Living The Dream

As is so typical of these things, we don't know whom to credit the original idea to. But the sheer genius of the idea is sufficient to overwhelm such extraneous details. This idea, like that of the Bulgarian Ass-Inhabiting Hermit Crab, was conceived late one night when my brother and I where driven by our boredom into a strangely euphoric delirium. It had all the trappings, the bizarre comical quality and the existential luster of reckless abandon. Aye, we dreamt of a legion of macho dudes who fit the description of : "ruggedly handsome, balls-to-the-wall genius, all around bad-ass, no-bullshit tough-guys." Every man would be required to train in the art of cowboy-rules no-limit beat-down. We would call each other by our assumed names, names like El Diablo, Buffalo Ted, Ape-Shit Ben-John, Rancid Donkey, Phoenix, and the like. Combat boots and leather chaps, spiked chokers and wrist bands, matte-black spray-painted football shoulder-pads with long spikes, an abundance of dark eye-makeup and chipped ebony nail-polish. We would be the thunder inside a riotous cloud of cigar smoke and maniacal shrieking laughter. The kinds of guys who will cold-cock each other just to see fresh blood. The kinds of guys who will go into a bar and fight each other to the last man if they can't provoke anyone else. The kinds of guys who will break a cue-stick over somebody's head and scream: "This ain't pony-camp anymore! We're going for the throat now, mo#her f$%kers!!!!!" Like a schizo Kiss cover-band who watched Mad Max one-too-many times.

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This bellicose band of hellions would meet once or twice a week in the slumbering suburban sprawl of middle-class America, arriving on miniature motorcycles the size of small terriers, their long gangly legs bent double as they cram their slouching frames onto the tiny bikes. They would look like bullfrogs riding on fleas. The little weed-eater engines that propel the bikes would sputter and scream at each other as the hooligans wailed upon one another with baseball bats, clubs, maces, and other unwieldy blunt objects. They would race down the paved nature trails and jogging paths and through the parks, sending soccer-moms scurrying for cover with their wide-eyed offspring in tow. Children, huddling in the bushes with their mothers, would hear strange words and phrases emanating from the raucous tangle of mayhem and would later be prompted to ask profound questions at the dinner table. Questions like: "Mom, what's a felch-pump?" or "Mom, what's a f%&ker?" The grim-faced mother's would stare blankly into space like busts of the blessed virgin and they would pause indefinitely before mumbling things like: "Shut up, Charley, and eat your broccoli or the scary men will get you...don't you think that broccoli sounds like an Italian word?"

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