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Wednesday, October 31, 2007

Give It A Go

"By the end of the third or fourth day all the meat had rotted, leaving the room awash in an aroma reminiscent of a Khmer Rouge killing field, and leaving us with only our own bodies with which to satiate our hungers. Oh, the energies we expelled. The sweat! Late that afternoon a pig, probably having escaped from the farm down the road, wandered into the yard. Ashley, half-crazed and hollow-eyed, managed to work her tiny frame through a window above the kitchen sink and ambushed the swine from above, smothering it with her vintage poncho that had hosted her in their deflowering."

"Who wants punch?" K-Ro asked as he walked into the study carrying a refreshment tray. Upon seeing K-Ro enter the room, Tiger Woods leapt to his feet and quickly moved to the restroom, without excusing himself.

"What did I say?" K-Ro asked, sounding hurt.

"Who knows," I said, "I was just regaling him with a recount of the retreat I took with the Olsen twins in celebration of their eighteenth birthday."

Tiger returned looking so pale that I mistook him at first for a very tall Jet Li.

"Tiger, are you okay bro?" I asked.

"Just, um, a bug or something," he said, sounding unsure. I turned to K-Ro and nodded. He nodded back and quickly exited the study, only to return a moment later carrying a dozen plaster recreations of cuddly, white baby seals, which he lined up neatly across the floor in front of us. Tiger looked on with a quizzical expression. Noticing his puzzled look, I patted him on the shoulder.

"When I was a young man at university," I explained, "I spent my summers with my Uncle Perciforth, who was not really my uncle, but whom I had met as a child when I worked part-time in his veterinary clinic, where I assisted in shaving various pet parts and cleaning bed pans. Uncle Perciforth left the veterinary business after a particularly nasty clawing from a yeast infected iguana. He set forth into the vast arctic wilderness where he made his living guiding Asian businessmen on baby seal clubbing safaris." I paused for a moment, studying Tiger, reading his reaction. He simply stared back silently. He appeared not to breathe.

"It was during these summers that I perfected my swing," I went on, "You cannot possibly imagine the technical perfection required to part a baby seal's head from it's cute, cuddly body. Those little guys are tougher than they look." I extended an arm to K-Ro, who handed me a driver, which I gave to Tiger.

"Go ahead," I said, motioning at the plaster baby seals, "Give it a go." Tiger shook his head vigorously, his eyes never leaving mine. I simply stared back sternly, and gestured toward the plaster baby seals again.

"Give it a go," I repeated.

Tiger, somewhat reluctantly, took the club from my hand and slowly moved in front of the first baby seal. There he stood for an eternity, concentrating, removing all distractions from his thoughts. Then he began his backswing, his eyes never leaving the baby seal, and he let her rip. As he swung through, the baby seal head flew against the wall and the strawberry jam that K-Ro had filled it with exploded throughout the room, covering the three of us with fake baby seal blood.

"Woohoo!" Tiger yelled, pumping his fist.

"Hole in one!" screamed K-Ro. Tiger beamed wildly, his smile lighting the room. He extended a gracious hand.

"Thank you, sir," He said, and he looked back at the remaining plaster baby seals.

"No problem, bro," I said, and then gestured at the remaining plaster baby seals, "Go ahead."

And with that Tiger turned back to the row of plaster baby seals, covering the room with more and more strawberry jam and filling us all with joy.

Sunday, October 21, 2007

K-Ro Is Brilliant

"Where have you been?" K-Ro said, half worried and half scolding. The same words spoken by any other would have resulted in at least a severe dressing down, but from K-Ro it was easy to recognize the true feeling of concern behind the inquiry.

"You had me worried to death," he continued, "You can't call? How can I know you aren't hurt, or being raped?"

"I had to do some thinking. This Vick story goes deeper than we ever imagined," I said.

"Always with the work!" K-Ro snapped, "You should eat something. I made muffins." So that was the heavenly aroma I had detected. K-Ro's abilities in the kitchen are rivalled only by his almost comically evil contempt for civil liberties.

"I almost forgot," he added, "Tiger Woods called while you were out. He's having trouble with his swing and wanted your advice."

"Was it Tiger or a representative of his?" I asked. My concern was that Tiger's wife, Elin, who had been sending me notes and emails seeking some sort of liason between us, might have been trying to use the pretense of a meeting with Tiger to meet with me.

"It was Tiger," he replied, "I spoke with him myself."

"Set it up," I ordered. The pressures of the day were starting to wear on me, and I knew I could use the diversion. I had heard that Tiger had was an exceptional athlete, and knew he had potential. An hour with me could transform that potential into championships.

"Bring my Louisville Slugger," I ordered.

"Your what, sir?" K-Ro asked.

"You know, my baseball bat," I said.

"Why, sir, if you don't mind me asking?" K-Ro said.

"How dare you question me!" I snapped, "But if you must know, how do you expect me to counsel Tiger Woods on his swing if I don't warm up my own swing first?" K-Ro looked perplexed.

"Begging your pardon sir, but Mr. Woods competes in golf, not baseball," K-Ro informed me. I looked at him for a long time without speaking. Suddenly I was furious with K-Ro. How could he embarrass me like this?

"Don't you think I realize that, you fool?" I screamed, slapping him across the round cheek. Poor K-Ro fell to the floor cowering, his arms raised to shield his face from further attacks. His pitiful sobs finally penetrated my fury.

"Oh my poor, poor K-Ro," I cried, "Forgive me my tiny round friend!" I enveloped my friend and servant with my thick arms, pulling his sobbing head into the comfort of my vast chest. There he remained for a few tender moments, his low, almost silent sobs only interrupted by intermittent uncontrollable shuddering. He finally looked up at me, his wide eyes still shiny with tears, and sniffled loudly.

"What is wrong, sir?" he asked, "Something is bothering you." I was genuinely touched. This pathetic creature, whom I had just attacked with the ferocity I usually reserve for immigrants and activists, was more concerned with my well-being than for his own. Abashed, I quickly stood, dropping his dear head from my arms heavily onto the floor.

"Oh poor K-Ro," I said, "Poor, pathetic, disgusting, fat, bald, poor K-Ro, how could I strike thee? It is my own confusion that has led to your undeserved punishment. I am unsure of what course to take in the pursuit of this story, which I am sure is to be the Greatest Story Ever Written!"

"You need to take a break, sir," K-Ro said, soothingly, "Visit with Tiger Woods, help him with his swing, and then revisit this dilemma. Maybe then you'll see the answers you're too close to see now." I knew my friend was right. Man, this guy was good. Not just good. K-Ro is brilliant. I extended a powerful arm toward his pathetic figure, and he smiled. I had a surprise for Tiger, something that would serve as the final piece in the puzzle of his own personal quest for the perfect golf swing.

Wednesday, October 17, 2007

Room 69

"Stop here," I said softly as Danica pulled up in front of a dingy apartment complex. It was the very apartment complex where Bruce Willis' character lived in Pulp Fiction. My buddy Bill Clinton keeps a secret pad there for his frequent weekend excursions, leased under the name, Ron Mexico. I needed some advice, or maybe just a kindred spirit to help me understand the path I needed to follow to discover the truth behind the Vick scandal. K-Ro slept comfortably in the back of the limo, so I was careful not to wake him, as he disapproved of my relationship with Bill, although, as I've often tried to explain to him, we've been friends a long time.

"Take the little guy back to the hotel," I ordered, "I'll call you later."

"Yes, sir," Danica obeyed, struggling to maintain a professional demeanor while ignoring her deep, consuming love for me. We both knew better than to embark on such an affair, due to our working relationship and her dark, thin mustache.

I had to fight to resist the urge to grab a handful of pudgy cheek as I took a last look at K-Ro, peacefully slumbering with a mouthful of thumb and still wearing the "People Don't Kill Dogs, Mike Vick Does" t-shirt. The little fella's such a cutie!

As the limo pulled away from the curb, I approached room number 69 (Bill may have been a Rhodes' Scholar, but his sense of humor is decidedly low-brow) and knocked three times. The moment my fist struck the door the third time, it swung open wildly. Bill stood looking at me wide-eyed, wearing only a pink silken bathrobe over yellowed briefs and black socks. His left nipple was red and swollen and impaled with what appeared to be a comically oversized clothespin. Above the nipple was a tattoo of Tupac Shakur, his face flushed by the infection.

"GK!" he exclaimed. Bill Clinton is the only person I've ever met, including my parents, who doesn't address me as "Sir." He began calling me GK after a particularly late night in the King's Cross district of Sydney. The prostitute he had met, a pudgy older girl named Yvette, had passed out cold in the street at the entrance to her building, and Bill talked me into carrying her over my shoulder up the two flights of stairs to her door. Although completely naked, I happily agreed, and as Bill followed us up the steps, he couldn't help but notice the sinewy musculature and perfect symmetry of my calves. GK stands for "God-like Calves." Apparently, one doesn't need to pass a spelling test to become a Rhodes' Scholar either.

"Billy Boy!" I said.

"Come on in here, bro," he said, "Have a seat on the couch." We both made our way to the couch and sat down. A huge bong stood like a monument on the coffee table.

"What're ya'll doin here in Angel City?" Bill asked.

"Working, bro," I said, "What do you make of this Vick story?"

"Yo, yo, that nigga was set up, g!" He sounded agitated. It's well known that he and Vick are close. Suddenly I saw a figure from the corner of my eye, and was startled briefly before I recognized Whitney Houston emerge from the bathroom, wearing nothing but an Arkansas Razorbacks t-shirt. She walked across the room and sat heavily between us.

"Ya'll mind if I smoke this crack in here?" she asked without saying hello. I felt a little awkward.

"Where'd you get that crack?" Bill asked.

"I got it from a white guy," she explained.

"Long as it ain't none of that ghetto shit," Bill said, "That shit's bad for you."

"Um, so, Billy Boy," I said, "You guys need your privacy?"

"No, no bro," he laughed, "It's just these bitches, yo."

"What do you mean, Vick was set up?" I asked.

"Yo, check this," he said, standing, "Remember when that shit went down with that white girl in the White House and all that shit. I dropped a couple bombs on Iraq, g, and that shit, like, went away and shit. Shit."

I got it. I finally understood. Vick was innocent. He really was being set up. Michael Vick was a decoy, a means to divert the attention of the American public from something more important. But what? What did we need to ignore? I vaguely remembered a conversation K-Ro and I had earlier that day. Something about a war.

"I've got to go," I said, standing.

"I'll walk you out, GK," Bill said.

We walked outside and Bill shut the door behind him. He seemed happy.

"Thanks for everything," I said, "How's Hillary?"

"She's great, bro," he said.

"What's with the tattoo?" I asked.

"We did peyote last night," he said, "That's some wild shit."

We shook hands and Bill disappeared back into room 69. I sent a telepathic message through my iPhone to Danica. We had work to do.

Monday, October 15, 2007

More Questions

The scene outside the Vick mansion was utter chaos. Mournful cries and shouts of horrified bewilderment rang throughout the compound, echoing across the throngs of news crews and onlookers, a sight seldom seen in our fair country, aside from any time a white, young, cute and white mother goes missing. I turned to K-Ro, who stood teary eyed and shaken, and realized suddenly that something had been amiss since the tragic beginnings of this horrifying story. A young woman standing near me collapsed into my arms, overcome by grief.

"Miss," I said, "Are you okay?" She slowly opened her eyes and noticed me holding her.

"Oh my goodness," she sniffled, "I'm a huge fan. Could you sign my breast?"

"Of course."

"Make it out to Monica," she said, and suddenly I was overcome with the feeling that we were in extreme danger. I quickly scribbled a two paragraph greeting on her substantial mammary and searched for K-Ro, who was gently swaying arm in arm between Ted Nugent and Larry Craig, who softly sang "Fire and Rain."

"Keep it above the waist, Craig," K-Ro said as I approached.

"Come on, bro," I told K-Ro, "We need to get out of here."

"Yes sir."

We slowly made our way through the crowd, stopping frequently for autograph requests and to offer awkward excuses why I haven't called. At the edge of the gathering we stopped at a vendor selling bottled water and "People Don't Kill Dogs, Mike Vick Does" t-shirts.

"Gimme a water," I ordered.

"Can I get a t-shirt?" K-Ro asked, "Look, it says "Free Paris" on the back!"

"Sure, bro," But I wasn't really listening, as I was telepathically receiving news reports directly to my brain waves via my iPhone. Every network was reporting live from the Vick mansion; CNN was calling it the greatest gathering of celebrities in the history of mankind. The eyes of the country, no, the world, were cast upon us. But I couldn't shake the feeling that we were all in danger. Something was being overlooked.

"Hey K-Ro," I said, "Who won the war?"

"What war?" He asked.

"You know, Iraq. Or was it Afghanistan? Maybe Iran." I said.

"We won that years ago," He said, "Remember that whole "Mission Accomplished" thing? That was my idea. Wait, maybe that was the war on drugs. Or illegal immigration. I don't remember. How do I look?" He had slipped the t-shirt over his suit. He looked pretty good.

"Good, bro. Call Danica. We need to get outta here."

"Yes sir."

As Danica drove us back to the hotel, I wondered if we were all being manipulated. Had we really won the war? Why would Mike Vick get back into dog murdering? What does global warming have to do with peace? There were too many unanswered questions.

"Didn't Rambo fight for Afghanistan?" K-Ro asked.

More questions.

Monday, October 8, 2007

Go Time

The following is a series of eyewitness accounts taken at the scene from the Vick mansion, where 5,000 toy poodle, and one labradoodle, carcasses were discovered this morning. What you're about to hear is not for the faint of heart.

Karl Rove (K-Ro): "In all my years in politics and public service, I have never witnessed such useless carnage and brutality. It looked like someone gave Dick Cheney an automatic weapon on the first day of dove season, only instead of his friends, it was tiny dogs that were shot."

Paris Hilton: "Tinkerbell? Tinkerbell?"

Mel Gibson: "I think the exact number of deaths has been greatly exaggerated. I'm not saying the doglocaust didn't happen, but does anyone absolutely know the real story?"

President Bush: "The media tends to focus on the negative aspects of this story. If you talk to the dogs on the grounds, you will find that they believe in what they're doing, and progress is being made. What do you mean dogs can't talk? Haven't you ever seen The Family Guy?"

Barack Obama: "I'm not going to say we should or shouldn't take military action against Mr. Vick. This is about dogs, right? You realize I'm the first black candidate to actually have a legitimate shot at the presidency, right? Isn't there a war going on?"

Britney Spears: "I can't believe someone would do this to their dogs. I would never let this kind of thing happen to my two little puppies. Where are my puppies? Has anyone seen my puppies? Oh, they're over playing by the pool, they'll be okay."

O.J. Simpson: "Look, I wasn't even in town last night, okay?"

John Denver: "Dammit, where's my beer? Holy shit, mayday mayday!"

As for myself, I could only stand in horror, my faith in mankind shaken. That someone could be capable of such brutality spoke more about our country's lack of morality than I've ever realized. The story had to be told, and I knew there was more to the story that I would have to discover. My journey was just beginning. I turned to my agent/assistant.


"Yes, sir?"

I didn't even have to say anything more. The look in my eyes told him all he needed to know. It was go time.


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