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KUNG FU FLIPSIDE WEST EGG THEATRE.
[No shit. That is the title of this piece, which I wrote while
I was supposed to be answering phones for an architectural firm
back in 1994. I don't recall why I wrote this, and I can't account
for the terrible grammar (which i've left intact), inconsistent
use of martial arts styles and inaccuracies in their countries
of origin, and racially insensitive tone. But I will offer this
little bit of trivia: the original document was written in a 'meeting
memo' template, which was a trick I often pulled while writing
fiction on the job. By typing the whole piece into a memo template,
including a strict obedience to the template's outline format
for points and subpoints, I was usually able to avoid detection
while looking extraordinarily busy. This piece is not my proudest
moment, but I'm feeling nostalgic so please indulge this one last
time.]
I am mean karate man tough guy. That's me. I want Asian punk
cool to roll off me like gado gado, spicy peanut style. I will
be moo shu cool, I know. I just know. Picture me with the potent
transluscence of 'Hai-Karate' burning, singing unreachable arias
behind each disco-loving, all-knowing, bullet-dodging ear. I would
be so cool the sons and daughters of the rising sun would baptize
me in the most mellow of waters. Yellow river cool. Pan Asian
Tiger Style Cool. That's me. That's me.
First things first brother man: David Carradine I will kick your
ass!! From a tree drunken monkey style I will swoop down jungle-furious
and kick your old-age akido-style beer-gut and heroin problem
dive-taking for Chuck Norris iced tea-prostituting lost on the
way-B-list actor ass!!! You: shake withered craggy hands at your
future--"Surf Ninjas Part Two" and premature hair loss - and Me:
the follower of strict regime, the ascetic shoeless one hand clapping
pebble snatchin' ashen foot bah-hah-hah-ha man, kick wild helicopter
spins at the ghosts of uncompensated samurai demigods. Poised
between heaven and hell, me kicking wild grain dust at the heavens
and leg sweeping the crane kicking devils below. I will drink
bread juice out of a snake. Big karate superfoot masterman. Great
White Hope. Jackie Chan for President. And me, the Secretary of
Ass-Whippings.
(when i was smaller than a bag of potatoes, i wished my dad
would get me karate lessons i was so small for my age and i knew
what they did to small guys my dad took me to the ymca for lessons
with instructor/sensei dan carter of the united states green berets
special forces he was tall and sinewy and moved like the jungle's
shadow i hated him i hated his ignorance of the code of discipline
i dreamed of primitively he was a mean drill instructor the kind
of person who stole karate from asia and used it to rip out the
throats of poorly trained asian men and sometimes women i think
i could only stay for one lesson wanting to leave the whole entire
time hearing him bark spit and other wise squeeze out commands
moving his body in evil sharp cuts--he was a walking bowie knife
i dreamed--to demonstrate his adapted military style of martial
arts i waited and waited forever for my father to take me away
from sergeant dan carter and i never went back again wishing to
myself that i would be an underling a prodigy of tradition greater
and older than killer dan sergeant and the war puppies who would
inevitably suckle from his rusty razor liquor soaked teats and
so i waited.)
HIYYYYYYEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!
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