When I was in fourth grade, dodgeball was a scary game. I was a scrawny kid with glasses, a geek who made a delectable target because you'd get a satisfying thump followed by a comical backwards tumble if you hit me ("You're going down like a sweet muffin!").
We knew we were in trouble as soon as we stepped out of the woods.
Two policemen stood there, arms crossed. In our arms would have been a case of beer, but fortunately, we spotted them moments before and hid the case.
My mind wanders as I'm trying to sleep. Those last few waking moments scurry from thought to thought. Sleep is right at my doorstep, but before I can open the door, I have to watch a Mind Movie first.
Here's a typical Mind Movie:
We're at war.
Here's a viewpoint that isn't anti- or pro-war. It's just a neutral observation.
Don't fuck with the Flyin' Hawaiian, man. 'Cuz if you piss him off, he'll lash out and strike you down like the ignorant fool you are.
At a budding young age, a kid once picked on him. So Flyin' literally kicked the kid's ass. He kicked it so hard he broke the kid's tailbone.
"Hey duck ching-chong!" he yelled at me. He put his fingers to his eyes and pulled them into slants.
"Bonzai!" he hollered.
I stood there, motionless. He was sitting in my desk. The bell was about to ring and I didn't want to get in trouble by not being in my seat.
Michelle gave a mighty shriek as she threw her punch, knuckles pale from her tensed muscles. It landed squarely onto Carla's chest, sending her staggering back—just enough for Michelle to follow up with a firm side kick that toppled her opponent.
Even though he lay flat on his back and blood bubbled from his nose, I couldn't help feel that he deserved it. The ring of spectators apparently felt the same way too, since no one came forward to help him.
What else would you expect in a New York City subway at rush hour?
A gun in my face is the last thing I want to see in my home.
Even if it's a puny BB gun.
I don't have much luck with roommates. Beats me why. They've either stolen my CDs, beaten each other up and bled on my sheets, sharpened knives at their desks…
Or pointed a gun in my face.
Weekly random rambles, musings & writings of Mike Lee in San Francisco, CA