this old guy- who, incidentally looks like he’s made from beef jerky and the assembled contents of Lt. Ripley’s trophy case- makes a couple trips to and fro from the shit-spot to his house and eventually sorts out his business and returns nevermore.  As the amount of time wherein we didn’t see some Viet-dick’n’balls stretched on, we grew complacent and relaxed.  This, of course, was all part of the universe’s cruel plan.  A man, unnoticed, pulls up not ten feet from where the other dude was shitting some 20 minutes before and, without even the slightest hint of pomp or circumstance, drops his pants and Scooby-Doo underwear to the ground.  (In the picture above, he’s the light blue speck to the right of the dark blue tarps)  He then proceeds to squat directly over the jeans and skivvies ringing his ankles and spray diarrhea everywhere.  That’s not a euphemism, either.  Everywhere.  Seriously.  It was like that scene with the pink ooze inside The Statue of Liberty in Ghostbusters II.  Now, this whole thing would have been a tragedy were his pants and underwear not already sodden and pendulous with the hot, rank pudding of failure.  Then, with steaming torrents of whathaveyou issuing forth from his fun-hole, this dude flops his head in our direction, turning his cold, dead eyes and fat-puckered mouth our way.  I would like to say that we shared something, but there wasn’t a glimmer of humanity in this man’s glassy stare.  No recognition.  No shame, no pride, not even a shimmering facet of hope or dull despair.  It was like an automated camera shifted its scanning radius to include us.  I would like to formally apologize to automated cameras everywhere for that comparison.

Dave… I’ve made dookie-dogs in my drawers.  I can feel it.

So, in celebration of me not being first up against the wall when the robot-revolution.exe initiates, presented below is a photo series detailing the above story.

“I can’t believe this shit, and I’m fucking Vietnamese,” the bicyclist said
That “censor” box is about 6 times too large. 
Here’s a jimmy-joke about your momma that you might not like
I have gazed into the abyss long, and it has gazed back
“Just like new,” he said through tears made of gravy
It’s gonna be a glorious day.

Just… it’s on his thigh, for Christ’s sake.  This guy is to shitting what a monkey with Parkinson’s is to a champagne glass pyramid; when everything’s said and done you have a dangerous, wet mess that you shouldn’t walk through barefoot (even if you’re made of beef jerky; I’m talking to you old, hot dog-shitting man).  So, this dude walks over to some construction workers (they’re to the right of that wood stack in the middle-ish picture) and starts waving his pants like the only thing preventing him from becoming wealthy and successful is the fact that not enough people have noticed that he’s shit himself.  The workers, mostly out-of-towner country-folk then hook a brotha up with a hose to spray the hot chocolate off his pants.

Something in my heart tells me that this guy was on his way to a date.  While I’m sure, “Why are your pants completely soaked?” will be toward the top of her question list, I imagine that it will come well after the more pertinent questions: “Please stop trying to impale my cat on your erection?” (technically not a question) and, “Why does your penis look like you tried to fuck a blender made of turds?”  Though, I’m sure he gets both of those a lot.

Jokes about people trying to maintain dignity in the face of insurmountable odds (and failing miserably) aside, my day only got weirder from there.  To begin with, as I pulled away from this Bermuda Triangle of human excretion, I witnessed a man stop his bike so his wife or girlfriend or whatever could vomit violently on an innocent bush.  She’s heaving, doing that full-body sort of vomit one gets from giardia or eating at a Denny’s and he’s all spacing off, thinking, “gotta pick up the dry-cleaning, get milk, make sure the electric bill got paid, call Carol about changing my appointments next week…” while chilling-out and leaning back on his seat.
I don’t kill myself at the end.  I just go and pick up the latest issue of Tiger Beat.


He’s got the same look on his face as the pooping man from before, except this guy looks as if he’s left his body or something.  It’s like there are bodily-fluids-powered evil spirits living under this bridge and, god’amit, free-floating, full-torso, vaporous apparitions or no, they’re gonna get them vittles.  
If you didn’t have one of these, I’m automatically better than you

After all that mess, I went to work.  It was fun, I had some sweet classes and I totally taught some food adjectives to some adults.  The groundless, absurd feeling from earlier in the day gone, I started driving home feeling pretty fucking great.

Really great, actually

When, all of a sudden, this motherfucker comes up breakin’-a-my stride and trying to push me into the curb.  I holler, “Anh oi!  Cẩn thận!” at which point this D-Bags McDickhole tries to tell me that I don’t know how to drive and that all foreigners are idiots and blah, blah, blah.  You know: generally talkin’ baloney.  I stop my bike and invite him to shut up.  He doesn’t appreciate my sagacity and starts to full-on ‘Frisco-billy freakout.  Just yelling and screaming.  An uninterested party walks up and encourages me to drive-on, assuring me he’ll talk some sense into D-Bags.  As I’m driving away, D-Bags throws a rock at me.  A rock!  He totally misses, but it still galls my balls.  Being adulty and all high-roady, I continue driving away.  Not 30 seconds later, Dicknose comes whining up on his Cub, screaming at me to pull over.  I comply, calmly putting my scooter on its pegs and removing my helmet.  He fumbles with his bike and helmet like they’re a super-hot older girl who really knows what she’s doing and is totally going to make you feel like an inadequate child when you prematurely ejaculate, not that I’d know what that’s like.  The dude doesn’t set his helmet on his bike when he’s through climaxing his parking mess, though; he clutches it in his left hand (southpaw) and tries to menace me with it.  I laugh, because he’s really not menacing in any way, shape or form.

Before I go on, I should note that Vietnamese people love fighting with their helmets.  I used think, “Man, a helmet would be such a shitty weapon.” Now I know that a helmet is a shitty weapon.  The difference a day makes!

Using a helmet to fight a human is like using your genitals to fight a scorpion

Anyway, the dude jukes a swing and then goes for the real thing, lunging in at me.  And- this is where the milk starts to sour- I side-step him and charlie-horse the living shit out of his left bicep.  Like, I’m pretty sure I went through the muscle and had knuckle to bone.  He winced, bending at the waist.  Then I totally Captain Kirk’d him in the back.  That thing where Kirk clasps his hands together?  I totally did that on a dude’s spine.

No.  The other thing.  With the whole “crushing blow” business

He went face-first into the ground like a wet piece of bread and I leapt upon him, cradling his neck in the crook of my arm.  Then, I just squeezed until he stopped squirming.  And in the span of a minute, I’ve become the dragon.

I suddenly hate Ed Norton

A lot of people have looked at me askance when I relate this part.  The fact remains, however, that this jizz-mopper attacked me with a weapon because he was shitty driver.  I reckoned he’d lose his shit if I left him conscious.  When I turned around, there was a crowd of no more than one hundred and no less than fifty onlookers.  “Are you not entertained?” I roared.  Then I cut into the crowd like a chainsaw, covering the street shop fronts in gristle and bone.  No.  Not really.  But the crowd was real.  People patted me on the back and helped me back to my bike.  Right about then, D-Bags comes to and, half-asleep, he starts to think about spraying some bullmess at me.  Then three guys force him to the ground where he shuts the hell up.  Then, I kick-start my bike and peel off, my enormous penis flapping in the wind behind me.

Like this, except with my wang

All this I did while wearing a shirt and tie.

I’ll let you make the comparison (Take your time; I can wait)

I never know how much of what I’m saying or doing is bullshit.  I can never trust what my brain tells me about what I’m feeling and I can never trust what my emotions tell me about what I’m thinking.  I never know until I’m doing a thing how serious I am about it.  It’s not until I’m flying half-way around the world for some chick that I’m sure she’s the one.  It’s not until I’m completely screwing myself over on principle that I know that I’m an upstanding dude.  It’s not until I’m in a position where it’s easier to do the wrong thing and I don’t that I know I’m a good man (sometimes, at least).  It’s nice to know that I really don’t take shit from fools and I really don’t swing first.  I mean, it’s nice to know that those are more than just pleasant sentiments or beatitudes.  Those are qualities of a dude I can respect.

In the end, I think we’ve all learned at least one thing: Don’t bring a helmet to a fist-fight unless you want your ass utterly and humiliatingly handed to you. That, or, something about how if you’re totally going to phone-in your entire life, consider wearing diapers.

That’s a blog!

Let me know what you think, yo.

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