Mommas, Teach Your Boys How to Fight.

A long while ago I worked at a CD store called Sam Goody. The job was cake and the people I worked with were awesome. The only problem I had with it was the customers. I hate customers. They make most jobs awful.

One night, I was closing by myself and there were two young bros in the store acting like little dickheads, the way young bros do. I was very perturbed by them as it was about time to close and they were just messing around because they apparently had nothing else to do on a Saturday night. I was finally sick of their young shenanigans and told them they needed to leave.

Pictured: Shenanigans.

Bro 1 was very upset that I asked him to stop acting like a frenzied mongoloid and got into my face about it.

"You got something to say to me, bro?"

It was 8:58 and I had worked my second job landscaping that morning. I was very tired and really wanted to go home and smoke some choice wacky tobacky (I used to do drugs back then. Sorry mom.) I tried to explain that  I did not have anything to say to him and I'm sorry if I upset him. Bro 1 must have misconstrued my fatigue for cowardice as I could see him getting off on the power he had over me. Bro 2, who was the lesser of the bros, told Bro 1 that he should lay off and they should bounce. Before they left, Bro 1 turned to me and said,

"If I see you outside; it's on."

I told him he would never see me outside of this store for the rest of his life because I really just wanted to relax. Bro 1 smiled and they left. I shut the store down and saw I needed to take out the trash. I would have left it, but it was overflowing with price stickers, broken CDs and take-out food. This trash could not be ignored. I slowly waddled over to the trash, gathered it up and shuffled out the back to the giant, metal, disgusting compactors.

Sanctuary.

The night air felt refreshing after being in the stuffy CD store and I took a deep breath to savor this small moment and than forgot the rotting grease trap sat out here. Hooray. I walked to the compactor and threw in the trash to feed the dumpster monster. Than I heard a voice from behind me.

"What the hell, bro?"

I let out a sigh and turned around. It was the Brotastic Brothers. Bro 1 was smiling at the thought of giving me a wedgie or feeling me up or whatever it is bros do. They both strutted over to me. Now, I am a pretty big guy and I could tell that Bro 2 could see this and tried to talk his master out of throwing down. Bro 1, however, was blinded by testosterone and wanted to 'bro-down' so hard I could taste the Ax Body Spray oozing from his pheromone holes.

Now I was a bit upset. I really did not want to fight some young punk who wanted to prove how hard his dick swayed. I explained to him that I did not want to fight and that it was a waste of all our times. Bro 1 was angered by this.

"No way asshole. We are doing this!"

Come at me bro.

I let out a sigh and prepared myself for the ensuing fight. Bro 1 was pretty ripped looking and probably worked out quite a bit. I have been in many fights in my life and after sizing this kid up, I knew it was probably going to be a challenge. It was at this moment that God shined upon me,  Bro 1 made his fists. This is where I knew that this fight would end very early, for you see, when making a fist to fight, you never, ever, put your thumb in your fist. Bro 1, however, did just that.

We squared off and I told Bro 1 that we did not have to do this. Bro 2 seconded my plan. Bro 1 told us we were both female reproductive organs. I shrugged and figured if this was going to happen, may as well have some fun, so I egged Bro 1 on by calling him colorful names and guessed his sexual orientation. Bro 1 was seeing red and came at me. He swung his wrongfully formed fist and I stood there and took it.

This how you do not throw a punch.

Bro 1's fist slammed into my face and I heard a large crack. I have to admit, Bro 1 hit me pretty hard and if he knew what he were doing, this would have been a pretty good scrap. After the crack, Bro 1 stumbled back and started to scream in pain, his thumb was completely broken. Bro 2 rushed over to his stupid comrade. Bro 1 yelled at me and asked me what I did to him. I told him that he broke his thumb and he needs to get to the hospital. Against my better judgement, I helped him.

I went into the mall to the Orange Julius where I knew the girl. I asked her for a big cup of ice and she obliged. I took it back to the bros and told Bro 1 that he needs to put his thumb in that and to get to the hospital. Bro 2 helped him back to their car and I returned to finish up the store.

Helping the injured since 2004

A week later, Bro 2 came into the store and thanked me for helping them out and for not beating the ever living crap out of them. I told him it was no biggie as I really don't like jail and that he should tell his friend to learn how to fight before he starts one. He laughed about it and left.

I Go Location Scouting and Get Shot at. Hilarity Ensues.

I am a film student at Desert State College in Desert, Utah. I wrote a script a while back that had a scene with a underground bare-knuckle boxing match which needed a setting to match how bad ass it was. Luckily, my buddy Scarecrow's pop owned a gravel pit. The idea of shooting in a gravel pit had me watering at the mouth. Scarecrow told me to meet him at the Costco that Saturday and he would drive us out there.

Saturday rolls around and about 11 in the AM, I meet up with him. We hop in his jeep and away we drive towards the gravel pit. The whole time, we are talking about the movie, as Scarecrow is my main actor, and we are both thoroughly pumped. We arrive at the barred off gravel pit entrance. The two of us get out of the jeep, jump the bar, and start exploring. Needless to say, the pit is fantastic. There were so many places that would be great to stage a knock-down-drag-out-fisticuffs session that every Irishman from here to Dublin would be dancing a merry ol' jig. 

Actual screen shot from our movie.

After about a half hour of exploring and imaginations fitting to burst, we decide to head out. While walking back, we see a truck racing down the hill towards our general direction. The two of us think nothing of it and keep walking. Soon the giant Ford screeches to a halt in front of us as to cut off our path and, with a thud, steps a man that is basically a dime store knock off Stone Cold Steve Austin. 

Get off my lawn.

Scarecrow and I say hello, but are quickly interrupted.

“What the hell are you two doing here?”

Clay Freeze Sven Ashton barks. Scarecrow attempts to talk, but Clay Freeze Sven Ashton keeps barking the same question and promptly informs us that we are trespassing on private property. Scarecrow tells Clay Freeze that we are film students just location scouting and that Scarecrow's step dad owns this here gravel pit and all Clay Freeze needs to do is call him. To bad logic and reasoning only anger Clay Freeze Sven Ashton who than tells us that he can legally shoot us if he wanted.

The joke was on him. We can't read.

Scarecrow again says that his step father owns the gravel pit. Clay Freeze, frenzied by the thought that he may be able to legally kill us, asks Scarecrow which pit is own by Daddy Dearest. Scarecrow answers that where we have been walking is owned by his pops. A wry smile peeks out from Clay Freeze's mustache as he waves to us and utters a low:

“Goodbye.”

Scarecrow and I look at each other and start walking away. Behind us we can here Clay Freeze Sven Ashton calls Step Dad, gets a voice mail and demands that he call him back to tell him what the hell is going on. I ask Scarecrow if his step father usually employs psychopaths and wannabe wrestlers and Scarecrow responds with a shrug. That is when the gun goes off.

Kind of like this only way less awesome.

We both turn around and see Clay Freeze pointing his .44 magnum at us and fires another round in our general direction. What Stone Cold's mongoloid brother does not know is that Scarecrow and I have been shot at before by people scarier than he. The two of us shrug our shoulders and keep walking slowly at our normal pace and let out a chuckle at the idea that Clay Freeze probably has a below average sized wiener. Looking back, insulting a man with a large hand canon was probably not the smartest idea, but who said that Scarecrow and I were ever that smart? Well, our mommas say we're smart, but that is about it. 

 The two of us strut back up the hill to the jeep as Clay Freeze Sven Ashton fires the remaining five shots at us. A couple of the bullets even whizzed by us. We finally arrived at the jeep and got in. Up from the pit barrels Clay Freeze's truck who than stops at the gate. While backing out, Clay Freeze points the gun at us the entire time we are leaving. We drove away and went to get lunch. The two of us laughed about the whole ordeal over burritos after wards. Film making sure is fun. 

PTSD? Cured.

The Navajo word for Italian.

A long time ago, I use to be employed by The Home Depot in Desert, Utah. My job was a cart monkey. I cleaned up the lot, helped crotchety old customers load items into their vehicles and helped my fellow employees in whatever they needed. The job was a bit crap, but the people I worked with were great.

One day, we got a new employee. He was from the east coast. Connecticut or some such nonsense as that. We'll call him, Joey D. Joey D was probably the most stereotypical Italian. He was loud, obnoxious, talked with his hands and did all those things that the movies told us Italians do.

Joey D.'s employee photo.

I had the chance to help Joey D his first week in the lumber department since they were severely short handed. I wandered into his neck of the woods (see what I did there?) and he rolled up on a fork-lift. He looked me up and down and narrowed his eyes.

"Yo man, what are you?"

I was a little surprised. I didn't know what he meant, so I did the stupid thing and asked. Joey D was a little perturbed that I asked him and rolled his eyes.

"Your race. What are you?"

I told him that I was Navajo/Mexican. Joey D looked a little surprised. Than he replied:

"You're an Indian? I didn't think you guys existed anymore."

I laughed at his joke. Indians get that a lot from tourists and city folk. Than I was shocked when I realized he was very serious. This man did not know that Native Americans still existed.

Super serious.

Later that day, we were loading lumber into a customer's truck and we were making small talk, well, Joey D was telling me everything he likes to do, I was listening. Joey D was telling me how he loves to cook. All the traditional Italian stuff.

"Spaghetti alla chitarra, stelline, zitti! I cook it all!"

Joey D was very proud of his Italian heritage and cooking. I replied that I loved to cook also. Finally, common ground was found between us. Joey D asked what kind of food I liked to cook. I told him I loved cooking Mexican food and dishes from the Navajo palate. Joey D stopped loading and stared at me again, with those dead, Italian eyes and said:

"You people have food?"

I then stopped loading. I am not easily offended, but I felt very insulted. On behalf of my people, I explained to him that Navajos, and other tribes, had to come up with some kind of food before his people came along and brought his superior food.

Native American cuisine at its finest. 

At the end of the day, I was in the break room enjoying a nice cold Coke. Not a bag of sand like my ancestors use to drink. Joey D strutted in and told me how he enjoyed working with me and I was a real help in his department. I explained to him that that was the Mexican side of me. He laughed at the joke. I felt a bit sad.

Joey D grabbed his stuff from his locker and before he left, turned to me and asked me a question.

"So, do your people have a word for my people?"

I could tell by his face that he was totally honest in his questions. I looked at my Coke and told him that there is a Navajo word for Italians. Joey D lit up like Rome on Christmas mass. He scooted towards me and could not wait for my response. I gave it to him:

"The Navajo word for Italian is wop."

For those who have never explored the amazing world of racial slurs, 'wop' is the equivalent of me being called a 'wetback' or 'dirt worshiping redskin.' Joey D's face was confused. Than his confusion turned to slight irritation and than to anger. He threw up his hands and stormed out.

He was not amused.

"That is messed up! That is messed up!"

He kept shouting as he left. I was the confused one. Joey D insulted me many times and I got one good jab in and that makes me the ass? I pondered the interaction with Joey D and I just said to myself

"White people be crazy."

I heard a gasp and realized one of my white co-workers walked in and heard me. She was promptly offended.

Oh Racial Misunderstandings, You are Hilarious!

So on a particular rainy and cold day, I was toiling away at my job at the Barnes & Noble. Shelving books like I normally do. On this chilly day, I had my hair down because it was a bit cold. My hair is what most people call, 'Injun' looking.

While wandering around, shelving books at a slow pace, trying to look busy, I wandered over to the LDS book section to put away the smash hit, Let it Go: A True Story of Tragedy and Forgiveness. In the section was a cute little Emma Smith-esque house wife and her cute as a button, blue eyed, blond haired youngling.

As I rounded the corner, this youngling immediately latched to E. Smith's knee. The little girl looked absolutely terrified. Now I am a pretty big guy, dress like a cholo, dark skinned, and do not smile a lot, especially at work. I tend to bring out feelings in white people that invoke the wild west, tomahawks, and scalping.

The Barnes & Noble dress code can be intimidating.

The youngling, who looked like I was going to steal her away and raise her among my tribe, clutched harder and uttered;

 "Mommy. It's a lamanite."

For all those who do not know. Laminates were usually the bad guys in the Book of Mormon. Emma Smith was shocked. Maybe it was because her spawn said it a loud in the presence of a actually descendant of Laman, who knows. Either way, she looked like she was about to cry.

It's okay ma'am, colored people don't have feelings.

"I am SO sorry!"

She than proceeded to apologize profusely. I still had, what my wife has dubbed 'Mexican Face,' on and this young Daughter of Christ probably thought I was going to go on the war party. I than laughed out loud, or as the kids call it, 'loling.' I told her it was okay and that happens to me all the time.

Emma laughed nervously, grabbed the closest book to her, and her and her child ran away.

I let out a sigh than went back to work.