Monthly Archives: July 2020

July 25, 2020

Tales From The Wise Sloth: The AK-47 Story

By wise sloth

In 2005 I was enlisted in the U.S. Air Force and stationed at Sembach Air Force Base, Germany. The experience was culturally amazing and freezing cold.

Halfway through my two-year tour, my supervisor informed me I’d been selected to receive an all expense paid trip to the largest beach in the world. That was his way of telling me I was getting deployed to Ali Al Salem Air Force Base in Kuwait.

Part of me was relieved to escape Germany’s endless subzero winter nights, but the other part of me was equally dissatisfied with Kuwait’s perpetual 120 degree sand storms. I guess I’m just a spoiled American like that. In retrospect, both experiences were adventures, but I wouldn’t want to spend the rest of my life in either scenario.

I’m confessing these emotions so you’ll understand how euphoric I felt when I was sitting at my desk in Kuwait and got an E-mail informing me that my next duty station would be at Hickam Air Force Base, Hawaii.

I re-read that E-mail 20 times before I believed it was real. Then, I printed out 20 copies and laid one on every person’s desk I worked with to rub it in their faces that God anointed me with orders to paradise.

For the next few months in Kuwait, and for the rest of my tour in Germany, I fantasized about my upcoming life in Hawaii. I imagined grass huts, luau festivals, surfing, cocktails served in hollowed out pineapples, and sex on the beach. God, I couldn’t wait!

These visions were reinforced when I finally arrived in Hawaii, inprocessed into my new squadron, and learned that I would be given a $1,200 per month housing allowance (in addition to my regular salary) to rent a home.

However, reality shattered all those dreams the moment I started house-hunting.

While I was still living in Germany, I invited my identical twin brother to come live with me. Then, when I got orders to Hawaii, it went without saying he would follow me there. So I needed to find a two-bedroom apartment. However, in 2006, the only city in Oahu I could find a two-bedroom apartment for $1,200 per month was Waipahu.

When you imagine Hawaii, you probably conjure up all the same heavenly tropes I did. In reality, Oahu is overpopulated and mostly covered in suburban sprawl and traffic jams.

When I describe Oahu to people, I say, “Imagine if you cut out New York City and put it on an island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean and declared it to be paradise because it’s on an island where the average temperature is 83 degrees.” This analogy is admittedly over-dramatic, but it’s close enough to the truth to be useful.

There are some places on Oahu that can be legitimately considered paradise, but it costs $2000+ per month to live in those gentrified neighborhoods. Waipahu is a straight up ghetto. The whole time I lived there, I never dared to walk down the street after dark because it went without saying that I would get stabbed and robbed.

After leaving Hawaii in 2007, every time I’ve encountered people who lived there, when I tell them I lived in Waipahu, they cringe and ask, “Why the HELL did you live THERE?”

Well, why does anyone live in any ghetto? Because it’s affordable.

The apartment complex I lived in was protected by 8-foot-tall fences and gates that required a key FOB to enter or exit. Plus, there was a guard stationed at the entrance who would ask to see your resident I.D. card during business hours before letting you enter.

One night, I drove up to the front gate in my $2000 convertable Miada and was stopped by a 350+ pound, drunk Hawaiian pretending to be a security guard (even though he wasn’t wearing any kind of uniform). He was obviously friends with the gate guard, who was sitting in the guard shack laughing his ass off and obviously drunk as well. Being a scrawny tech nerd at the time, I had to endure the Hawaiian giant’s abuse of power and tell him whatever he wanted to hear while my ex-wife sat in the passenger seat and judged me for being a submissive beta male. That’s just the kind of place Waipahu is. As they say in the islands, “Might makes right.”

One lazy Sunday morning, I was sleeping in my king-sized bed with my ex-wife. A few feet away, my twin brother was sleeping off his nightly hang-over in his room. Around 9:30 AM, we were all awakened by the sound of semi-automatic gun fire directly outside our apartment followed by a man screaming, “JOHN! JOHN! YOU FUCKING MOTHER FUCKER! COME OUT HERE, JOHN! I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU!”

BANG BANG BANG

Even though I’d been stationed in a war zone, I’d never seen combat. I also didn’t own a gun. However, I knew enough about these things to know that when bullets start flying, your best survival strategy is to lay down flat on the ground. So, as soon as everyone in my house jumped out of their beds and started running around like chickens with their heads cut off, I used my most authoritarian voice and ordered everyone to hit the deck and stay there.

I plastered my face to the carpet and dragged my ex-wife next to me, but my brother ran straight to the window to see what was happening. Despite my vociferous advice, he stood there, fixed to the glass, giving us a play-by-play narrative:

“Oh shit! There’s a big, fat, Hawaiian guy out there with a fucking Ak-47! Oh man! He’s going door to door, knocking on them with the but of the gun and asking random people if John lives there. Oh, shit. He’s knocking on Koa’s door. He’s not going to find John there. Uh, now they’re talking. Now they’re shaking hands. Koa’s going back inside and shutting the door. It looks like they’re all good. Now he’s pacing around aimlessly.”

BANG BANG BANG.

Then we could all hear Mr. AK-47 shout, “JOHN, WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU!!!!?? I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU, YOU MOTHER FUCKER!!! YOU RAPED MY FUCKING SISTER!!!!”

BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG

Obviously, someone (possibly) from my apartment complex named John raped this guy’s sister, and he came to murder him at 9:30 AM on a Sunday, but since he didn’t know where John lived, he had to go door to door asking everyone if they wanted to volunteer to be murdered for raping his sister.

After the next gun shot, my ex crawled to her side of the bed, grabbed her phone off the night stand, and dialed 911.

Her conversation went something like this:

“Hello.”

“911, what is your emergency?”

“There’s a man outside my apartment firing an AK-47 in the air. He keeps shouting that he’s looking for a man named John who raped his sister.”

“Can you describe the man?”

“He’s large. He’s Hawaiian, and he’s carrying an AK-47.”

“Ma’am. I need more details than that.”

“I can’t tell you anything more because I’m laying flat on the floor so I won’t get shot by a stray bullet.”

“Then how do you know the suspect is Hawaiian or that he has an AK-47?”

“Because my husband’s brother is standing at the window looking at him.”

“Well, ma’am. That’s just not enough information for me to go on.”

“I’m sorry, but I’m not giong to get up and go look at him.”

“Ma’am, I can’t help you if you can’t give me a better description of the suspect.”

“Uhhh…. can you just send someone to our apartment complex and look for the guy shooting an AK-47?”

“Ugh. I guess we’ll send someone.” Click.

My ex looked at her phone in amazement and said, “I can’t believe that just happened. She literally said, ‘I guess we’ll send someone.'”

For the next 15 minutes, we waited on our bellies while my brother watched the meth head circle the courtyard and interrogate any tenet who opened their door when he knocked. We were holding our breath hoping he wouldn’t make it to ours when finally two Hawaiian police officers drove up and asked him to surrender. He immediately gave up his gun without resisting and allowed himself to be put in the back of the squad car.

When it was safe, all my neighbors and I came outside and started talking. It turns out the gunfire and shouting had woken up everyone, and we had all called 911.

A few minutes later, one of the cops walked up to us and asked who called the police. We all raised our hands, and then he told us, “We need each of you to come to the squad car and look in the window so you can positively I.D. the suspect.”

My outspoken Mexican neighbor told him what we were all thinking, “Hell no! I’m not going near him. I don’t want that crazy meth head to know my face so he can come back and shoot me!” The rest of us shook our heads in agreement.

The officer retorted condescendingly, “Then how can we know we have the right person?”

My neighbor replied, “You found the guy who was walking around with an AK-47, right!? So why do you need anyone to identify him?”

The officer scowled and said, “I guess we’ll take him in anyway,” then walked away.

Everyone stood there looking confused, hurt, and angry. After that, life went on, and we never heard anything else about the Sunday morning AK-47 avenger or John the rapist. We never found out if either of them ever got the punishment they deserved.

It goes without saying, I hope John was brought to justice eventually. Part of me suspects the police officers who arrested Mr. AK-47 just dropped him off at his house without booking him, and given the circumstances, part of me wouldn’t fault them too much. However, we can all agree that shooting an AK-47 in the air in a densely populated urban area is bad. I hope at least they took his rifle away. In addition, I hope he got the drug abuse intervention he needed. I don’t know for a fact he was an addict, but I’m pretty confident you don’t go wandering around an unfamiliar apartment complex at 9:30 AM on a Sunday morning firing an AK-47 indiscriminately into the air unless you have a meth problem.

Epilogue:

A few years later I left the Air Force and moved back to Texas. I told this story to an old hometown friend of mine and ended it by asking rhetorically, “Where does someone even get an AK-47 from in the first place!?!? Hahaaaaa! AmIright!?!?”

He didn’t laugh at the punchline at all though. He just looked me dead in the eye and said matter-of-factly, “Dude, if you have $300, I know where you can get an AK-47 right now.”

Then I moved to New Zealand.

If you liked this story, you may also like these:

My Life Stories (in chronological order)

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July 21, 2020

The Only Way To End Racism Is To End Poverty

By wise sloth

In May of 2020, Black Lives Matter/George Floyd protests swept across America and even spilled over into other countries. The purpose of the protests was to condemn and end systemic racism against African Americans. Activists would probably still be marching in the streets, but a surge in coronavirus cases has forced everyone back into semi-quarantine. However, the issue is still dominating news feeds on social media.

This is probably for the best, because the movement hasn’t settled on a specific set of actionable demands how it wants to end systemic racism. A few suggestions have been floated, but I haven’t seen any strong actions taken to bring them into law.

Since the major protests stopped, most of the changes we’ve seen have been superficial and cultural in nature. They may make people feel better, and some of them may be necessary, but they don’t fundamentally change the way America works. For example, dozens of statues connected to slavery have been removed from public spaces. A few people have been fired from their jobs because they said, “All lives Matter.” One woman was shot for saying “All lives matter.” The Washington Red Skins promised to change the name of their football team, and many companies and government agencies are hiring “diversity trainers” to give seminars to their employees to show that they did something to combat racism.

Most of this may sound good on paper, but each step is being fueled as much by the Social Justice Warrior Movement as it is Black Lives Matter. The SJW movement’s philosophy/message is that all white people are inherently privileged and racist, black people are inherently victims who can’t be racist, and any white person who is offended by being called racist is reacting from a position of white fragility, white privilege, and subconscious racism.

Arguably, the end goal of the SJW movement is for white people to apologize and make amends for their inherent degeneracy every day, in every room, in every situation. I predict that if America continues down this path, it will make racism worse for several reasons and will ultimately result in more race riots until we address the true cause of systemic inequality in America.

I once met an ex-white supremacist, and I asked him to give me his old recruitment speech because I wanted to understand how those people thought. He hesitated but agreed and then began reciting statistics about crime rates and how minorities take jobs and lower property values, etc., etc. All of his arguments revolved around economics, which makes sense because the primary target of white supremacy recruitment is poor, disenfranchised white people. Basically, he was saying, “‘You’re’ poor and out of luck because minorities took your opportunities.”

Ironically, he was making many of the same arguments social justice warriors preach to blacks for why they should hate whites. Poor people hate that they’re poor, and they need a solution. Then someone comes along and says, “All you have to do is hate someone with a different skin color.” That’s a one-point solution to a one-point problem that’s easy for poor people to wrap their head around.

His recruitment speech didn’t convince me to become a white supremacist for the same reason social justice warriors’ propaganda shouldn’t convince anyone to become a black supremacist. The fundamental problem with the economy isn’t that other-colored people are taking all the jobs. The problem is that rich people underpay and overcharge poor people.

Even if every single white person in America lined up, took 50 lashes from a whip, and promised to hate themselves for the rest of their lives, it wouldn’t put a single piece of bread on a black person’s table. That’s never going to happen anyway. In a best case scenario, you might convince every upper middle class white person who lives in an predominantly white neighborhood that they’re the root of all evil, but that message will never resonate with all the unskilled white laborers who can’t afford to put food on their family’s table.

Telling them they’re the enemy is either going to turn them into one or motivate them to check out of the conversation. Furthermore, telling all black people that they’re victims in a perpetual race war will inevitably stoke their anger to the point where some of them will feel the need fight back with violence. This approach can only increase racial tensions from both ends of the spectrum.

However, if you ended poverty, then legitimate white supremacists wouldn’t have any talking points left to recruit new members with. Black people wouldn’t feel victimized and alienated, and every other person of color who isn’t represented in the phrase, “Blacks Lives Matter” will have equal access to a meaningful, fulfilling life.

Until you end poverty for everyone, all your virtue signaling will ultimately just distract from the true source of racial tension and thus enable it.

If you liked this post, you may also like these:

Fixing the Economy
Racism and Xenophobia

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July 19, 2020

Tales From The Wise Sloth: The Very Gay Cabaret

By wise sloth

In 2006 I was stationed in Hawaii in the U.S. Air Force. The first day I arrived on Oahu, I met the woman who would become my first and only ex wife. About a year and a half later, one evening, I was extremely drunk in that overly emotional kind of way where you hang onto your friend’s shoulder shouting, “I love you, bro.” In that state of mind, I slurred to her, “Baby, I’lllll take youze anywhere in the worlddd you wanna go. Just name the place, and I’ll fly you there.”

Lucidly, she snapped back, “Okay. I want to go to Vietnam, Cambodia, and Thailand.”

Wait. What?

“Fuck,” I thought. “That’s not exactly what I meant…. But, oh well. Screw it.” A month later, I’d filed my request for three weeks of leave and booked a guided tour across Asia through a travel agency at Hickam Air Force Base.

I’d already spent four years living in Europe, where I would often just drive in a random direction Friday afternoon, stop in a town that looked interesting, and sleep in my car. So I was no amateur when it came to traveling, but I didn’t know anything about Asia. So I decided I should have someone walk me through my first experience.

The big day finally came, and we boarded a plane heading West towards “The East.”

Even though everyone told me I was crazy for going to Thailand with my committed partner, we flew to Bangkok together anyway, where, despite my best intentions, my story would still involve dozens of lady boys.

When we landed, we were met by a tour guide at the airport holding a sign with my last name written on it, just like in the movies, which made me feel like a celebrity. He drove us to a gigantic five star hotel… in the deepest, darkest bowels of Bangkok. Our room was on the 15th floor with an amazing view of the air conditioning units on the building next-door. Everything else about the place was high class beyond the status I was accustomed to.

Over the next week, our tour guide drove us around the city to all the biggest tourist traps. We visited a 5-story flea market with more exotic, shiny knick knacks than you could fill a thousand shipping containers with. We paid monks to see a golden Buddha statue worth enough money to end poverty, and then we fed a ravenous horde of catfish from a shaky skiff on a greasy river. It was all very exotic, opulent, and tinged with signs of poverty.

As our guide shuttled us around the city, we bombarded him with every question imaginable about Thailand’s history, current events, and all things sociological, political, economic, and anthropological. I could tell he genuinely enjoyed the fact that we wanted to know all of Thailand’s deepest truths, and I felt like we bonded over that.

Everyday, when we took the elevator down from our hotel room to meet our guide, we’d walk past a giant marquee sign in the hotel lobby that read, “Cabaret” in big Broadway light bulbs. Underneath the sign was a 15-foot-wide set of stairs leading down to a basement auditorium.

We couldn’t not be intrigued. So one day, we asked the front desk clerk how much the cabaret show cost, and she said, “$150 U.S. dollars per person.”

My initial reaction (in my head) was, “Yeah, fuck that.” However, we were on vacation.

The next morning, I asked our tour guide if he knew anything about the show and if it was worth the obscene price. Immediately, his eyes lit up, and he assured us it was fantastic and absolutely worth every penny. He endorsed the show so enthusiastically I decided to splurge on it against my better judgement.

The last night we were in Thailand, we bought tickets to the 11pm showing. After having a few warm up drinks in our hotel room, we made our way downstairs. I expected to walk into a cramped, seedy basement, but the stage and stadium seating were bigger than the auditorium in my high school. The light and sound systems must have cost hundreds of thousands of dollars. It was almost as impressive as the Moulin Rouge!

When we entered, a sharply dressed bellhop met us and led us to our seats. At that point, I was feeling guilty for arriving under-dressed for such a formal occasion, but I got over that with a little more liquid courage. As soon as we sat down, a waitress came by and sold us some overpriced beer and wine. Properly prepared, we settled in for a night we’d never forget.

Halfway through my first beer, the overhead lights dimmed. A spotlight cracked on, illuminating a thin, middle aged Thai man wearing high heels, panty hose, panties, and a tasteful black corset. If you need a visual image, he basically looked like A Thai version of Tim Curry from The Rocky Horror Picture Show.

…and that’s… interesting. Hey, I traveled all the way to Thailand for a cultural experience, and I was getting exactly that. So I was rolling with it.

Honestly, at first I was shocked, but then I was like, “Okay. What do you got for us, Tim?”

Well, for the next two hours, in his adorably broken English, “Tim” introduced us to a parade of transvestites in various stages of the transition process who all regaled us by lip-singing American pop songs that you would have heard in an American strip club circa 2007.

The whole time I remember thinking, “GOD DAMN IT! I DIDN’T COME ALL THE WAY TO THAILAND TO LISTEN TO AMERICAN POP MUSIC!”

In between acts, a chorus line of big-booby corset-ed hot chicks (and more lingerie-clad men) would come out and do the can-can dance… or whatever.

A dozen Thai beers later, the $300+ episode of the Twilight Zone ended. Tim and his friends took a bow. The spotlight shut off, and the overhead lights came on.

Silently, my wife and I drifted upstairs to the lobby elevator. Then we took another elevator from the lobby to our suite overlooking the dingy brick wall next-door.

It was only after I brushed my teeth that I asked out loud, “What the fuck was that?”

The next morning we met our guide in front of the hotel. His assistant loaded all our luggage into the back of the van. As soon as we buckled into the back seat, he turned around and asked triumphantly, “Did you see the cabaret? How did you like it?”

I replied sheepishly, “Uh, yeah. It was interesting. I guess my only complaint is that I wish it had more hot chicks.?.?.”

He smiled as big as The Joker from the 1970’s Batman series and shouted, “HAHAAAAA!!!! They were ALL MEN!!!!!!”

Now… I’m all for respect and equality of everyone, but his intentions were malicious. That makes him the worst tour guide ever.

In retrospect though, the story was worth $300.

Still, he was the only person we didn’t tip on that trip.

If you liked this post, you may also like these:

My Life Stories (in chronological order)

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July 19, 2020

Tales From The Wise Sloth: My First Massage

By wise sloth

I enlisted in the U.S. Air Force in the year 2000. After 6 months of training I was sent to my first duty station, Aviano Air Force Base, Italy. A year or so later, I met a wonderful, beautiful Italian girl who I nicknamed “Pulcina.”

I got a 3-day weekend pass for New Years of 2002. So Pulcina convinced me to take a nice vacation to Lake Bled in Slovenia. We rented a bed and breakfast from a polite Slovenian couple who gave us a soft bed and standard cheese and meat breakfasts.

It didn’t take long to walk all around town, visit all the tourist shops, and take a ferry to the cathedral on the island in the middle of the lake. The entire experience was majestic, but since our vacation took place in the dead of winter, we were freezing stiff the whole time.

Fortunately, while driving to and from the tourist sites, we kept passing a large hotel that advertised they had a swimming pool inside. We both knew European hotels would often allow the public to use their pool for a small fee, and we were desperate for that summer time feeling relief from the oppressive Slovenian winter. In fact, we predicted we’d have this chance and both brought bathing suits. So, on the final day of our vacation, we drove back to our hostel, picked up our swim gear, and drove to the hotel.

When we arrived at the reception desk we were told it would only cost a few Euros to use their pool area for the day. Being in Eastern Europe, that didn’t surprise us. What did, was that the hotel also offered 1 hour massages for $20.

I’d never had a massage before, but I’d always wanted one, and I knew I needed one. Since the price was irresistible, I bought one for myself and Pulcina. The front desk lady told us there was a waiting list. So we would have to go play in the swimming pool for an hour. Then, I would get my massage, and afterwards, Pulcina would get hers. Frankly, the timing was perfect.

So, after an hour, I got out of the pool, dried off, and headed to my appointment. I entered a small room, barely larger than a closet, and was greeted by the hottest 48-year old Slovenian MILF in history. She spoke to me in Slovenian, and I humbly confessed that I only spoke English. She immediately switched to speaking perfect English and made some small talk. After the pleasantries were over, she got down to business and informed me how the massage would proceed.

She told me I couldn’t wear my bathing suit on the table since it was wet from swimming. So I would have to undress before the session began. However, we were basically standing in a closet, and there wasn’t any changing room. I looked around for a place to undress, and when I brought my eyes back to the Slovenian MILF questioningly, she just stared back at me stoically. I thought to myself, “Hey this is Europe. They don’t care about nudity. I guess I’m just supposed to get naked.”

Cautiously though, I put my thumbs on the waist band of my bathing suit and motioned like I was going to push them down. As I did so, I made eye contact with the Slovenian MILF and raised my eyebrows. I could tell she understood what I was asking, and she simply stared back at me impatiently.

Comprehending the situation, I thought, “Fuck it. I’m on vacation.” Then I pulled my swim shorts down in front of her, fully exposing my manhood, which was cold from the swimming pool. Her stoic expression barely cracked with a sly grin as I hopped onto the massage table and covered myself with with the white sheet.

I didn’t get a “happy ending,” but she gave me the best massage I’ve ever had in my life, and I’ve worked as a massage therapist for the past four years. So I’ve had hundreds of massages. I compare all of them to hers, and I will never be able to replicate the perfection of her coconut-crushing hands.

After she finished fixing everything wrong with my life, I slid off the table, pulled my shorts back on while she watched, and then went back to the pool area. I informed Pulcina it was her turn. Then I melted into the hot tub as I watched her slosh towards the massage room.

After her massage was over, we packed up our stuff in the car and headed back to our bed and breakfast. As I was driving, I looked over to her in the passenger seat and asked, “How was your massage?”

“Fine.” She replied.

Casually, I added, “European massages are weird though… for an American.”

“How is that?” Pulcina asked.

I answered, “Well, you know…. the massage therapist said I had to take off my shorts since they were wet from swimming, but there wasn’t a changing room. So I had to get completely naked right in front of her while she watched. In America, we don’t just get naked in front of other people.”

Pulcina snapped her head towards me, and her eyes turned red as she screamed, “Turn this car around! I’ll keeeel herrrr! She did not tell me to take off my bathing suit at all!!!! I had more clothes on than you, and they were more wet than your shorts! That fucking beeeeetch!!!!”

I laughed all the way back to the bed and breakfast.

If you liked this post, you may like these also:

My Life Stories (in chronological order)

Leave a comment   |  tags: , , | posted in My life stories