Billy Joe Johnson Kicked My Ass In Third Grade (1972)

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Victoria Elementary School. I was on the Monkey bars. Just hanging there. Billy Joe Johnson walks up and punches me in the stomach. Suddenly I felt silly in my sweater-vest and Sears Toughskins. I drop to the ground, doubled over. I feel him over me. He had just done the same to Jimmy Bledsoe yesterday. Jimmy was a red-head, “Red on the head like the dick of a dog!” he said as Jimmy lay there crying. Now it as my turn.

“Umph, Shit! What you do that for?” I felt the tears coming but I held them back, I knew it would be a bigger scene if I cried. “Because you’re a brillo haired Jew faggot!” My mother is Irish catholic and my Father was Romanian Jew. Was I even really jewish? I stood up. I didn’t try to fight back. Right then the Gods sent a savior, Mrs. Kratzel. She didn’t witness the punch. “What’s going on here?” Billy Helped me up. “Marcus fell off the Monkey bars Mrs. Kratzel, I was helping him up.” He said, as he glared into my eyes. “Is this true Michael?” I nodded my head. I knew If i said anything, I would receive another beating, plain and simple. I walked away. “Mrs. Kratzel can we play smear the queer?” Mrs. Kratzer nodded her head, “yes but no tackling, I mean it!” I quickly walked away. I knew that I would get tackled. “Um Mrs. Kratzel can you help me with my SRA card assignment?” Any excuse to get away. “Sure michael, Meet me in the math lab.” I followed quickly behind her, grateful to miss out on today’s smear the queer playground nightmare.

Side Note. The use of the word “queer” is not homophobic in this game. It’s used as acatchy name to describe the game. The “queer” in this sense is just the kid who’s it. Because it’s completely voluntary to be the “queer”, and being the “queer” requires a certain amount of bravery, it is not used in the derogatory in this particular usage. That being said, if somebody is calling you homo or faggot, this meaning becomes null and void and you have every right to beat them within an inch of their life.

I sat in the comfort of the math lab, occasionally glancing out the window, quite a few kids were playing the game. Billy Joe had the ball, no one dared tackle him or even come near him. He forced the ball to Jimmy Wilson and immediately tackled him.

Side Note. Billy Joe Johnson (pictured above) in 2009, He wants people to know he’s a burglar, robber, white supremacist, gangster, drug addict and savage murderer who believes in Nazism and the power of Nordic hammer-wielding deity Thor. He is currently doing parole-less life in prison.

I wrote a piece of fiction Dude


Against my better judgment, I picked up the phone. It was a blocked call.
‘Yes, hello?’

‘I wrote a piece of fiction dude.’ It was Martin, his voice sounded flat, monotone. I didn’t respond. I didn’t know what to say. There was a pause.

‘I wrote a piece of fiction dude,’ Martin said it again in the same banausic tone. Still, I had no idea what to say. Again a pause.                                                                                                    

‘Hello? You there man?’ A light wind through the screen door blew a couple of fur balls across the Pergo flooring.  

‘Yeah man, I’m here.’ The furballs tumbled and settled by the dog’s water bowl. Maybe I should buy a broom?    

‘I wrote a piece of fiction dude?” Now his statement was in the form of a question.                                                                    

I realized that buying a broom would be the obvious choice. But I had a vacuum. It was an old Hoover upright.

It developed a bushing or gear problem though; as a result, it made a sound that I imagined a blender on high-speed that was filled with hex nuts might produce. It had no suction problems though. It worked just as well as the day I rolled it off the ‘Sears Home’ showroom floor. I wore ear protection and even put the dog outside when I used it, because he literally tried to cover his ears with his paws and forearms, or forelegs as it were. It was a lot of pre-production to vacuum. It had been a while since I geared up to do it, and as a result the fur balls tumbled to and fro depending on the direction cross breeze. I’ll get to it. It might be a while, I was single, and it didn’t bother me. The dishes, the laundry, and the dog shit piled up. It didn’t matter.        

“Do you want to hear it?” He asked.

“Hear what?’ Occasionally my mother visits and she will clean and do laundry and even pick up the dog shit. But I realized I felt no different either way.                                                                              

“I wrote a piece of fiction dude,” now his voice sounded stressed and desperate.      

“Sure man, read it.” I pondered the whole bachelor thing. Fuck it. I tried. I guess I’m not a relationship person.  

“Chapter One, the deputy loaded his gun, it was going to be a hot sweltering summer day of crime on the streets of Chicago…”

My mother and father weren’t relationship people either, 11 marriages and or partners between them. Subsequently they gave birth to the same, it doesn’t take Dr. Phil to figure that out, so no mystery there. He continued,      

“…Smithers was a veteran of the Chi Town P.D. He had 40 days and a wake up to a beautiful retirement in Tempe Arizona…”

Maybe just a select few can actually really pull of the relationship game. I mean really pull it off, you know?                                                    

I mean like love cherish respect, death do us part, type of deal.      

“…his wife had begged for the house in Tempe for health reasons, but Smithers had an autistic brother…how do you like my piece of fiction dude?” I didn’t answer, Martin continued reading.


Milicent Penelope Owens broke up with me. She said that I wasn’t attentive to her needs, and according to her Gramma Owens “not a proper suitor.”

I’m still trying to wrap my head around that statement. I’m in shock. Two years we were together. A lot of laughs, what I thought was romance, and a real heart to heart match. I’m trying not to completely lose it. I can’t even watch “our” shows or listen to “our” music, it all reminds me of her. So I started seeing a psychiatrist, one Dr. William Deutch. Hoping he could better explain what “wasn’t attentive to her needs, and not a proper suitor” means. For now, he wants me to focus on me, on Preston, and to really be honest about the feelings that are surfacing.

He said, “Preston, let’s be attentive to Preston first. Let’s explore what Preston’s,” he stops and raises his hands and makes those hook-like quotation marks, which I hate, “needs are.” He believes there may a be a connection between old abandonment and grief issues. Don’t get me wrong, I mean that is good and great, but I have reason to believe that Milicent’s is having sexual congress with Timothy Allen Pawsett. The guy is a complete sociopath. Pawsett frequently stands against the wall near the entrance of Coffee Talky Café on his cell phone watching everyone walk in and out. He leans back with his right foot against the wall.

He sports Vaurnet shades which he occasionally tilts down when an attractive woman or girl of any age walks by. He wears beige Levi Dockers, a pink Izod La Coste shirt and a baby blue sweater tied around his neck and always wears the same beige Sperry Top-Siders boating shoes (he’s never been boating.). His whole eighties throwback fashion is just, like morbid. He looks like the poor man’s version of James Spader in “Pretty in Pink”. He stands there with his jaw clenched talking through his bleached veneers while looking everyone up and down. I don’t think he’s on the phone with anyone.

His upper lip is always slightly curled like he’s being forced to smell cat feces.
Five years ago, when I was a freshman, (Pawsett was a junior) while changing into my gym clothes he hit me with a K-Swiss sneaker so hard it left an imprint on my back. I tried to fight him, but Brandon Warren jumped in and they both really busted me up. Brandon was expelled, he was an evil asshole too, one time he put Ben Gay in Stanley Harper’s jock strap and hung him from an equipment hook. So anyways week later I went to Goodwill and bought 10 pairs of old sneakers, really ugly ones. Reebok, British Knights, LA Gear et al.

The ugliest colors too, pinks, greens, yellows, and browns. Then I went to Bob’s True Value hardware and bought a couple of dozen tubes of Crazy Glue. While everyone was in the third period I snuck out to the parking lot with a hefty bag full of shoes, and I crazy glued them all over the windshield, the t-tops and the back window of Pawsett’s classic Gold ’88 Camaro, which he lovingly referred to as Goldy, he even had 1GOLDY1 on the license plate. I also crazy glued the door locks and the window seals, which later on that same evening proved extremely challenging for the AAA locksmith to open.

When he came out to his car there was a crowd of people standing around it gawking, he screamed and yelled through clenched teeth and sneering lip desperate to keep his composure. “OH MY GOD! YOU FUCKERS! WHO DID THIS TO GOLDY? YOU SCUMBAGS!”

He desperately tried to pull the sneakers off, some tore off, but the soles stayed intact and stuck on the glass. I watched, then I walked by, and he ran up to me flailing his arms like he was going to punch me and I kicked me in the balls so hard it lifted him about half a foot in the air. He screamed a feminine scream that took all the spectators aback, then the crowd oooh’d and ahhh’d and laughed obnoxiously. It took gallons of acetone to get the sneaker soles off the glass. The acetone also damaged and bubbled Goldy’s paint job, which was thousands of dollars to refinish. I was never charged with the crime because no one saw me in the act.

12 steps (IMHO)

Look, I’m a fan of 12 step programs. I believe they do help, I’ve watched these programs help 100’s of people over the years. BUT…

you have to beware of, sexual predators, money grubbers, real estate agents, grifters, hustlers, poseurs, producers, actors, second story men, old rock n’ rollers, old punkers, elderly R & B artists, bad teeth, bad caps, stupid hats, silicone tits cheeks and asses, Botox, bikers, tattooers, hot rodders, gurus, yoga teachers, dream catchers, spiritual make believers, Buddha beads buffoons, agents, writers, brooding struggling artists, directors, money grabbers, liars, cheats, thieves, age inappropriate fashion, bad hair, bad vibes and unwanted hugs and touching. But who am I to judge? I’ve had my fair share of sponsors over the years. Some got loaded, one blew his brains out (he was a doctor operating a pill mill) and got busted bailed out went home and put a gun in his mouth. My most recent made it clear, “I can’t keep you sober, hopefully you will have an experience and not have to drink or use again.” Well it’s been 4 years and 4 months and the one thing I remain clear on is if I drink and or use drugs I cannot control the amount I ingest. This is something I’ve experienced over and fucking over again. And the thing is (in a sober state) I have an obsessive mind that takes me back. So I talk to people about my fucked up thinking and ideas. I also try to be helpful to others and LAUGH! Not get punked out by the world of impermanence that’s FOREVER constantly changing around me. I’m not gonna mention god because to me it’s irrelevant in doing the steps, I’ve been agnostic and atheistic for many years, but I’ve been able to become somewhat of a better person through these steps. I’m not quite as needy desperate selfish and angry.

Long Island Memories…

The San Gennaro feast –
Three or four times a year in Island Park or in any of these Incorporated little villages they replicate the NYC style Little Italy Annual Feast. ‘FEAST?’ Like these people don’t ‘feast’ all year around, like they need another excuse to fill their insatiable, big, Walmart fashion wearing asses with sausage and peppers, and meatballs, and pizza, zeppolis (deep-fried leftover pizza dough rolled in a horrific, diabetic, and coma producing amount of powdered sugar) and Diet Coke (irony.)

There’s always like the one hot chick at the feast that every fucking dude beats off to or obsesses on and every chubby disgusting chick in the village hates. They wander around aimlessly being lead by Carney like vendors to the next gastric torture chamber, all wearing some stupid T-shirts that they had made at the little stupid T-shirt making booth, shirts like, ‘I’m with stupid’ or ‘Irish and proud’ ‘Italians only’ or fat big bellied assholes with the NYPD t-shirts on. They’re all looking for something somewhere but they never find it. So like they just eat into oblivion and go home and nap, and come back and do it all over again the next day. It’s all gossip world and everyone knows everyone’s business.

A lot of white trash. Who are you to judge these people, you ask? Well, most of my relatives live there, angry alcoholics still blaming the ‘niggers and spics’ for everything. Which is ridiculous and lame because there is like hardly any African Americans or Puerto Ricans or Latins that live there. They are forever defending cops (because their sons, uncles, or some mental deficient in the shit stained, algae-ridden gene pool, happens to be one) most of them have never been outside of New York. Except for maybe like the aggressively white Poconos for trips, where they have some timeshare cabin, or that they paid $24,000 for.

They’re Philistines, their cultural high point of the year is Super Bowl commercials. Quite a few of them develop health problems. Which include but are not limited to hypertension, gout, diabetes, premature hair loss or thinning (the men and the women) even forms of cancer out of self-hatred or possibly living so close to a landfill dump. When I moved back out there in ‘90 my cousin Lucky took me to Pete’s clam bar, which was across a narrow canal from said landfill. He’s slurping down the sixth clam on the half shell while looking out at the seagulls (flying rats as he calls them) on huge mountains of garbage. He was joking, about the proximity of the possible toxicity of the dump to restaurant distance, theorizing on the health dangers.

Then he’s like, “come on you pussy eat some.” I tried, and gagged and threw up a little. Lucky was a New York city cop. His name was a direct result of being born 7 pounds 11 ounces. Which is hard to fathom, because presently because then he was 6 foot 2 inches and weighs 525 pounds, he’s had a crippling food addiction ever since he stopped drinking. As he puts it, “I’ve never met a carbohydrate that I didn’t fucking like.”

My new Neighbors have been Scientologists for 35 years.

But they haven’t raked in any financial benefits. When they first moved in I asked them about Dianetics (there was a large bumper sticker on the car which appeared to be a serious broken down ghetto sled with the “Dianetics” sticker and the symbol, which by the way, looks like a reworked Swastika.

“Yep, we’ve been with the church 35 years,” said Ray, “haven’t we Sally.” said the 60 something gangly 6′ 4″ Toby Jones look-alike. Sally looks tired, quite older and using a walker. I asked about the “Going Clear” doc regarding the church on HBO. “Bunch of Bullshit, those people didn’t get what they wanted,” He said angrily. “C’mon, what could Paul Haggis possibly want from Scientology.” “What everyone wants! To be an OT! An Operating Thetan!” We sat and looked at each other for a moment. “So Paul Haggis did not achieve “OT” status and quit? that’s not what he said in the Doc.” “He’s lying, they are all lying. It’s a shame after everything the Church did for those fuckers.” He said sadly. “What about the money it cost to get through all those levels?

I mean, I’ve heard it’s really expensive.” He grinned, “So is college, look this is cheaper than any university you go to, it’s less of a scam then university as well.” Ok he has a point there, But, “Well yeah but the money you pay for Scientology is only good for just that.” He was now going through boxes and boxes of books. all Dianetics teachings. “Look I will give you all the literature and info you need on it and give you some free tests, you’ll see once you get involved with The Church, there is nowhere else you need to go.”He handed me what look liked a thirty-five-year-old large (possibly 800-1000 page) book, titled Dianetics: Everything you need to know. “Look read this It’ll read this, it’ll explain everything.” I was already in the middle of a thousand page plus book, “Infinite Jest.” Which were at least 1000 times more fascinating. I looked him in the eye, “I’m never gonna’  read that, but thanks anyway.” I walked away. “Ok but you’ll never know the truth, the church can save you.” Man, how many times have I heard that in my life.

Bethany’s Break Room Rant

All writing kept intact and original to preserve the downright ignorance of the piece.

Bill and my sister Irene were French kissing and touching all up on each other in the God Damn company break room, it was disgusting. I mean between the sights, and the sounds (a lot of heavy breathing, both are fat and got deviated septums) and the smell the break room has anyway (it’s like the rotting vapors of 40 different frozen entrees in there.) I mean they’re both obeast and ugly as sin, so that’s like a double violation too, like a bad day at Hometown Buffett for all your 6th senses. I’m trying to just sit down and eat my Panda Express and maybe smoke a Pall Mall and these two are sitting there rubbing each other’s crotches and chests and licking out each other’s mouth holes, like a child licks Duncan Hines’s chocolate frosting out of a God Damn mixing bowl!

I was like ‘HEY! Excuse me!” They slowly stop and then Irene was like, “Bethany they ain’t no excuse for you, you sorry assed schoolmarm!” And she went back to liking on Bill’s neck and chin area like it’s a God Damn whore house or a speakeasy. She was always the strumpet of the bloodline, she got her titties done and like Daddy says she got no business putting a second story on an unsteady foundation, so anyways this cow ain’t got no shame, she was the town whore since she first started bleedin’ and the bitch still using abortion as a form of birth control, and says stupid shit like “ya’ll shouldn’t hate,” whenever the family tryin’ question her on it.

So but anyways, I was like, “Irene I’ll take your sorry fat rear end to human resources and this time they’ll fire your elephantine ass on account of being caught a public display of affection when Steve was fingering out that sorry, syphilitic, sloppy, slit in the stairwell!” They both stopped and stared at me, Bill’s jaw-dropping. Now my sister Is older and way bigger and fatter than me, bitch weighs 290 but I’ll kick that whore’s ass 5 ways til Tuesday and back again. And plus I’ll do it right here in this God Damn break room.

Because just two weeks ago that skank tried to throw hot Nescafé on me and I picked up a Walmart plastic folding break room chair and hit that cow right on her flabby back. Then they both got up. I said “that’s right slut lemme’ see that walk of shame, and Bill you a hot mess too, a real piece of hideous horny hillbilly trash! You sound like a God Damn Choctaw hog with that breathing issue, You married with 3 kids, and you’re in here doing this with this swine? I’m a call your wife Beth-Anne and tell her about your scuzzy ass if I ever see you doing this shit again.

I mean Beth-Anne is butt ugly but Irene here ain’t no Connie Sellecca either and this skanky trollop got crabs too, don’t ya’ Irene? And who knows what else. Cuz the bitch has banged everyone in here from the custodians to the CEO! Then she’s all, “Bethany I’m warning you, SHUT UP! Or…” I was like, “…or what? You gonna send a swarm crabs after me?” she turned and walked toward the snack cabinet, she had a mini skirt on and her backside looked like two ice cream cones supporting a russet potato. She opened up the cabinet while saying, “poor Bethany, still can’t get a man, pussy been on lockdown since uncle Willy violated it at the family reunion in ’98.

Get over it already girl we all got our crosses to bare and yours ain’t no big deal.” Now you would think this little TMI moment would truly send me into a tizzy. But it don’t, she’s the only one got her little puddy diddled by Silly Willy, and that bitch thinks that he did that shit to me too. So but then I’m like, “Bitch Silly Willy was only up in your claptrap with them ham-hock hands, he ain’t done shit on my real estate. Now you want me to really start outing your bizness? Like, let’s have a mother fucking intervention on them winter skid marks on those god damn Victoria’s or I should say Irene’s Secret shit and blood stained drawers?”

Bill looked like he was holding a dry heave and then to really push it I say “oh you ain’t heard Bill? It looks like a cherry chocolate festival in there.” Bill gagged and walked to the sink and Just then Irene quickly turned came at me with a 2 Liter bottle of Dr. Pepper. She was like “NyAAAHHHHH.” And I sidestepped her and Dr. Pepper like exploded on that bitch and Bill went running over there screaming, “I’LL HELP! I’LL HELP!” and then Irene just stood there screamin’ sound like that bitch caught the Holy ghost! I just sat down and started eating my food and I lit a cigarette and ate and smoked cuz all this bullshit ate into my lunch time so I had to do both. I leisurely got up and walked by with my middle finger in her grill ‘cuz she a bitch and a whore. But deep down I love her, she my kin.

Getting Through It All