Assholes

Though I am not a physiologist, I know a lot about assholes. My knowledge about them increased with leaps and bounds over the Christmas Day. A pompous, bumptious, ignorant, self-impressed pontificating asshole intimated that I was trying to ride the coattails of the crazed, but talented poet Bui Giang to fame despite my lack of comprehension of the poet's works. What a croak of shit the asshole proved himself to me. He went on accusing me of being deficient in both Vietnamese and English when he proved in his bumbling, babbling, sputtering, stammering, stuttering prose in Vietnamese and English that he was a fucked-up, ignorant, short, ugly peasant who often didn't know what the fuck that he was pontificating about. Luckily for him, he didn't profess that he could write poetry as the Monkey asserted, otherwise I would pillory him in the public square of the capital where the shameless liar resided.

Then at the other end of the spectrum of gender, there was a vixen who was denounced by me on the early morning of Christmas morning as the incarnation of stingy, calculating, cheap tawdriness. The bitch had long held a despairing, futulitarian, desperate, yet vainly illusional crush on me. I did nothing to encourage her. I was merely polite and courteous as she was my landlady. I rented a condo from her. Because of her affection for me, she let me stay in there with a reduced rent. To trade off, I had to endure long phone calls from her about just everything under the sun. I moved out of the condo on Christmas when I was told by a mutual friend that the landlady bitch had been telling peoole that I was trying to seduce her with my physique, but she was holding out because she thought I was not physically endowed enough. Have you ever heard of such a filthy nonsense and absurdity in your life? Women are crazy, let me tell you, especially if they think they have a hook into you. I was fooled enough in my life. I now know better.

Anyway, yesterday something very odd and moving happened to me. That is making me revise my thinking about chance, fate, and spirituality. Before I go into that wondrous experience, let me preface that I always had a vain, deep, dark, secret inkling and intuition that I was a rare man, possessing some rare gifts of clairvoyance and extrasensory perceptions that allowed me to milk and plumb some well of subconscious. My explorations of poetry via he medium of a foreign language reflect this fascination of mine about language acquisition and the question if a borrowed, non-native tongue is adequate in understanding and trasmitting beauty and truth. Back to the moving experience that I had of yesterday. I took my little harem out to lunch. We had a good time. After the lunch, we stopped at the little snack shop for desserts, where we slurped and stuffed ourselves with Viet delicacies. We were as high as kites by the time we staggered out of that paradise of sweets. I herded my aficionadas into my Toyota Sienna and headed back to my headquarters. I always took the interstate route because it was faster and thus more to my liking. But yesterday, I took the long way back home because inexplicably I failed to change into the right lane to get into the interstate. Not only that, I got into the far left lane so I could turn left once I passed the overpass bridge. As I got to the overpass bridge, I had a blowout on my front right tire. Luckily for us, I was not even driving fast as I customarily would and the van didn't flip or veer into the adjacent lane. I screamed for my High Priestess who was sitting up front to push the emergency signal light on. She was hysterical and could not even find it meanwhile I was struggling to bring the van under control while bracing for a possible rear-end collision. Because the traffic was relatively light on account of the holidays, nobody hit us. I didn't tell anybody about, except the High Priestess, the blow-out after we got back. She was deathly pale after learning of the news. She immediately went to the altar and prayed earnestly for solid ten minutes. Up until that moment, I had held prayers and similar acts of entreaties as exercises in self-deception, but listening to her emotional and moving expressions of gratitude for divine intervention, I had a sudden illuminarion that heartfelt prayers were gestures of uplifting and transcending communication, ostensibly with God, but actually inspirational dialogues with ourselves. Ever since that experience, I have been less judgmental of praying. In fact, I have been into meditation cum praying myself, with intense feelings of gratitude of being alive for not taking the interstate on that particular day.

The point of all these ostensible openings of my heart was not really to brag about myself or to blast the assholes because bragging about myself and blasting assholes don't really solve anything. I am here. I write. In writing, I may get in touch with something grander than myself because when I write, I understand more of the human heart, especially my own. I have to live my life my own way because surely I will die my own death. And I do know this: the assholes had better pray that I don't really mad because if I do, they will be really sorry for having the stupidity to bait and to denigrate me with no cause than other than their colossal ignorance and envy. I am on a mission to fuck up their lives, given a slightest opportunity. The assholes don't really know me.

(to be continued)