papayas=satan

I stopped at my parents house the other night when I got out of work. I was quietly sitting on the computer, as I have no internet where I currently live, when my mom came up to me saying, “You’re into fruits now, right?” Hoping this wasn’t gonna turn into some type of pun I reluctantly confirmed. She came up to me with a tray of orangeish reddish fruit and said enthusiastically, “Do you like mangos?!” I replied with a genuine “Boy Howdy! I certainly do, Ma! Gee Whilickers what a swell idea! Mangos, what a treat!” And I quickly grabbed a slice of what I thought to be a delicious piece of mango, and as I was putting it in my mouth, my mother said, “Oh wait, they might be papayas. Either mangos or papayas.”

Now I don’t know if you, Reader, have ever tasted either mangoes or papayas. But mangos are heavenly. Especially mango juice I highly recommend it. But papayas, no. I had never tried one before this particular instance, and mark my words, I never will again for as long as I live.

The moment it hit my tongue I felt like death was upon me. It tasted like Satan had emerged up from Hell just to take a soft but solid dump directly into my mouth. I never knew a food could alter your mood so much but this one did. It caused me to experience a wave of severe depression. I contemplated suicide. Turned to drugs. Made me start drinkin’ again. It severely lowered my life expectancy. Started spending money on crazy lavish things: boats, goats, gold watches, fancy sunglasses, European sculptures, several televisions, a rollercoaster without the track. I even adopted two small Asian children. I named one of them Jeffrey, the other one Vinny. I loved them as my own. Taught them how to play catch, ride bicycles, talk to women, tie their shoes. Everything a father could pass on to their child. Then one fateful night, I was out in one of the Koreas on a business trip. (I left the boys with my brother, as mine and my mother’s relationship had been strained ever since the incident). I brought back three ladyboys to my hotel room that night. And don’t get me wrong, all of the love-making was passionate. It was the best goddamn orgy I ever had. Those Korean ladyboys, they sure as hell know how to please a man. However, the whole time, my eyes were locked on one of them. I just couldn’t look away, it would’ve been a sin to ignore such beauty. His/her cute beady little dark eyes. His/her gorgeous dyed-blonde hair. I swore to myself, I would never let him/her go.

So right then and there I said, “Kishwa, will you marry me? I’ll bring you back to the States with me. Start you a new life. I know you done made plenty of wrong turns in your path, but it’s okay now. I don’t need to hear about ‘em. You did what you had to do, and I understand that. But I want to take you away from all this. I’ll treat ya real special-like. Make you the happiest goddamn ladyboy on this earth. Whaddaya say Kishwa?” It looked like she was noddin’ her head yes, although she could’ve just been enjoying the ride. Either way, I packed her up in my suitcase and got the fuck out of Korea, man. Got on the next goddamn flight home.

We arrived back home, picked up the boys, introduced Kishwa to my brother. They had their girl-talk, what have you. I explained to the boys that Kishwa was now #2 in command at the house, but they’re great boys they understood. And things were good. Real good. For at least, 2 weeks. But then, I’ll admit, I had a lot of stress going on at the workplace. I guess it was just too much. I couldn’t handle it. I started smacking Kishwa around. It made me feel like a big man. I do regret putting my hands on Kishwa in that manner. I do. Honest to god. But I never laid a hand on those boys.

Anyway, there were several domestic disturbance calls placed to the police regarding me, made by Kishwa. So there was a court ordered restraining order put in place. And Kishwa got custody of the kids, despite being an illegal immigrant, to my dismay. Because I’ll admit I had several prior convictions, for child molestation, and vandalism, and public beastility. But man it’s bullshit I don’t even get to see my damn kids, I don’t even get weekends with ‘em, Nothin’! And they livin’ in my house! Gets me real steamed up to talk about. And not a day goes by where I don’t think about Kishwa, and that beautiful dyed-blonde hair.

Oh yeah stay away from zucchinis or something like that, I don’t remember where I was going with that.