Jack Kukoda

But that’s the price you pay when you compete in the North Atlantic semi-professional arm-wrestling circuit. What? I never told you that I’m a competitive arm-wrestler? Well, you got me. I had been trying to keep it under wraps for a while until I had moved up far enough in the rankings, but as long as the cat’s out of the bag…

Anyway, last night, I took on Pete “The Arm-Wrestler” Malloch. For those of you non-arm-wrestling aficianados, “The Arm-Wrestler” is one of the toughest competitors on the Eastern Seaboard. Frankly, I was lucky to get a shot at him. Before I could even battle him, I had to sit down at the “table of arm pain” with such contenders as Jim “Strong Arm” Jackson, David “Elbows Down” Thompson, and Lisa “Iron Ulna” Teetles. (Yes, I have arm-wrestled women. Divisions are determined by weight and experience, with no regard for gender, okay?)

At the ‘Table of Arm Pain,’ we’re all brothers. Dig?

I’m not going to lie, “The Arm-Wrestler” kicked my ass last night. Or, as we say on the circuit, he “kicked some arm.” Figuratively, of course, as kicking is not allowed in arm-wrestling. My loss dropped me a few spots in the rankings, but that’s not why I do this. Or maybe it is. I can’t remember right now. After I lost, I was feeling pretty down, so I walked to a Home Depot and bought some industrial strength varnish remover. I spent the next few hours huffing that out of a paper bag in a bus depot.

Well, that’s the glamorous life a semi-pro arm wrangler. I’ve got to get going. I have a job interview in an hour and I need to wash the ring of varnish off of my face. It looks ridiculous.

Well, they announced the winner of the Newbery Medal today and, once again, those bastards on the committee screwed me. For the laymen out there, the Newbery is the most prestigious award there is for children’s literature. Some asshole I’ve never heard of won it this year.

Sweet Christ, how many awesome children’s books do I have to write before these elitists will give me a freaking Newbery? My latest children’s book, “The Talking Lion, a Large Piece of Fruit, and the Lesson-Learning Boy,” was by far the greatest work I’ve produced in the past five years. Even better than last year’s “A Witch, a Little Girl, Some Ponies, and a Bag of Magic,” which was pretty goddamn unbelievable if you ask me.

Some of my critics say that I’ll never win the Newbery because my books contain language too coarse and racially insensitive for children. To that, I say, “Fuck you, Indian. Do not tell me how to write!” Whatever. I don’t write children’s books for awards. I do it for the money. And all the trim I get. You have any idea how many hot, lonely moms there are in this country? Well, I’ll tell you. A fucking shitload, that’s how many, you lazy Eskimo. And they line up around the block for my book signings. Then they line up around my balls.(Note to self, remember that line for the next book.)

Ah, I’ve wasted too much of my time complaining already. I’ve got to finish my next children’s book. It’s tentatively called, “The Magical Train, Some Mean Step-Parents, a Bear, Something To Do With the Circus, and a Lesson About Material Possessions.” And if it doesn’t win me the Newbery, I swear to God I’ll find Roald Dahl’s widow and I’ll punch her in the heart.

‘Criss Cross’ Nets Newbery Medal for Perkins [NPR]

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.

Now that I have your attention, there’s something I’d like to tell you: I just shat out a Faberge Egg. For real.

To tell you the truth, I’m kind of worried. I mean, I’ve gotten blackout drunk before and done some pretty weird shit, but I’ve never had a priceless antique from the Romanov Dynasty show up in my stool. Were any of you hanging out with me last night? I must have drank more than I thought because I can’t remember anything. What did we do? Where did we go? Did anyone see me eat a Faberge Egg? Please, somebody help me out.

Here’s as much as I can tell you. I woke up this morning in my apartment from the torso up. The rest of me was sticking out into the hallway. I’m going to hazard a guess that last night, I got as far as putting the key in the door, then passed out. Also, when I woke up, my mouth tasted like sawdust. What?!

This came out of my ass.

How did I get my hands on a Faberge Egg? Where would I have even found one? And why did I eat it? At least, I’m hoping I ate it. Since the Egg was in pristine condition when it came out, I can’t rule out the possibility that I actually shoved the Egg up my ass at some point in the night. I prefer to think that it just didn’t digest well, though, like peanuts.

Oh man, if you guys know what happened, please tell me. I’m also slightly worried that whomever the Egg belongs to is going to want it back. And they could be foreigners. I don’t want to fuck with Interpol, the law enforcement agency, not the NYU students. Although, I hear those guys are pretty tough, too. All right, that’s all. I’m going to stay in for the rest of the day and make a list of ways to turn my life around. I can’t keep having stuff like this happen to me.

The following are excerpts from the police logs of NYPD Officer Tom Floaver. They are significant not only for his laziness, but also for his startling honesty about it.

Jan. 5, 1999
First day on the job. Responded to call at 168 E. 35th St. Possible breaking and entering in progress. Arrived late because of traffic on 34th, probably could have made it faster by hoofing it, but big whoop. As I was entering the building the assailant crashed into me, dropping a bag of jewelry and personal electronics. I yelled, “What’s the big idea, Jerk?” He escaped on foot and I discharged my service revolver. I failed to hit him with any shots. I decided not to run after him as it was freezing outside. So I won’t get a medal. Like I care.

March 21, 1999
Responded to a call at P.S. 124 regarding what they thought to be a gas leak. When I arrived I told the principal that gas leaks were the fire department’s jurisdiction. We argued for about twenty minutes and then I finally agreed to check the boiler. The basement was really dark and smelled bad so I only went down about 5 steps and waited there for a few minutes. Then I came back up and told the principal that I performed a thorough inspection and that she had nothing to worry about. I spent the rest of the afternoon reading pornography in my squad car.

*For the months June-August, no logs were submitted by Officer Floaver. It was later discovered that he paid an unemployed actor fifty dollars a day to impersonate him, while Floaver spent the summer at his brother-in-law’s house in Sea Girt, NJ.

September 8, 1999
Christ, it was hot today. I arrested an ice cream truck driver and took a nap in his cooler. Woke up two hours later damn near frostbitten. I had a hell of a time explaining that one to Chief. He was like, “Why are your cheeks and fingers all red?” I just mumbled something about chasing a perp and then shuffled a bunch of papers on my desk like I was real busy and couldn’t talk right now. I think he bought it.

December 24, 1999
I can’t believe I have to work Christmas Eve, especially since I had not done any Christmas shopping. So I decided to raid the evidence locker. Kill two birds with one stone, right? I didn’t take any heroin or guns or anything. But there was a lot of nice jewelry that my wife will like and some drug dealer must have had kids of his own because I found a huge stash of toys and video games in one of the cages. I guess I’ll wrap this stuff in newspaper or something. Or maybe I’ll just put it all in one big cardboard box and wrap that. Whatever.

Jan 3, 2000
Chief said that he wants to meet with me first thing tomorrow morning for my one-year performance evaluation. He seemed kind of pissed off, too. I hope he doesn’t read these things or I’m screwed. Well, no use getting all worried about it. I think I’ll take a dump and call it a day.

So I’m still in Buffalo until Friday when I will return to New York to find my mailbox overflowing with New Year’s Eve party invations. Until that day, though, I’ve been trying to keep busy here in the “City of Good Neighbors.”

To pass the time I’ve been reading, watching TV, and sleeping. I’ve also been scouring the house for clothes I know I left here before I moved out.(Where is that shirt from Structure I used to wear all the time?!) In my searching, I came across something so horrifying, yet adorable, I nearly crapped my pants in horror/cuteness appreciation.

My parents, who I’ve always known to be slightly nuts, have crossed the line from endearingly wacky into full-blown empty-nester delusion…

They have taken to dressing up our dogs in Halloween costumes.

The Horror! The Adorable Horror!

The one above is Rosie. She is a cocker spaniel. She is also dressed as a ladybug. Why? Because my parents are under the impression that dogs are the same as human children. (Click on any of the photos to see a full-size picture of my parents’ madness.)

“Who’s my little angel? Why, this dog, you old coot!”

This one is named Murphy, who is also a cocker spaniel, but he’s dressed as an angel. No need to explain why. Here’s the two of them together.

“Will someone please save us?”

When I first came across these photos, I naturally shrieked. Then I asked my Mom why they dressed the dogs up. Her response, while giggling, was, “It was fun. And they liked it.”

I ask you, dear reader, do any of these dogs look like they are enjoying being paraded around in these outfits like circus clowns? They look like they’re staring off at the horizon, pretending to be in a happy place and waiting for this experience to be over so they can start repressing it.

Okay, here’s the last one. Don’t scroll down if you’re allergic to displays of incredible cuteness.

Okay? You’ve been warned. I won’t be held liable if your throat closes up and you break out in hives after you see this…

“Bzzzz! I’ll sting you…with sweetness!!”

Yes, that is a cocker spaniel dressed up as a bumble bee. Don’t fight it. Let that image seep into your brain. That’s it, let it do its work. It’s replacing all the bad. Soon you’ll have no recollection of this thing called “war.”

This post leaves a lot of questions unanswered, I know. Questions like, “What’s with your parents’ cocker spaniel fetish,” or “Why do they have so many dogs,” or “Why haven’t you committed them, drained their bank accounts, and bought thousands of cartons of Kools for you and your friends?”

I can assure you I’ll answer all these questions in good time. All in good time.