Tuesday, April 26, 2005

I got a dog in that fight.

Top of the morning gents,

I like fights. Really good and nasty fights.

Me and Cully pitted every farm animal against each other. Dogs vs. dogs, cats vs. cats, Billy goats against dogs, Billy goats against horses, Billy goats against neighboring bullies, and even best friends.

Way cool. Horned goats always trumped fangs and hooves, but are especially funny to watch when they smashed boyhood pals into fence posts and barbed wire. Some of my tougher and longest lasting friends took this abuse, even if the fencing was electrified.

Red, Pim, and Mike Perlatti earned my respect with each and every test. They’d watched in horror as me and Cully got whipped, battered and dragged by livestock of every sort, including our own parents.

Our misery was their favorite company so we shared lots of hurts growing up. Brings tears to my eyes when I recall the injuries we incurred together, then bandaged and concealed them from our parents.

We watched rabbits fight to the death, cats fight till we stomped 'em, and dogfights both combative and sexual sometimes fighting to get separate from each other's locked up genitals. Dogs got lots of sex in their violence.

If you grew up in The Killing Fields of The Pacific Northwest you would've frequently heard the mob violence fight cheer, "A fight! A fight! A Nigger and a White!" Seattle is famous for racial hatred of colored folks and natives, especially Edmonds, Lynnwood, and Mountlake Terrace.

Whenever I heard this mob violence chant, I started running scared. And fast.

I ain't talking running away, my Ked's burned rubber towards the fisticuffs (mud, blood, beer) cuz it meant me and Cully's only colored friend was taking on the whole world and would’ve likely died trying.

Carl Potter was in the grade between Cully and I and he was Mike Perlatti's next-door neighbor, so the lad knew us well and played with all of us anyway. We must have failed to notice that he was black, cuz we always picked him for our Boys Club Baseball, Football, Basketball, and even our Smear the Queer teams.

That boyhood pal of me and Cully’s could run, catch, and punch harder’n shit. He also blew one hell of a trumpet too.

I pray I'll never have to wade into Carl Potter's fights anymore, those white fuckers fight hard, which meant Cully and I had to fight back, sometimes against our own friends, occasionally outnumbered and far beyond our capabilities.

This meant we got our asses beat to shit frequently and took crap for being both "goat herders" AND "nigger lovers." Nobody sticks around to help us beaten and bleeding farm boys carry a near dead broken colored boy off the playing field.

Humans are cruel that way, especially the small ones: they're a reflection of their parents.

Now you see me with my mask off and where this untapped love and affection for my best mates comes from. No matter where yer folks were born, all men were boys at one time, and that’s what I see concealed within yer fully grown frames.

God loves ye, and as you can see for yourself, I'm pretty fond of all of you too. It's just hard to put this into spoken words, so I type them. Hence my hyperactive literary output casting you lot as crooks, criminals, and coppers.

Angels, all of you; my life would’ve been empty if I hadn’t fought and gotten beaten to piss, all for my best mates.

I may bitch that I'll never stick up for a friend ever again, but as always; I'm lying. I still like breaking skulls and crushing testicles of cruel humans that prefer to beat on the only negro near my childhood farm.

Metaphor, analogy, and simile, you dorks.

Few of you can remember mobs yelling obscenities and taunts, taking socks to the eyes and cheeks, crying and swinging for your fucking life, all for a colored lad that has just discovered that his best (and only) friends were two tall farm boys.

This commitment to friendship cost me, and plenty.

I stuck close by Pim one rainy night after swim turnout as backup. We both of us got our asses beat and kicked into the wet pavement.

Sticking up for friends is a bitch, but I'm still standing and swinging on yer side. Even if you didn't know it.

One time Eli Williams was abusing and cursing one of my dearest friends, and coworkers. I didn't like this at all.

When my partner in crime went next door to type up the complaint, I throttled that bag of puke. I tossed this foul smelling midget all over the cell splitting his forehead, loosening ribs and teeth, finally neatly tucking him into bed with his handcuffs still on.

Ironically, Octuck vigorously questioned me about the condition of his prisoner. What surprised me was his dedication. That fucking cop would've charged with me with assault had he known my closet penchant for pounding on abusive shit for brains humans.

I also like a good fight in every single election I vote in.

You oughta see me and my pre-election analysis. I look at each candidate as pit bulls and Billy goats. I like a good fight. I place my bets by stepping into any convenient voting booth.

I voted for a lunatic Christian cuz I wanted him to have a spaz attack on non-Saxons: same sex fecus eaters, rape and scrape kicking fetus shop vac cunt suckers, and Muslims that begged for, and received a thorough Anglo domino tumbling of their tribally retarded governments.

After the much hyped and erroneous gun debates of the 90's, I got really sick of the last administration and I saw a delicious pit bull fight between Al Goron the Moron and George W. Stinky Bush.

I've had so much fun watching people I disliked get their peepy spanked, I punched a repeat performance provocateur ballot for another killer slugfest between the Kerry Fairy camp and his demo-bitch Masters; Bush/Cheney.

On the upcoming election, I'll swing like a pendulum back across and vote for a really faggy liberal butt puss sucker. Them queers posing as university intellectuals do a good job of reigning in overzealous religo-faggot Christians. These same Christians are impossible to distinguish from Jews and will happily party all night under any fresh and bleeding crucifix.

Balance of liberty includes giving a few political offices to candidates that are popular with the secular left; yet also burp sperm and have poopy butts.

I pray the Dems can produce a real man, not a counterfeit American who's hidden agenda mirrors coastal resort ideologies.

After that election, we oughta vote for a serial rapist and cereal killer from the Midwest, or Alaska. Real humans are inherently violent. Some arise from Indun reserves, some from remote villages in rural Alaska. Amen?

Nobody walks away from political battles un-bloodied, and I have failed to notice that my repeatedly beaten skull affects my appearance. I also discovered I was unaware of my own color blindness. The same metaphoric color blindness found in a kid that will happily lose a fight and his teeth for his buddies, and taught his Billy goats to chase and pummel stray dogs.

“My words but a whisper, my actions a shout.”

A lesson all children need to learn at an early age is that sticking up for the “odd man out” can break your nose, and yer heart. It’s hard to be best pals with boys that are trained to kill anything anomalous, like colored folks and natives.

My boyhood relationships mirror my adult friendships; interracial and interspecies.

Wake up fucks; I’m describing you lot.

Some of you are Eskimo, some of you are descendants from other continents, but all of you are my pals. As you can see, the color palette I use in painting my fictional diatribes reflects the color make-up of you guys; complex, diverse, and a really messed up.

Ya see, amongst friends: tears and handshakes ain’t got no racial or ethnic descriptors, yer my friends and we took a beating, together.

Regardless of the color of the torn skin on yer knuckles and face, I got a dog in that fight. Meaning I got yer back.

That’s us mates, I hope this makes sense.



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