Most women aren’t very smart. In fact many of them aren’t fully formed human beings. They delude themselves into believing that they want this or that in a relationship, when in reality what they want — and need — is exactly the opposite. If I were you I would ignore their words and just lead them to whatever destination you have in mind. They will be grateful for the help — and will thank you every time.
- Begunga Mike.
Begunga Mike had been a little upset with me of late. He was almost becoming an ass about it. He didn’t like that I hadn’t stuck with his yoga directive, and he just couldn’t understand my illogical and piecemeal approach to dating. He had this plan for me, you see, and I wasn’t being cooperative.
He planted his sandaled feet on the edge of my desk. He had been growing his hair out a bit, and the newly developed, light-brown patch added to his slightly demented air — he looked like an Eastern bloc parachutist dropped into an enemy forest, or an escapee from one of Marshal Tito’s prisons.
Sometimes I wonder how you’ve made it so far, John. Like how did you even get this old without totally self-destructing? You remind me of a bowling ball shaped like an egg — somehow you make it down the alley, but it’s sheer torture watching you get there!
He shrieked with delight at his mighty wit and clapped his large hands together.
And the problem is, because you’re so wobbly, you can’t duplicate your results! You might get a strike every ten frames or so, but it’s nothing but pure luck! So you get the two- and three-pin knockdowns — and you tell yourself you’re happy with that — but we know that’s simply not the truth.
“I’m going to give you one last chance to be successful, John,” he told me, forming a steeple with his index fingers under his chin. “If you follow my instructions, and don’t question them, I will have you dating the right women in no time. And you will wonder why you ever settled for so many open frames.”
Hey Dad — you know about the Moors, right?
Sure, Nick, I’ve heard of them. Read a little about them in school.
Then you probably know they created the most advanced civilization in the history of the world. Muslims. Muslims, Dad.
Please sit back, relax, and enjoy the following Sharia-compliant video, the current fad in dhimmified classrooms across the country:
Geez…not this again…My 15-year-old son (taller by a lot, thank God, and of course way smarter and better-looking than yours truly — he could easily be mistaken for your typical blond surfer dude) taking shots at his Old Man about his favorite subject these days, those plucky and misunderstood Ambassadors of Allah – or as Elijah Muhammad used to call his own nasty, thuggish variant — the “Fruit of Islam.”
Of course linking to a Nation of Islam website to somehow “prove” my own bigoted and ignorant opinion about the relative “goodness” or lack thereof of one of the three great monotheistic religions of history is just fodder for my boy who, like many young people, believes that no one wants to change the way he lives. It’s just a simple difference of opinion, after all, and can I please give him 65 bucks to go to a concert this weekend?
In the two years since my separation and ultimate divorce, I have learned exactly one thing per annum:
- You can’t count on nobody. (Mr. Editor: Please leave intact.)
- Everyone’s got an angle — and it’s an angle that directly benefits them.
Let me give you an example.
My buddy (and employee — watch out for the angle) Begunga Mike strolls into my office one day and sits down directly across from me. [For the story of how Mike got his Begunga moniker see my blog here.] He eyes me appraisingly, then crosses his humongous, sandled right foot over his left thigh. (No, we don’t have a dress code.)
This is a bad sign. It means he’s trying to enlist me in some sort of scheme, and of course the scheme addresses his needs as well as (allegedly) mine.
Mike is a tall and well-built guy, mid 30s, with an almost psychopathic self-confidence. He might be a Bosnian or Russian or maybe even German soldier in one of those cheesy Army flicks that play at 1 AM on the local infomercial station. High Slavic cheekbones, prominent and bumpy nose, direct and unflinching grey eyes, short, sometimes shaven scalp, and long, well-groomed digits above and below (the girls like his feet — that’s why he wears sandals) — all contribute to his air of supreme mastery of and dominion over all that he comes into contact with.
He thinks he’s funny, too.
He begins with his usual loaded question:
I haven’t ever steered you wrong, have I?
(Hint: “No” is not an acceptable answer.)
I first noticed him about a month ago, directly across the street from me, staring intently at my house. He would break his gaze occasionally and scribble furiously on a little notepad.
No, he wasn’t standing there — he was seated comfortably in a very luxurious golf-cart, on the sidewalk, at the edge of my neighbor’s driveway. He looked lean and angular and snappy in his white and dark green Polo shirt and freshly pressed brown shorts. His golf cap wasn’t the cheap canvas kind with air-holes in it and the adjustable Velcro band in the back — this cap was fitted, and would’ve retailed in the pro shop for about $35.00.
Of course the left chest of his Polo, the cap, and the side of the cart were emblazoned with the moniker of the “homeowners association” (HOA) that regulates every nuance of my domestic life, from the color of the rubbish receptacles I use (Terracotta Canyon Red for the recyclables, Santan Village Adobe for the regular stuff), to their positioning on trash day (“Association member must take care to securely fasten lid on all repositories, and place them no more than three feet to the right of member driveway, on the surface abutting the Association common curb” – which I think means “the street” — I haven’t asked), to the number and type of plants that populate the front, back, and side yards of each member’s property.
I hadn’t seen too many of these vehicles up close before — and to be locked eyeball-to-eyeball with an actual association employee — well, that was an unusual occurrence, for sure. You might see the “official use” Lincoln Navigators with ultra-dark window tinting driving around town now and again, or the golf carts stuffed tight with top dignitaries at Fourth of July or Veterans Day extravaganzas, but to be this close to an actual investigator, well, this wasn’t an everyday treat, that’s for sure.
At least not to a working stiff like me. Maybe this kind of interaction was common to the retired and disabled and chronically unemployed, but, again, for Johnny N it was a bit of a shock to be so squarely in the cross-hairs of one of these selfless and very likely non-bribeable bureaucrats.
I stood in my driveway and glared at him. Or tried to … but his sunglasses blocked his eyes. His mustache would shimmy and undulate while he wrote … but no emotion was visible. After he finished his staring and scribbling he nodded briefly to me and sped off — at the legally proscribed 7.5 miles per hour.
I had forgotten about the encounter until about a week later, when I got an e-mail (and a letter) from the HOA. It said there was a “housing” matter for me to address, and I could find it at a certain link — I only need point and click and it would all be made clear.
So I did — and up popped a photo of my house, obviously taken by my friend the gumshoe. All in all it was a tranquil picture, featuring my car, the driveway, a little bit of the garage, the tree to the right of my driveway, and some of the cacti to the left of it. At the bottom of the photo the following caption appeared:
I searched in vain for what the violation was, but no explanation was given. It gave me “three business days” to fix the issue and listed a phone number to call if I had any questions.
I was very nervous.