Hello again book! Did you miss me? Aww, of course you did! I’ve been thinking about you a lot. No, really. I’ve just been busy, you know. I’ve had important fox business to do.
A while back the most amazing thing happened.
I opened this jar full of glittering, glowy stuff, and it made light shoot out of my butt.
Well, light shot out from every orifice, but especially my butt. And I floated and spun around. It was crazy.
Some of the others were jealous. They should be. Who could blame them? (Well, I can, of course, but I’m being rhetorical, book.) Everyone wants to be able to shoot shafts of glorious radiance out of their butts. And I got my chance. It was my moment to shine. And they were looking at me all like, “How come HE gets to have light shoot out of his butt, and I don’t? It’s not fair!”
Well, life isn’t fair, kids. It’s is a game of chance. I took a chance, and I got to have light shoot out of my butt.
Moral of the story: When life hands you a jar of glowy, glittery stuff, you gab and open it. Then you blast shafts of light out of your keister as you spin around.
Afterwards I felt tingly all over, and then some wonderful things started to happen.
No one remembers me or what I do unless I want them to, for one. Some people want to be remembered, but that can be such an inconvenience.
I mean: No evidence. No crime. More fun.
It doesn’t work all the time, but hey… nothing is perfect.
And I also feel really lucky and that I have a sense of purpose. I feel like I can make a real difference.
You know when you see someone standing on the edge of a precipice, and you get this mental image of someone just pushing that bastard off while yelling, “HA! HA! SUCKER!!!”? Well, you know, you can’t let life just pass you by. It’s likely (though nothing is certain) that no one is just going to go and push him off for you. You have got to step up. Take responsibility. Sneak up behind that unsuspecting S.O.B., and PUSH!
Some things in life have got to be done, and it’s up to you to make things happen. I realize that now.
Sometimes you’ve just got to grab life by the lapels and yell at it, “I DIDN’T ORDER MUTTON! WHY ARE YOU ALWAYS BRINGING ME MUTTON! I ORDERED THE DAMNED SPICED CHICKEN WITH NUTS! WHAT?! I KNOW THAT I AM ALLERGIC TO NUTS! JUST FUCKING BRING ME THE GODDAMNED CHICKEN! I’M A PAYING CUSTOMER! THE CUSTOMER IS ALWAYS RIGHT! IF I WANT TO EAT NUTS AND GO INTO A SEIZURE THEN, DAMNIT, LET ME HAVE MY FUCKING SPICY CHICKEN NUT SEIZURE!!!”
When I was just a pup, my mother once told me some words of wisdom conveyed to her by some old nobody she once hoodwinked. She said, “Jizanthuhpus (she’d call me by a different name every day, it was very confusing), life—life is like a big, plump zit on the world’s ass. And it is ripe, pulsing, throbbing, and just waiting for some crazy monkey to just come along and pop it. And unless some crazy monkey comes along and does, that zit is just going to throb and mock you and just be a big pain in the ass. YOU need to be that monkey. Kashikoi, POP THE ZIT! BE THAT MONKEY! Now, drink your milk.”
As I drank my milk, which tasted kinda funny, I thought about what she had said as I sipped it, and then, when I got to the bottom of the glass, I saw that she had dropped a chunk of turd in my milk. Mom was such a prankster. But that turd made the true meaning of the statement hit me. POP THE ZIT! BE THE MONKEY!
I never knew who my real dad was.
My mom said she wasn’t sure herself. Mom “got around.” A lot. But that it didn’t matter. Anyone I wanted to be my dad, she said, could be my dad. Just think, she said, of all the kids who are miserable being stuck with just one dad. You get to pick and choose and have different dads. One for each day of the week, or mood even! What freedom!
Made sense to me. Mom could be very persuasive.
All I had to do, she said, was put on some nice clothes that looked a little dirty and ragged, follow some guy around, look really sad and pathetic, and whenever he looked at me stretch out my arms and cry, “DADDY!” If I kept this up then eventually, she said, he’d give in and take care of me, at least for a while. That or sell me into slavery. But hey, she’d say, ADVENTURE!
She wouldn’t let me be sold into slavery. Not mom. She’d come and get me. Eventually. If she remembered. Mom was kinda flighty, but she’d always come through in the end.
She let me pick and choose dads until times got tough and we needed money. Then she went through different men she had been “familiar” with (mom got around) from different villages. When one would eventually kick us out, she’d go after another, showing me to him, saying that I was his, and playing it up real good, getting a lot of stuff from him. Nice clothes, free meals, a warm, soft place to stay, for a time.
Her performance was very dramatic. You should have seen her cry and listened to her tragic stories. She was good at it. I half believed it myself. The first few times, I bought it hook, line, and sinker. Each time the story was totally different. Mom was very creative and a great storyteller.
Confused little Kashikoi. “Wait, so this is my real dad?” “Do you want me to say ‘yes,’ my darling little pup? Then, yes, if what is ‘real’ is what you want to believe. And for so many people, you will learn, it is. Now, be quiet and drink your milk.”
I dumped out the milk that time. There was nothing wrong with it. No turd. She looked at me sidelong as she combined her hair and smiled her pretty, cunning, knowing smile. No milk that night.
It wasn’t as if my so-called fathers weren’t getting anything out of it. She had those kind, smiling eyes which were full of life. Even though my “dads” usually ended up really mad and chasing us out while brandishing a cleaver or something, calling us all sorts of names. We thought it was funny.
Mom could often tell when it was time to make scarce. But, you know, I remember that those men were happy while she was around. They had dreamy smiles the whole time and laughed a lot.
She never took someone for everything he or she had, unless he or she deserved it or if she were in a particularly bad mood for some reason. But even then, after, if they didn’t deserve it, she’d make it up somehow, acquiring something precious from some greedy or malicious jerk and relocating it under “dad’s” pillow as a gift or something like that. Of course, those gifts always managed to cause some trouble, but it usually worked out in the end, as if by magic.
I learned a lot. There was a blacksmith, a banker, some fat guy who owned a tavern. I didn’t like the way fat guy smelled, and he tried to get handsy with me, so I had to bite him. He had one less finger after that. And when mom found out, he ended up with one less of something else that he had only one of to begin with. But he made the best pasta I’ve ever eaten, so, you know, it’s give and take.
I learned how to lie really well and get what I wanted from each of them. Some of them were actually nice.
But, you know, we always had to leave. Sooner or later they’d learn the truth. We were foxes, and no, you aren’t the dad. Or probably not, anyway. Surprise?
Some people have no sense of humor.