Santa squeezed down the chimney and when he turned around he was surprised by two little children standing below him, 5-year old Sarah and her little brother James.  “You scared the shit out of me!” said Santa.

“Santa, my mother says you shouldn’t use those kind of words,” said Sarah.

“Maybe your mother should stop fucking her co-worker Bob before she starts doling out ethical advice,” snapped Santa.

“What does ‘doling’ mean?” asked little James.

“It means your mother’s a whore,” said Santa.

“We have these cookies and milk for you, Santa,” said Sarah excitedly. James immediately joined into her excitement.

“Are these homemade?” asked Santa.

“No, they’re Chips Ahoy,” said Sarah.

“If you think you’re going on the ‘Nice’ list giving Santa store-bought cookies you have another thing coming,” said Santa, dropping the plate of cookies, which shattered into a dozen pieces. “Hope I don’t wake up your mother,” he added almost to himself.

“She’s passed out drunk, saying that she was mad at my father not being able to take us kids this weekend. She did that before dinner and we haven’t eaten since lunch,” said Sarah.

“Oh really?” said Santa. “James, take those cookies and take them to your bedroom and eat them. Sarah and I are going to have a little talk.” James excitedly gathered the cookies up from the floor and couldn’t wait and took a bite out of one on the way to his room. Santa now alone with Sarah knelt down to get to her level. “So you’re mother’s a drunk, huh?”

“I don’t know about that but she definitely drinks more than I like. She says it’s to settle her nerves from taking care of us kids,” answered Sarah.

“How would you like it if I made it so your mother no longer drank?” asked Santa.

“I would really like that!” exclaimed Sarah. “That would be the best present you could give me!”

“Where’s her bedroom?” asked Santa. “I have to spread some magic fairy dust on her to stop her drinking problem.”

“It’s up the stairs, second door on the left,” instructed Sarah and Santa went on his way.

It was about 15-minutes and Santa still hadn’t returned. Sarah figured that maybe he had gotten lost on the way and so she ventured up the stairs. The door to her parent’s room was slightly ajar and Sarah pushed her way into it. What she saw was her mother lying on the bed with her nightgown pulled up to her waist and Santa with his red trousers around his ankles pushing himself against her repeatedly in a bumping sort of motion.

“Santa, what are you doing?” asked Sarah. “Is my mother alright?”

Without stopping his bump and grind Santa said,“She has crossed into Heaven, my dear, and Santa was stuffing fairy dust in her so that she would come back to you and your brother. Just give Santa another—oh yeah here it comes—another few seconds and he should be finished with his work. Magic fairy dust I summon you to heal this woman—OH YEAH! OOOOHHH, JESUS CHRIST!”

“Are you alright, Santa?” asked Sarah concerned.

“I’m fine. It’s just that this resuscitation work takes a lot out of Santa.”

“Is my mommy going to be okay?” asked Sarah, now starting to well up with tears.

“She’s gonna be fine, kid. She’s alive. Santa saved her. But I’m afraid Santa couldn’t work on her drinking issue this time as more pressing issues were at hand.”

“Thanks, Santa! This is the best Christmas ever!” said Sarah.

“Now why don’t you go to your brother’s room and see if he’s left any of Santa’s cookies for you,” said Santa. “Santa’s got a lot of other children’s houses to go to and your mother needs some alone time to recover. After a good night’s sleep she will be just fine.”

“I will Santa.” Sarah, unable to control her emotions, went to Santa and gave one of his bare legs a hug.

“You go now, honey. You have to be at least 18 to get any of Santa’s fairy dust—16 in Nebraska—and I’m sure it’s way past your bedtime,” said Santa pulling Sarah off of his legs and then his pants up.

Sarah ran through the door and just as Santa was cleaning himself off with the bed sheet she popped her head back inside the room. “Merry Christmas, Santa!”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ—I mean, Merry Christmas, dear.”

It was a Christmas night that Sarah would never forget…and her mother would never recall.

A common fantasy for a man, besides the one involving a donkey and a gallon of lube, is to have a woman who is a angel in the outside world and a complete whore in the bedroom. A few years back I met Carny and from all outward appearances she seemed to be an angel on the outside, so I figured that I was halfway to Hetero Heaven. It wasn’t until we were in the bedroom one night when I was on top of her that she opened her mouth and removed all doubt that I had finally arrived to the Promised Land and I didn’t even have to strap a bomb vest to myself like my Muslim faith dictates as a passport to virgins and rivers of wine.

I had just said something like, “I really care about you and would like to take care of you. Would you like me to rub your feet or prepare a bath for you?” to which she replied, “Spit in my mouth.” I never had anyone say this to me besides the man in the trench coat who used to sit next to me at the gay movie theater, which showed double features on Sundays to which half the audience would leave midway through the second film and they had to get to prepare the final touches on their sermons for church that day. As this was my first intimate salivary experience with someone who was not a pedophile priest, I wanted to make it memorable.

I cleared my throat and nasal passages with the biggest snorty, coughing throat clear I could and spit a thick, yellow goober right into her eye; this was more the result of poor aim than it was due to any lack of anatomical understanding.

“What the fuck are you doing?” she shouted as she pushed me off of her. Thankfully my Sobakawa buckwheat pillow that I got through an infomercial was there to break my fall. It really is quite supportive and a much better purchase than that Pube Wacker that was supposed to be able to style my groinal region as well as trim the hedges of my yard.

“You said ‘Spit in my mouth’ so I was just—“

“I said ‘in my mouth,’ moron, not in my eye!” she sweetly explained. “And by ‘spit’ I meant the saliva that was in your mouth, not the darkest, grossest gob you could cough up from your lungs! Why not just pick your nose and flick it into my mouth?”

She seemed a tad irate and so I wanted to be careful with my response. “Okay, so we don’t have any confusion: are you asking me to pick my nose and flick it into your mouth or was that just a metaphor of sorts?”

“You’re unbelievable!”

“And by ‘unbelievable’ do you mean that I am an incredible guy or that I am an idiot, because I rather not thank you if you are calling me an idiot?”

“The latter.”

“Great. I think I’m getting you. Just one more: by ‘latter” do you mean one of those things firemen climb or—“

“Just shut up, Jesus fuckin’ Christ!” she interrupted and while I have a problem with someone using the Lord and Savior’s name in vain, I decided to be the better man and let her comment slide without commentary. I decided I would later go to church to atone for my sins of goobery and visit some of the old crew from Sticky Seats Theater.

In conclusion, I was psyched to be involved with someone who was both an angel and a whore but I felt her communication skills could have be improved.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V-fQ32qz4d0

Between working 1-on-1 sessions, teaching a class and taking an advanced class, it was a busy Tuesday night at New York San Da for me. Seafood had just paid me in greenbacks and I put the money in the Velcro enclosed pocket of my street shorts and put them in my locker and changed into my faggy, flowy “san da” shorts. Just then Fagstone popped his head into the changing room and asked, “Do you have a 7:30?”

“Yeah,” I replied, ignoring his lingering look at my Johnson and hussled my butt out of the dressing room, inadvertently not locking up my locker. Now I am pretty much the only one on staff who puts a lock on his locker. Well, Spandex does but he never locks his lock so I’m not really sure if that counts. I’m guessing even the most moronic reader at this point knows where the story is going—and it ain’t Kansas, Dorothy.

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NYC's finest preparing to crack a little Dominican skull. Photo by the late Elonzo Rodriguez

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DOMINICAN FATHER’S DAY

By Swami X, AX correspondent

June 19, 2011, 9:45 pm EST

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WASHINGTON HEIGHTS, NYC (AX)—In preparation for Father’s Day, the New York City police force was out in full numbers and riot gear in the Washington Heights area today. Said Officer Jelly Doe, “We’re dealing with Dominicans here, not Puerto Ricans. Puerto Ricans will sexually assault women at their parades and events, which we handle by bringing them back to the station and Volpe-sizing them with our billy clubs but Dominicans on Father’s Day—now that’s a nightmare I don’t even want to imagine!”

Officer Jelly Doe’s worries were not unfounded: the average 26-year old Dominican male in Washington Heights has five children from at least five different women; to spend time with each of their perspective “baby mamas” and their children in a single day would be an unthinkable task to maneuver.

Officer Chocolate Sprinkle said, “While I hate all Hispanic cockroaches, Dominicans are the type of cockroaches that leave a dozen little cockroaches crawling around in their wake and they need to be stomped out.” But the day passed with no incident.

New York City Police Commissioner Raymond Kelly released the following statement: “We had anticipated that each young Dominican father of five to twelve children would be running from mother to mother in order to visit each of his children on Father’s Day, causing a ruckus and chaos and general pandemonium. What we found was quite the opposite. Because young Dominican men care only about getting drunk and high and put little to no effort into the responsibility of fatherhood, instead of spending time running to and from each of their ‘baby mamas’ and children, they were all home lying on their couches either drunk or high. Besides writing a couple of dozen tickets for noise violations for blasting crappy Hispanic reggae tone music from box radios and parked cars with their doors open, the day was pretty uneventful for our boys in blue.”

Dominican children happy to have their drunk and high fathers absent. Photo by "Itchy Balls" Edwards

Swami X is a rebel yogi who prefers the company of cockroaches to Dominicans.

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When I was younger, the Tooth Fairy used to leave a quarter under my pillow for every tooth I put under there. Because my parents were cheap Jews who were as miserly with my allowance as they were in all money affairs, I would often beat up kids in school, knocking their teeth out and putting them under my pillow for some extra spending money.

It was sweltering summer night when I was eight when I put a tooth under my pillow and decided to wait up for the Tooth Fairy. As I didn’t know when she would come, I drank about eight cups of coffee to make sure I didn’t doze off and miss her. I didn’t know anything from coffee except for the fact that my parents drank it and there was toothpaste that was supposed to remove the stains it caused and so I just added the grinds to water and chugged it down. It wasn’t “instant” and so it basically tasted like water with pencil shavings in it. Regardless, it did the trick; I was wired and there was no way the Tooth Fairy was going to slip by me.

And then she came, all glowing, flapping her wings. And when she reached under my pillow to extract the tooth, I said,“Not this time, bitch!” as I swept her up in my butterfly net that I was hiding under the blanket.

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I had come across this beautiful woman setting up to play her guitar in the subway. I didn’t know how to approach her, or if such a goddess would even talk to a man like me, having only one earlobe and a hump. And so I left. The next day I came back at the same time and she wasn’t there. I came back every day to the same station at the same time, which incidentally cost me my job as the bell ringer at St. Patrick’s Cathedral.

But finally she was there again. This time I heard the siren’s song and was mesmerized—and glad I wasn’t commandeering a boat through rocky waters. I was hiding behind a pillar and stayed to listen to several songs until she looked over and I think saw my hump sticking out from behind the cement column. I grabbed the next subway and got out of there without looking back.

I continued my innocent stalking, not so much to possess her as my own but to allow the beauty of her body and music to give just a little sunshine and warmth to a man who has only ever received dark and cold looks of disgust. By the fifth time I saw and heard her playing down there, I built up the courage to walk up to her open guitar case and drop in a dollar. Being now out of work, this was money I had allotted for eating that day. But getting close enough to her to enter into the aroma of her beauty blocked out the damp and dusk smell of the subway and this was well worth the hunger pains I experienced later that day; I was only able to find a three-quarters eaten jelly donut in a trash can to feed the beast banging on the walls of my stomach.

By the eleventh time I saw her play, as I approached she had just finished a song and paused to tune her guitar. “Hey, I’ve seen you down here before,” she said. I lifted my downcast eyes briefly to look at her and brought them right back down to the dirty floor as I said, “I’ve seen you down here before, too.” She said, “Do you play music as well?” I said, “I used to ring bells.” She said, “Cool. Here, take a copy of my book.” I said, “I don’t have any money to pay for it.” She said, “Don’t worry, your support is enough payment for me.”

I took the book and looked up again and this time made eye contact. And for that moment I was not a man with one earlobe and a hump but a pure soul looking at another soul. I smiled with confidence. She said, “Okay, Freakshow, step aside. You’re scaring potential customers away.”

I left that day and found myself another job ringing bells at a different church. That night I wrote in my diary about the day that reminded me that I am a man and not just an animal, that although my body may be disfigured, the being within has just as much worth as anyone else’s.

I haven’t read the book yet but have looked at the pictures and so I felt it only fair to withhold one star from a perfect five-star rating.

At one point I was recruiting subway musicians that I met down in the underground to play for yoga classes I was teaching. I had such amazing musicians as drummer and hula hoop master Lenny Hoops[http://www.myspace.com/lennyshoops. Also see "Pack Your Bag The Night Before" at http://rebelyogi.com/pack-your-bag-the-night-before] come add his beats and beauty to a couple of classes, as well as the etheric music of the grounded angel, Matthew Nichols [http://matthewnichols.com]. I had given many more musicians my business card and pretty much no one else ever called or emailed. Heidi Kole [http://www.thesubwaydiaries.com] just put me on her mailing list. I thought about opting out of her mailings but they came so infrequently and were a pleasant break from all my Viagra readings that I decided to keep in the loop.

Today I received her mailing for the holidays, trying to push the idea of her book as a stocking stuffer. She had such offers as, “BUY 5 BOOKS AND GET THE 6TH ONE FREE!” an offer that hasn’t excited me so much since Macy’s was offering their customers the opportunity to slaughter the fifty animals required to make one fur coat that they carry.[See Caring Activists Against Fur (CAAF) at http://www.caafgroup.com]

Then I saw an opportunity to get a free book. While the only books I read nowadays are comic books, being raised in a Jewish family seeing “FREE BOOK” was like the classic Jewish dilemma of FREE HAM. The free book would be awarded to the person who wrote the most unusual Amazon.com book review of The Subway Diaries. Being I can’t seem to make any money with my writing and yet I seem to have an obsessive-compulsive disorder to continue doing it while no one supports me in my literary endeavors, I figured this free book contest would give me an opportunity to express my retardation and place on my writing résumé that I was an award-winning writer, even if the award was for being the “Most Unusual.” And thus was birthed the above piece, available for viewing on Amazon.com under her book.

I will share with you one behind the scenes intricacy that would otherwise be buried with me if I were to die tomorrow from radiation poisoning at the airport after a full-body radiation scanning and some TSA pervert who probably moonshines as a priest gate raped me, rubbing my 14″ cock up and down repeatedly claiming to check to see if my “explosive device” could blow up anything when it would be obvious that that molester was the only one who was ready to blow anything and everything that was a penis.

I debated some time over deleting the line: She said, “Okay, Freakshow, step aside. You’re scaring potential customers away.” I like writing stories where people are like, “Wait, did that really happen?” as this makes me feel like I am surrounded by a bunch of idiots and thus the smartest knife in the wood block that holds knives. The “Freakshow” line was clearly something that only a super bitch would actually say and, while there are many bitches out there, there are few if any super bitches that would say something like that to a deformed loser besides maybe Mrs. Broflovsky from “South Park” and being she’s a cartoon character, I doubt that will ever happen in the real world where “reality” television follows New Jersey scum infecting anyone who happens to be in an audible radius of them–and where people actually watch this! I thought this would leave only the most extreme morons to thinking the piece was still real and was almost ready to drop it.

But I was also spoofing all the cheesy stories of the hideous, geeky or otherwise repulsive horror who either cleans up and/or discovers their “inner beauty” and thus wins the heart of the way-out-of-their-league hot girl or guy. Often those shows end with them “realizing” that the best friend who is just as much a doofus as them is their real soulmate, as if ugly people even have souls. The “Freakshow” line takes such the piss out of this unoriginal story and I decided to stick with it.

And now you know a little tidbit that had you never heard your life would be completely unchanged, you won’t lose any sleep over, no one in your family will die because you haven’t forwarded this message on and world peace will not be any closer because you are too far beneath the comic genius of me to actually learn anything of humor from this useless trivia to actually bring any more laughter into a world that is entirely too serious. I mean, seriously, if you can’t laugh at someone dying from AIDS, you really have no sense of humor.

"Oh yeah, wiggle those bruised, stubby feet some more. Yeah, that's it! Let some of that Athlete's foot flake off...Oh yeah, I'm--OOOOH AAHHHH!"

I was looking on craigslist under “Women for Men” and was getting tired of sorting through fatties that I would have to meet, spend time with and—god forbid—money on, just to tell them that while I am not shallow, I would only be willing to date them if they lost 200 lbs and had a face and ass-lift. So I decided to dive into the darkness and went to the “Casual Encounters” section.

I came across one ad that had a few pictures of the poster’s feet with the question, “What will you do to my feet?” Now back in the day, in between discussing the possibility of cold fusion, the big question among men was, “Are you an breast man or an ass man?” I think one man in history answered, “I fancy the vagina” and was shot on the spot, as everyone knows that the vagina is a frighteningly, putrefying creature and the only excuse to look at one directly is if you have been tied to a chair and have your eyes clipped open by some lesbian feminist performing the Ludovico Technique on you, like they did to Alex in A Clockwork Orange, forcing you to stare at that horrid thing while someone puts drops of saline solution into your eyes so that they don’t dry up, in reverse aversion therapy to make you actually find that disfigured camel-lipped bearded clam appealing . Now the dirty, stinky, fungicidal, hammer-toed, calloused, varicose-veined foot is making a play for the Big Question? For god’s sake, what does this tell us about where we’ve come as a society!

So I responded to the ad.

“I will take a hack saw and cut your feet off—but not at the ankles, as that would probably give me flashbacks to the time when I was a clean-up man for the Mob, but in pieces. First I would cut off your toes, one at a time. Then I may cut off one of your legs and use it as a gold club to putt your toes into your gaping hole. After I shot about eighteen holes of pussy golf, I would chop your feet into smaller pieces, throw the Sloppy Joanne into the blender and pour a foot smoothie down your fuckin’ mouth. So, when can I come over?”

I never received a reply. I guess I haven’t quite gotten the hang of this online dating thing yet.

It was about four in the morning and I was sitting alone in the subway station at West 14^th Street waiting for the A train to take me home. This was after a night where I saw a dance show of a girl that I once thought I could love and realized that not only was this idea ridiculous from the perspective that she had never made much of an effort to return any of my calls, texts or emails, but because I don’t even know what love is to be in it.  I was going to wait around after the show to share a few words with her but decided to just leave. I kind of regretted having the flowers I brought for her sent to the dressing room before the show; I could otherwise have been just an anonymous $35 ticket holder and not a pathetic fantasizer.

I left and sought comfort in a vegan raspberry tollbooth cookie from LifeThyme, something that used to taste heavenly to me and now just tasted like raw sugar pressed into a circular form. Outside of LifeThyme, two girls were looking at me and so I turned to them and said hello. They were both yoga teachers and ended up inviting me to join them for dinner and as much as I wanted to get home to my dog, I decided to follow this rabbit hole and see if it led to a rabbit or a Viet Cong ready to slit my throat. Being broke, minus thirty-five dollars, in my Alice In Wonderland world I would eat both the rabbit and the Viet Cong and then talk smack about the Queen with the Mad Hatter. But I wasn’t in a world written by Lewis Carroll but instead one created by a sadistic god, and being broke minus thirty-five dollars I would just sit and watch them eat.

Sitting at their table I realized that while in body I had company, I was still very much alone, only now I had to listen to two yoga bimbos talk about stuff that is so played out for me that I had difficulty even feigning a pulse. The high point for me was when I found out they both worked for Bark Mecker [See “Old Phogi” at  http://rebelyogi.com/old-phogi] and I brought up how that douche said one thing to my face and then said something totally different to others behind my back and watched a Taster’s Choice moment turn into a McDonald’s groin-scalding coffee moment. I finally managed to escape with my karma only slightly impaired.

Rather than grab the train at the 4^th Street Station that was right around the corner from Vegetarian Paradise 2 where I had sat watching the Boring Me Stiff Twins eat a vegetarian dumpling soup and in between spoonfuls rave about how much like “real” dumpling soup it tasted, I decided to walk for awhile somewhat aimlessly. It was a bit chilly out and I just kept walking, as much to clear my head of the yoga bimbos dumpling dribble as to keep warm. When I finally looked at my watch, it was 2:15 a.m. I felt bad for my dog that was probably developing a urinary tract infection at the moment because she was doing her best not to piss on the floor of my apartment.

I entered the subway at the 14^th Street Station and waited for an A train that didn’t seem to be coming. After about an hour waiting, the only thing keeping me from dozing off was the wooden bench I was sitting on that was totally uncomfortable and smelled like the last homeless man who had left his funk on it, as well as the thoughts that were bouncing around inside my skull like a superball on crack. Well, more like a superball on Angel Dust, as a cracked-out superball would probably just sit there rolling around in its own piss.

Breaking me out of my spell was something hard tapping at the back of my head and at this point even if it was some perverted homeless man poking me with his erection I would probably have been happy for the company. I turned around and a young black man of around twenty-seven was pressing a gun against my forehead.

“Tell me why I shouldn’t shoot you in the head right now,” he said.

I paused. “Because you haven’t figured out another way,” I said.

“Another way? What the fuck does that mean?”

“Your current view of life and the world has brought you to this point where you have a gun pressed against my head. And as severe a choice as that seems to be, you’re not stupid—you came to this choice because you didn’t see any viable alternative. So unless you figure out another way to see life and the world, there is absolutely no good reason why you shouldn’t pull the trigger.”

“Is that what you want me to do?” he asked threateningly.

“We’re not talking about what I want. You asked me a question and I basically said that if you see the world as a shithole then it makes perfect sense to put a bullet in my head.”

“But isn’t it?” he asked in a way that said he already knew the answer.

“Yes, it is.” I said.

“Why should I break my ass like my old man at a factory job five days a week, weekends if he can get it, just to pay the bills? Fuck that!  I can just stick someone up.”

“I wouldn’t want to either,” I said. “I guess the only reason to do it would be the same answer to your first question: Because you haven’t figured out another way.”

“There is no other way.”

“For him maybe not. But you found another way to slaving at a factory.”

“A gun,” he proudly answered.

“Then you have your answer,” I said.

“Aren’t you the least bit scared about your brains being cleaned up off the subway wall?” he said.

“Not really.”

“You don’t think I’ll do it?” he asked.

“No, I think you probably will do it,” I said.

“Then what the fuck’s your problem? You some kinda tough guy?” he challenged.

“No, I’m no tough guy,” I said. “First off, if my brains were scattered on the subway wall, I wouldn’t really care about the clean-up. But more to the point, I’ve just been sitting here for an hour by myself before you came reflecting on the very same question you asked me from the other perspective: What’s keeping me from putting a bullet into my own head right now?”

“What did you come up with?” he asked.

“The only thing I could think of was that I don’t have a gun. Now that you’re here that’s no longer an issue,” I said.

“So you want to die?” he asked incredulously.

“I was trying to find that ‘other way’ I mentioned. I wish I did. Then I could give you an answer that might save you from spending the next fifteen years with your only change in perspective being from which end of the gun you will be staring. I’m sorry I don’t have the answer for you.” My eyes started to water up and heavy tears rolled down my cheeks and dripped off my chin, as I felt completely helpless, not to this young man with a gun but to a world that I didn’t understand and no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t see it in a different way.

“It’s alright man, I’m not gonna kill you,” he said.

“I wish that gave me some relief,” I said.

I imagined if this was a movie that the young man would put away his gun and we’d share a cup of coffee somewhere and help each other find another way. Instead he looked at me, almost pitifully, and left the subway station. I slumped back into my seat on the wooden bench and in about 15-minutes the A train came and I got in. “I’ll sleep in my own bed tonight. Maybe I won’t wake up,” I thought trying to console myself. But I knew I would. And I knew I’d be left in the same predicament as I was in the subway station, alone and without any answers.

‘Twas the night before I was to teach a yoga class in Central Park followed by a vegan potluck and so it was time to prepare the food I was going to bring. I had bought some organic red-tipped lettuce, organic tomatoes, a chemical drip avocado from one of the Hispanicos in my area and a partridge in a pear tree, as they wouldn’t just sell me the damn pear without that annoying bird stuffed in a plastic bag.

I washed the lettuce in a poison cocktail of fluoride, chlorine, some inorganic minerals bathing in water. I started to use my ceramic knife, which is supposedly less oxidizing although now half the knife he used to be after I dropped him on the floor, to cut up the lettuce but then switched over to the old “tear and toss” method, used for centuries in salad preparation and to get out of your clothes in a hurry when one is overcome by the sex urge. The lettuce was now in a big wooden bowl. This only took about three minutes but then involved another ten minutes as I fished out hairs that had fallen into the salad.

NOTE TO SELF: next time wear a hairnet over my balls, or at least put on some pants and don’t allow Abandon to lick the bowl while there is still food in it.

I then cut up an organic cucumber into thin half-slices that I picked up at a flower shop. It was only after I was fifty blocks away with a drooping lapel that I thought to myself, “This doesn’t look like a carnation!” I also threw in a bag of assorted nuts and raisins (the raisins weren’t really “assorted”) that I got from a client’s office after training him. Perhaps I should have asked before taking them—and his wallet.

I was going to cut in organic tomatoes as well but their skin was looking as pocked and discolored as Edward Olmos’ face and I didn’t think they would “Stand and Deliver.” So I decided to blend them into the avocado, lemon, dates, coconut milk, Himalayan sea salt and cayenne pepper dressing I was preparing in my VitaMix $400 blender.

As I dropped the nasty tomato in the blender the Band-Aid on my thumb from the aftermath of my umbrella accident that day at Bed, Bath & Beyond, where I had stopped in for a little “Beyond,” fell into the blender. I hadn’t turned on the power yet and the Band-Aid was sitting there like a dog waiting for a treat on top of the pile of ingredients, somewhat looking like a pile of Abandon’s poo after I feed her sprouted mung beans, beets, cucumbers, ground sunflower seeds and the partridge from the pear tree.

I didn’t really feel like risking getting my hands dirty and thought I heard the guy in the VitaMix demonstration say something like, “Blend the whole apple, core and seeds, to add a little Vitamin B-15 which is good to fight cancer. And if you happen to get blood in the blender—not to worry—the high-powered VitaMix destroys the AIDS virus as well.” So I just flipped the switch and watched my Band-Aid turn a slurry.

Is there anything a VitaMix can’t do? Actually, I wouldn’t recommend using it as a sex toy. Let’s just say, while blowing a load into the whirring blades may sound like a good idea, the half-horsepower engine will spit it right back at you with a force of that will nearly blind you! I suppose if you wear swimming goggles it can be done safely; I’ll report back in my next posting.

I also prepared concentrated natural lemonade that could be added to the attendees’ water, which I made from several coneflowers that I picked from nature. While I didn’t wash them, I can assure you there were no bugs on the flowers, as the park sprays something equivalent to DDT that hasn’t killed enough children yet to be banned. Sure, Abandon always pulls her leash in the other direction as we approach the park but after I drag her through she’s usually fine, aside from a few minor blood clots that she coughs out of her lungs. I blended the flowers with more of the poison cocktail water, as I wouldn’t waste my distilled then Roxtracted then vortexed on a quantum healing energy plate then flower essenced then prayed upon water on those losers in my meet-up group.

I put the Band-Aid Dressing in a plastic container that was manufactured with extra Bisphenol A (BPA) to sterilize not only the dressing but also anyone who would thereafter eat it. I put it in the fridge so I wouldn’t have to breathe any of the outgassing, as with Abandon and my gas, there really wasn’t room in my cluttered apartment for anymore noxious gas.

The day of the event I put the big salad bowl in a cheap keep-it-cool bag that didn’t really do shit besides make me look like a homo as I carried the “lime green” faggery. Since I filled the bowl so high, half its contents fell on the floor as I klutzily transported it to my fruity bag. I just grabbed it and chucked it back in the bowl, ignoring the multitude of dog hairs that accompanied the greens into the bowl.

I decided to bring some of my fancy “disposable” bamboo plates that I bought as a compulsive purchase from Westerly Health Foods as they mesmerized me hanging by the door that only one strong enough not to grab a pack of Tic-Tacs at the supermarket check-out line could resist. I was not so strong. At about $10 for four plates, there was no way I was going to make these Rolls Royce paper plates landfill until they dissolved from overuse, no surprise from someone who wears single-use contact lenses for at least a month straight.

As I pulled the bamboo plates down from the cabinet, a clinging cockroach parachuted to the floor. Unlucky for him, his parachute didn’t open. Lucky for him, he survived the plunge and scurried off to crawl on and defecate over my kitchen countertop. I threw them into Faggy Lime the bag (featured as a recurring role on Sponge Bob Square Pants.)

Because I had only allotted 30-minutes to roll about 100 blocks while dragging Abandon on her leash, which would require me to have the gigantic glutes of an Olympic speed skater instead of the dimply, cottage cheese-looking, flat, dumpy ass I have and scratch often during food preparation, I raced out of the house and left the Band-Aid Dressing on the kitchen counter and forgot to put it into Faggy Lime!

The meet-up went well. I taught a kick-ass yoga class and no was too distracted by me constantly looking at my watch as I repeated my mantra, “When will this be over? When will this be over?” Master food preparer, Feast Full of Paul, was in attendance and made a variety of delicacies. I didn’t eat anyone else’s food, as I don’t really trust the sanitation of their preparation.

When I got home I noticed the Band-Aid Dressing had eaten through the container I had put it in and was surrounded by about fifteen dead cockroaches, which can apparently survive a nuclear holocaust but not Band-Aid Dressing.

I never thought golf was anything more than a nuisance I had to flip through when I was channel surfing until Tiger Woods came on the scene. He was not only the best golfer out there but also considered comparatively above and beyond the best athlete in any sport. He had a blonde model wife, was making millions of dollars and was world-famous. I hated this man.

The one thing I did have on him was that he was black and Asian, which would give me a lot of racist material to cull from. I would take the worst stereotypes from each race and heckle him mercilessly as I followed him on tour and shouted my epitaphs.

“HEY TIGER, CLEARLY YOUR HOT WIFE IS ONLY WITH YOU BECAUSE OF YOUR MONEY, WHAT WITH THAT ASIAN RICE PECKER OF YOURS!”

“WATCH THAT TIGER—IF HE DOESN’T STEAL YOUR GOLF BALL, HE’S LIABLE TO SUCK YOUR FLESH BALL FROM HIS PRISON DAYS AS A BLACK BITCH!”

“TIGER, GO BACK TO CHINA AND MAKE SOME KUNG FU MOVIES—AT LEAST THEN I COULD WATCH YOU AND NOT BE BORED STIFF!”

“HEY TIGER, GET A GRIP—THAT IS IF YOU CAN WITH YOUR KENTUCKY FRIED CHICKEN GREASY FINGERS!”

“I HEAR YOU FRAT HOUSE’S MOST POPULAR SAYING WAS, ‘FILL UP YOUR ‘ASS’ TANK WITH A TIGER!’”

“DID YOU SHARE A CRIB WITH OBAMA IN KENYA, BITCH?”

I had to give it to him, that slant-eyed spook was cool as a cucumber. While my comments were about his skin, I still couldn’t manage to get under his. And then God dropped into my lap both a gift and a curse, which made me remember that I hated God even more than Tiger Woods. It came out in the papers that Tiger was fucking around big-time on his hot wife. I eagerly awaited his next showing on the PGA tour where I was going to let him have it with a combination of how his infidelity was in typical black men fashion and how as a Chinaman if any of his mistresses got pregnant and gave birth to a female child that he could drown it in the river and fit in just fine with his yellow countrymen.

I brought my sleeping bag and slept over the night before at the golf course on hole 8, prepared for Tiger to comment on this and for me to come back with:

“THERE’S A DIFFERENCE BETWEEN SLEEPING ON HOLE 8 AND SLEEPING WITH 8 HOLES!”

When Tiger saw me he called me over privately. My face was hurting because of the shit-eating grin I had plastered on my face like Batman’s Joker.

“I suppose you wanted to say something to me,” said Tiger.

“Where do I begin…?” I said as smug as Al “Manbearpig” Gore pulling out his index cards full of manipulated data and false facts to give a big presentation that’s not supported by science but is highly supported by his own carbon credit company that will personally bank him billions upon billions of dollars if his “inconvenient lie” is hoisted on the American people.

“Before you do,” he interrupted, “Let me just share something with you and then you can hurl at me whatever you have prepared.”

“Uh, okay,” I said, wondering how long it was going to be before it would be my turn to bring out the filthiest, most disgusting, tasteless and rude material that would make even “South Park,” which featured one episode where Mr. Garrison inserted Lemmiwinks the gerbil up Mr. Slave’s ass, look like a Disney film.

[http://vids.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=vids.individual&videoID=2020634973]

“Marriage is a made-up construct that society has designed which not only goes against the very nature of man as an animal to spread his seed but which also relegates both men and women into property instead of souls. There are societies where polygamy is acceptable and others where there is no marriage. The very moral ethic established in a fidelitatious relationship is merely a construct of this society in which we find ourselves. Now, Swami X, you consider yourself a rebel yogi, don’t you?”

I barely stammered in the affirmative.

“How could you support a made-up, conditioned, societal ‘norm’? I didn’t think that you baah’ed with the rest of the sheep.”

“I don’t. I just—“

“If I committed anything of shame, it was in contracting myself into a marriage when I didn’t really believe in the institution. As you know, Swami X, contract law is the only legal way that a citizen can give up their God-given rights. Most of the rights we haven’t ‘lost’ but have given away. So if anyone is going to judge me—including all the supposed ‘Christians’ who say that only God can judge a person while they are busy judging me—be it for my failure to live up to my word when I signed the marriage license and not because I failed to follow a contrived system that is not based on natural law.”

“Uh, those Christians are hypocrites,” I said, really trying just to regain my footing.

“What does a Marriage License provide besides a tax break and a future addition to some divorce lawyer’s vacation home? Does it increase the love between two people? Does it make them better parents? It does absolutely nothing except newly define a family as a husband, wife, two-and-a-half kids, a dog—and the government. You could call what I’ve done ‘civil disobedience,’ that I have taken a non-violent stand against an institution that has stood for nothing more than oppression.

“I am going to take a little break from the game of golf that I love so much to really reassess whether it is worth it for me to make the sacrifice of my beliefs to keep harmony with the woman I love. I am not sure what decision I will come to—or she will come to—but it will be between the two of us and the media and the society will have no bearing on our decision. Now… do you have something you wanted to say?”

“Um, I think I was the ‘half-kid’ in my family,” was the best I could come up with.

“Abortions apparently weren’t 100% effective back then,” he came back and I decided to keep my mouth shut, seeing that Tiger not only kicked ass on the golf course but with abortion jokes as well.

“So if it’s alright with you, I’m going to go home now and see how my wife and kids are holding up from not only my actions but all the judgments that the good Christians have pelted us with.”

“I thought you were going to play in this tournament?” I asked.

“No, I just came here to have a face-to-face with you.”

“Uh, thanks?”

“And one final thing…” at this Tiger unzipped his fly and let unroll a mammoth of a club—at least a 14 iron—that not only showed me which side of his heritage contributed to his manhood but also a reason besides fame and money why so many women were spreading their girlhoods for him. “I don’t expect to hear any more rice dick jokes from you, bitch,” he said firmly.

“No, sir,” I said as he walked off the golf course, leaving me in silence on the green of the 8^th hole, alone except for a family of sparrows that had taken up residence in the divot his 14 iron put in the ground when he unzipped.

“Man is polygamous by nature; he cannot remain tied to one woman. Living with one woman, a man is invariably bored; living with one man a woman is not so bored… Every wife wants that her husband should not be interested in any other woman. This desire, which is natural for a woman, runs counter to the male nature which is basically polygamous. The problem is that if social laws and conventions are laid in obedience to the male nature, women will suffer, and if they are laid to conform to feminine nature, men will be unhappy. And the core of the problem is that neither can be happy if one of them is miserable… We made laws according to the needs of our society, not according to needs of human nature… and as a result the whole of mankind has perpetually been in misery and anguish.”

—Osho from Krishna: The Man And His Philosophy (pp. 773-776)