Blow-Up Pt. 2

My brother (from another mother) Champion told me he happend to be an extra on a TV show the other day. I tuned in knowing this would be one of the few times he'd be on TV in a non-sporting capacity (like his big bro), and I found something amazing when I blew up the image. Although the show was about some stupid and sexy cops who solve a murder, there was a murder taking place in real life in the audience.

Here is Champion:

Now we "blow up":

An eccentric French woman just arrived and we made love and ran playfully through the studio before I had a chance to "blow up" again:

See the guy with the beard - there is a disturbance in the frame right below his shoulder. I wonder what will happen if I "blow up" again?

OK, something is about to happen. BLOW UP!

Yes! It's a murder! That's what I call a blow up!  Watch Hawaii-5-0 on Mondays to see more blow jobs.

Friends, Bad Habits, Enemies

Friends

Bad Habits

Enemies

Wild Nights

I don't normally go to clubs because if I want dancing ladies, sex, and house music, it comes to me. But tonight at the Akmani, they had a Chimi jersey night, where drinks were half off for anyone wearing my football jersey. I suppose the owners of the club thought my presence would add to the excitement, so I arrived and things quickly got weird...

These ladies showed up and tried to get some love...

This lady didn't have my jersey on, so she didn't get free drinks...

This guy was wearing my jersey but he wanted to drink milk...

And then the robots...

And then I left, taking all these women home.  An hour later I was texted an image of the Akmani after I left. Not a pretty sight...

Sometimes I can't believe life is real. Reality is quite shocking. Maybe I should get back into the league and leave my academic aspirations behind.

The Bagel Man Cometh

OH YEAH!!!

Me like what me sees!

Boioioioioioing!

I'm breathless...

Bananas!

So, I found myself tending bar one night in the hottest club in Borneo. It was a typical night for Chimi - the house music pumping, ladies' clothes falling, and the tropical drinks blending - at least until we ran out of bananas.

So what do you do if you're a retired former NFL all star who refuses to play football unless its in all star games doing ethnographic work on the power of his own sex healing on the women of Tortuga and the club runs out of banans? You find a shit-ton of bananas!

Boing!

His is the House of Pain

His is the House of Pain.
His is the Hand that makes.
His is the Hand that wounds.
His is the Hand that heals.

Not to run on all-fours; that is the Law. Are we not Men?
Not to claw the Bark of Trees; that is the Law. Are we not Men?

Let's Meat!

Oh yeah! When I'm not hanging on the rim... Let's meat!

It's Cinco de Mayo Somewhere

WOW!!! What a week. First I get my "pre" on:

Next is Cinco:

But it doesn't end - gotta get my "seis" on too!

OMG! I'm in heaven!

No More Violence Against Goats

The scene in Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? when Deckard learns of how Rachel killed his goat always gives me chills.

But this just makes me sick. I can't stop being angry about it. Really. These guys aren't even androids, so they have no excuse.

Hanging on the Rim (pt. 3)

Another excerpt from Hanging on the Rim, a soon-to-be published epic poem about existentialism and sports:

...

Hanging on the rim

I begin to feel alone

I hear the screams of my thousands of fans

Most who have no idea how it feels

Hanging on the rim

It would be sweet to get internet

Up here on the rim

Because then I would tell the ladies

Hanging on the rim

Sometimes I get my head caught in the net

Getting out isn’t easy

Like a dry birth

...

Vegetarian & Vegan Elites

You know you are eating at a fancy restaurant when they have signs like this on the wall. Personally, I like eating meat, but I've never ever ever ever slept with a woman who is not a vegetarian or vegan elite. The idea of falling into the folds of passion with someone base enough to feed on animal flesh disgusts me, and, frankly, makes it difficult to get aroused - not even a semi.

There you have it, ladies. I only get with elites. Like Shania or Leonardo da Vinci.

(sorry for the poor photos!)

Hanging on the Rim (pt. 2)

Another excerpt from Hanging on the Rim, a soon-to-be published epic poem about existentialism and sports:

...

Hanging on the rim

I speak with the Gods

They see their favorite son and say,

“Chimi, how’s it goin’?”

Hanging on the rim

You might see a banshee

Or you might see an angel

It is hard to tell the difference, sometimes

Hanging on the rim

I never flinch at banshees

They get in my face

They rarely touch it though!

Hanging on the rim

I recall life on the farm before the war

It was a simpler time with early mornings

and long evenings of Champ’s folk songs

Hanging on the rim

Champ, my older brother

In charge of the stables

The H to my M

Hanging on the rim

I can still see the room in the Thai hotel

And Champ covered in blood and mumbling

Something about a stolen organ.

Hanging on the rim

I wish I had a shirt gun

Because I could shoot the shirt pretty far

I think, from the rim.

...

Penis Muscles

Sometimes when I go to gyms in the third world, I stumble upon this familiar poster. It is of my uncle, Judd Kingfisher, and his wife in an 80s ad campaign for steroids, if I remember correctly. He gave me a copy of this poster for Christmas when I was a kid, and it was on my wall all the way through high school.

Imagine how weird it must feel getting boners for your aunt. She was not related by blood, but still, it confused me. Even more difficult was the sheer intimidation of my uncle's sculpted body. That's what I thought was normal. That's what I competed with. Nothing less than a rip like his would be good enough. If you weren't cut, you would never get hot chicks like my aunt.

I remember when I finally surpassed uncle Judd - when my muscles were bigger and I first posed in a poster, with TWO hot chicks. I never gave him that poster; the poster I gave him was of me knocking over defenders as I bulldozed into the endzone for 6 in the All Star game. Uncle Judd was already dead by then. I put the poster on his grave, in honor of the high standard he set for me.

Funny story about uncle Judd. He told me that his junk never shrunk from the steroids. Seriously. He said he was able to counter the shrink with muscles - penis muscles. Then he would squeeze his penis muscles into his shrunken testes, which made everything look normal. That's kind of cool.

Hanging on the Rim

Excerpt from Hanging on the Rim, a soon-to-be published epic poem about existentialism and sports:
...

Hanging on the rim

After the hottest dunk you’ll ever see

An alley-oop from my friend

I got so high, and he's a loser (kind of).

Hanging on the rim

I see a dove fly

He has a crooked wing

That I straighten with the sheer power of excellence.

Hanging on the rim

My mind goes empty

Forgetting my flight across the key

And my opponents below me.

Hanging on the rim

I wonder if those ladies can see up my shorts

It’s far enough from their seats

I blow them kisses.

Hanging on the rim

I think about Africa

There’s a lot of people who can't dunk there

Because they don't know it's Christmas.

Hanging on the rim

It can be lonely, with no family and friends;

Should I wait and hope they’ll someday join me here,

Or should I stop flying?

...

Running with the Champion

Champion Drake, my oldest friend, has come to my village to enjoy the delicious foods and pleasures of the flesh that are offered by my people. I was especially eager to take Champion for a long run along the thatch huts and the creek where the women bathe and frolic. Being that Champion is an Olympic distance runner, I wanted to see how I measured up with the best (quite good it turns out). As always, the village children did not let us leave without sending us off with a celebratory dance and then throughout the run we were heralded with calls, songs, and high-fives.

The high-fives . . .

Readers know that high-fives have long been an interest of mine, and I generally appreciate them as much as I appreciate competing with the best. But sometimes, as I have pointed out before, high-fives go wrong. It is important to be polite, respectful, careful (don't run out at my legs), and clean. 

I bring up this last point because it turned out that Champion was only able to run one day with me, because he got pink eye from one of the children who gave him a high-five. While I was enjoying my village's lustful pleasures, Champion was forced into isolation in my royal hut. It basically ruined his vacation.

Kids - if you have pink eye, don't give high-fives to people, especially if they are world-class athletes.

(Here are two buckets of sweet fruit drink, which is supposed to help with pink-eye.)

P Jammer

Every superstar has someone or something that holds it all together - that provides a foundation upon which the star can excel. For the Long Beach scene it was Nate Dogg, for Malone it is was Stockton, for Kobe it's Cheesecake Factory chicken marsala, for the Fresh Prince it was Jazzy Jeff, for Jon Bon Jovi it was Ritchie Sambora, for my main girl it's diamonds, you get the picture.

Well for me it's P Jammer. In the late 80s P Jammer and I were storming the charts with some of the most innovative beats anyone ever heard: we were violent before gangster rap took off, we were cutting shit crazy before there was a Timbaland, we were doing more than those tired sounds that Eminem, Jay-Z, and Kanye are shitting out these days, we even dropped a little Chumbawuma.

Then one night we took a bunch of drugs, did some Ouija, and took the helicopter out from Malibu to some place in the South Bay, called Machado Lake. The Ouija said there was a wizard who could be found in the brush beneath the nest of a long-eared owl (LEO).

We weren't suckers! Like every other rapper at the time, we knew the difference between owls' nests (only a punk confuses the LEO nest with the Screech owl), so we worked our way around trees until we found that LEO nest and the wizard underneath.

Strange events followed, and the next thing I knew I was flying back in my helicopter, which was full of women in bikinis, back to the mansion. P Jammer was nowhere to be seen, but the following morning I had a new clock radio next to the bed.

Most people probably don't believe that wizards can turn their rapping sidekicks into clock radios, but I know it's true. Look at the picture below and tell me it doesn't resemble a former rapper.

Anyways, that was the end of the music career. I sold the helicopter, started playing football, received money from some college boosters, so I bought another helicopter, but then I was kicked off the team because the money was illegal for college players, so I sold the helicopter, but then I was drafted, so I bought two more helicopters, which both crashed when two of my girlfriends got in a race, and I didn't buy another helicopter until I retired from the NFL, and I flew it out here to the deep jungles near my village, and some day, some day I will fly it again.

Until then, I remember my best pal, P Jammer.

Baim Jaim - Indonesia's Baby Igor

Are you feeling paranoid?

Me and the Barcelona Bumblebee

Excerpt from Me and the Barcelona Bumblebee (unpublished):
. . . As the afternoon heat waned in Flushing, something seemed off about her stroke as Graf easily took the first set 1-6. It had happened so quickly, no one seemed capable of gathering their bearings. Here she was, my Barcelona Bumblebee, as sweet and pure as the honey of Toraja, crumbling in her second chance at a US Open championship.

When the set ended, she was clearly rattled. But how to get her to relax. I could think of only one thing, my special tool. After a series of quick gestures and signals, she took a bathroom break, and I found myself making love to the US Open finalist during the match in the women's bathroom.

We both finished quickly, and then she returned to the match with that sexy confidence and violence that I'd only seen in the bedroom. She fought through a tie-break in the second set, and handily won the third.

I was proud of her - for I loved her like no woman before or after - but even more so, I was ready to take her home for more loving, as we've always done after matches. But as the two of us entered the limo with her trophy, she began to cry.  "What's wrong, Arantxa?"
"Oh Chimi. What you did today... it was amazing. Really amazing."
"I only calmed you down, baby. You did the rest."
"That's not true, Chimi. You have a gift. That's why this is so hard."
"I don't understand..."
"If I keep you to myself, I'm only denying your gift to the other women of the world. Think about the women starving in the Third World. They need good loving from once-in-a-generation athletes too. I know you're still in high school, but soon enough you'll get drafted into the NFL, win several Super Bowls and then retire, only to play football once a year in All Star games, in which you will dominate. That will be a good life, and you will help lots of people with your gift..."
"Women."
"Yes, you will help lots of women with your gifts of love. But promise me one thing. When you're done with the NFL, please become an amateur anthropologist and do ethnographic research on Third-world women, and let them enjoy the fruits of your love as I have, and will forever fondly remember."
"Oh Arantxa, please don't!"
"It is too late, Chimi. I have to do this now, while I'm still brave. You be brave too and run fast and far like the western wind." . . .

This memoir has been amazingly turned down by several publishers, but I still hold out hope that it finds its audience some day. I know it is hard for women to understand how I could have been so committed to one woman once, but Arantxa was more than a woman, to me. And when she got married this heart of mine broke a little bit more, but it was also finally set free. Here is to you, Barcelona Bumblebee:

International Women's Day

Indonesian Taco

Here it is!

Halftime!

Earlier today, my village treated me to an exhibition of their favorite sport "congklak kaki", a game that I could only describe as some cross between soccer and mancala, where liberal amounts of bones and beads are kicked about every which way. I never could figure out what was happening, that is, until halftime. When the teams sat down on their respective sides of the field for some fluids and strategy, the halftime dancers appeared to do their dance and throw t-shirts to me and everyone else on the stools and benches around the field.

What a show! The girls showed up, wearing traditional tribal gear - feathers, hides, bones, leaves, etc. - and busted down to "My Humps" playing from a boombox.

It just goes to show that humans around the world are truly, essentially the same. Here are some pictures from the halftime show during the NBL semifinals in Surabaya, from earlier this week:

Going crazy!

The Jester in my yard

How To: High Fives

When sharing high fives:
Do: Jump and dance excitedly to build up the moment
Don't: Run out in front of my legs. I don't want to run over any kids.

Do: Shout something friendly, or sing a song you've written about me.
Don't: Shout at me from behind a bush. Be a man and celebrate with me.

Do: Hold that hand high!
Don't: Have rice or dirt on the hand you extend to me. It's a little gross.

Do: Run with me.
Don't: Look at me holding your wiener through your pants - you'd be surprised how often this happens.

Do: Give high fives all night
Don't: Use drugs.

Here is a picture of a kid who flipped for me when I ran by:

Justin Bieber, Naked Celebrities, Sex Tape, Carmelo Anthony, Democratic Revolution, Transformers 3, Yogurt Dude

These are the hot topics for the week.  Have you been to hot topic lately?  They're still pumping out the goods!

Here is a bear playing guitar.

High Fives!!!

Being a former All-Star NFL player-turned-ethnographer, I'm used to getting high fives. I've probably had more high fives than anyone I know. During the NFL days, it was constant fives, thumps, pumps, and cups - nothing keeps the team strong like cupping the butt. The fives, the bumps, the contact, it gives you a high and makes you feel worthwhile. When I exited the game in my athletic prime, my biggest concern was the loss of the fives. Maybe that's why I became an ethnographer - to wander the third world where people will break out into music and dance at just the sight of me. Chimi! Bumbaye!

So while pissing in a urinal at the bar the other night, some local drunkard - with a former-navy current-politician mustache who happens to be my idol and best friend - pissing in the urinal next to mine, raised his hand and shouted something in some unknown tongue and raised his hand up towards me - he wanted a high five, WHILE PISSING. Done.

I could build some mood, noting the neon lights, the shady women in tight dresses, the slight aroma of sewage in the air, the pirate and his prostitute at the next table, the baby sitting on top of the table in the other direction ...  wait, I'm doing the mood thing. Nothing matters. I got a high five while pissing and now I can die. That's it. I've high fived all over the world with women, kids, sexy women, and even women in the villages, but this tops them all.

What have you done with your life?

M is for Motorboat

What's goat got to do with it?

A spectre is haunting wizards - the spectre of goats.
What is the deal with mystics sacrificing goats?  I get the whole killing goat thing when there's an established tradition and all, but that doesn't give any dude calling himself a wizard the right to murder a goat to pacify the mystical forces of the unseen.  Note to wizard: your killing the goat will not make your penis larger or stop any volcanic eruptions.  You're just wasting a goat's life.

Goat blood is not the opium of mystical forces.
That's the other thing.  Why is it that wizards always automatically go to the goat?  It's crazy!  Goat have nothing to do with anything.  Wizard: the goat has nothing to do with your penis or the volcano.  The goat just wants to hang out with other goats and eat EVERYTHING.  Goats rule because of this.  Seriously, I get more angry the more I think about this.

Wizards of all countries, unite
and stop killing goats.  Stop slashing their throats, tossing them into bonfires, tossing them into volcanoes, tossing them into boiling mud (see photo) - there's no need to toss a goat in any circumstance, unless you're tossing a goat out of a burning building or some analogous situation.  Stop killing goats!  It is just ignorant and stupid.

Dreadnok Fit

Whenever I work out, I think about the Dreadnoks from GI Joe and how I used to look like a Dreadnok. A couple of years ago when I was birdwatching several times a week, I got really fit, with giant bowling-ball muscles. Me and my birding crew in NYC were serious about muscles, looking hot, and getting the most intense birds added to our life lists.  Here is a picture of us then:

And here is what the Dreadnoks look like--you can see the similarities:

That's how we birded--in your face!!!  Get Dreadnok fit!