July 6th, 2005


An Inspirational Blog Story For Us All.


Girl starts blog on May 5, 2004.

Girl writes on May 10, 2004 perhaps one of the greatest paragraphs in blog history:
I am done with W, for real this time. A man who tries to fuck you in the ass when you are sober does not love you. He should at least take you out for a few drinks to spare you the pain. Now I know that W does not care about me, only my asshole.

Girl posts last blog entry on May 18, 2004 before getting fired three days later for said blog.

Girl becomes famous for blog.

Girl does Playboy. Guy does not find bald pubes appealing.

Girl gets six-figure contract to write 300-page novel based on 13-day blog, which was just published a month ago. Book actually gets decent review from the NY Times.

Guy wonders what percentage of population prefers a hairless pubic region.

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A Long-Ass Entry About Fighting.

Our friend's new ridiculously cute pup. It has nothing to do with the post below. I just needed a photo to put here, you know, so you'd ignore how fucking long this entry is.


This past Fourth of July weekend I had drinks with the Enforcer.

When I was just out of college, my mom told me what had happened to our family friend's son Chris. Chris and the rest of his brothers were impressive jocks back in high school. They were All-Conference in football and volleyball, dated hot white cheerleader chicks, and even posted decent enough grades to get into UC's.

So one night Chris, then in his mid-twenties, went to a nightclub for a buddy's birthday. Next thing you know, his group of friends got into a very heated exchange with another drunken group of guys. Not surprisingly, a huge fight broke out in front of the club. Chris, being the loyal friend, reluctantly joined in the melee. When it was all over, Chris was clutching at bloody torn flesh on the side of his head.

Some crazy motherfucker had pulled a Mike Tyson and bitten off his ear.


That incident made quite an impression on me. When you watched barfights on TV or movies, you saw people punching each other in the face and breaking bottles or chairs over each other's heads, with the only visible damage being messed-up hair or a torn sleeve. Maybe a little blood on the corner of a lip. Afterward, everybody dusted themselves off, put their cowboy hats back on, told each other shit like "You're a-okay in my book," and then sucked each other off. Not once did you see a guy screaming in pain as a bite-sized chunk of his left ear flopped onto the floor.

I told myself no matter how mad I was, I'd never get into a fight except for the following situations:

1. To help protect my family or friends from physical harm.

2. The person I was fighting only had one functional limb, was already unconscious, or was a small child.

3. Avenge my dead master.


Unfortunately, not everybody practiced my philosophy of peace and gentleness. Over the years, I'd hear stories of people getting seriously injured or even killed in fist fights over the following compelling reasons:

1. Stared at him funny.

2. Stared at his woman funny.

3. Said something mean and insensitive.

Why all these major injuries or deaths from something as gentlemanly as fisticuffs? For one, you'd never see one guy beating the crap out of another guy. It'd be ten guys beating the crap out of one soon-to-be-blind-in-one-eye guy. This has become a personal peeve of mine: If there was a just God, he'd personally rip out your testicles if you pulled cowardly shit like that. Secondly, even if you "won" the fight, the loser would go grab his Glock out of his car and shoot you.

Given the fact that I spent a signficant amount of time in places where hormone-infested young males filled themselves with shot glasses of Idiot Juice, I was fortunate to have avoided the type of incidents that would've led to something violent. I chalked it up to my powerful ability to strike both profound fear and exquisite joy in people's hearts. This was good because, I'm not a fighter. Nor am I a lover. I just crush a lot.

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So back to Fourth of July weekend: My friend B had reserved a table at the club, and there were a couple of people in the group I didn't know. One of them was this thick, burly guy; and he was clearly already plowed from the pre-party. Putting his arm around my neck so that he wouldn't fall over, he introduced himself as Kenny. The name sounded familiar, but I didn't recognize him at all. He poured me a glass of Goose on the rocks and we toasted to something random, like rabbits.

"So it looks like you met the Enforcer," said Chuck afterward.

"El Enforcer?" I asked, trying to recall if I'd come across any Mexican wrestlers in capes.

"They used to call him THE Enforcer, man," he replied. "Remember? He was the dude who bit that guy's ear off at Velfarre."

And then I remembered why I recognized his name. B and my other friends had told me about him last year, not realizing that I knew Chris a long time ago. Except in their version of the story, Kenny and his friends were badly outnumbered by Chris and his buddies, which pretty much followed the Asian club rules of combat. According to them, back then my model family friend had a bit of a notorious reputation around K-Town as being a bad-ass and a brawler.

Seeing that they were at a severe disadvantage and would most likely get their asses kicked, Kenny singled out Chris, immediately pounced on him, and promptly bit his ear off to the horror of everybody, even Kenny's own friends. And the fight was over.

The story about the ear chomping spread quickly and eventually got to me via my mom. After that, nobody in K-Town who valued his extremities fucked with The Enforcer or his friends. And on top of that, he ended up with a nifty nickname.

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