Jack Kukoda

No? I didn’t? That’s probably because I don’t like to brag about myself. If I did, I’d mention stuff like the fact that I was the MVP of the Christ the King basketball tournament in 7th Grade. Or the time in college when I took a dump so big that it clogged my dorm’s third floor bathroom, and the fire department had to come because the sinks were overflowing. But since I’m real modest, I don’t normally talk about that sort of stuff.

The only reason I’m telling you about the boar now is that you might someday find yourself in a situation where you’ll need to fend off a wild animal, and perhaps, by sharing my experience, I can help you out.

Back to the boar story. A few summers ago, I was hanging out at Hott Traxxxx, a pretty sweet club in Belmar on the Jersey Shore. Hott Traxxxx is such a hot club that there’s a line around the block to get in, but that’s okay because it gives me and my friends time to do push ups so that our arms look jacked by the time we get in. Anyway, my buddies and I were having a good time when this boar walks up and starts dancing with my girl. She tried to dance away, but the boar just followed her. She told him that she had a boyfriend, but the boar didn’t seem to care. You get the point: the boar was being a real dick.

I rolled up my sleeves, bashed myself in the chest a few times like Mark Wahlberg in Fear to pump myself up, and walked right over to the boar. “Excuse me,” I said. “I don’t think the lady wants to dance with you.” The boar just looked up at me, then side-to-side, then back to me. “Did you hear me?” I continued, “I’m talking to you. Look at me when I’m talking to you, you goddamn boar!” The entire club seemed to go silent at this point, (although I know for a fact that it did not, since my friends later told me that Sean Paul’s “Gimme the Light” was playing while the whole thing went down.)

Stay out of the Jersey Shore and get back in the woods where you belong!

At this point, the boar and I were locked in a pretty serious staring contest and I was determined to make him blink first. Then the boar started making some sort of snorting noise in my general direction. That was the last mistake he ever made.

I threw my Malibu and tonic in the boar’s face, temporarily blinding him. Then I dropped to the ground and delivered a spinning sweep kick to the boar’s front legs. His snout hit the dancefloor with a resounding “oomph” noise. By now the crowd was cheering, as New Jerseyians are notorious boar-haters. I jumped back to my feet, then, using a nearby girl’s headband, I hogtied the boar’s legs together. I picked the boar up and began racing around the dancefloor, high-fiving people with my free hand as I blurred past them. I don’t know if it was the adrenaline flowing through my body or the crowd’s chants of “Kill that boar!” but I soon found myself on top of the bar, holding the wild pig above my head. I can’t remember the rest, but the police report says that it wasn’t pretty. I got off with just a warning because the police said that no jury in New Jersey would ever convict a man for killing a no-good filthy boar.