The Florida Man and The Sea

by Michael Jungman

He was a Florida man who lived alone in a trailer in the Gulf and he had gone eighty-four days now without being arrested.In the first forty days a woman and boy had been with him. But after forty days the woman had been picked up for assaulting a Wendy's drive-thru worker and the boy had been taken by the state. It made the boy sad to leave the Florida man and the Florida man without the boy grew reckless. Running through the surf high on bath salts one day the Florida man got his hand bitten by a shark. The hand was patched with duct tape which had become gnarled and caked with dried blood.
 
The Florida man was thin and gaunt with spider web tattoos on his neck. A burn scar mottled his bottom lip from when a homemade electronic cigarette had exploded. His rap sheet ran as deep as the sea off the keys, filled mostly with DUIs. It was difficult to drive now with a shark bitten hand. The Florida man took it as a blessing. He would not go back to jail until he had taken his vengeance on the shark.
 
Everything about him was Florida except his eyes which were determined and undefeated.
 
A light shaking of his foot woke the Florida man. He sat up in his cot and rolled a joint. "I thought you were with kin in the panhandle."
 
"I left them," the boy said. "They ran a scam setting up fake job interviews and then resold the people's urine. It did not suit me."
 
The Florida man finished rolling his joint and tucked it behind his ear. He shook two pills out of a small bottle of Amphetamines.
 
The boy admired a rifle the Florida man had stolen from a neighbor.  "Can we shoot things in the woods today?"
 
"No. Today I am going to find the shark that bit my hand."
 
Dark clouds hung like smoke from burning tires as the Florida man and boy walked down the path to the beach.  
 
"I am worried for the Triple H," the boy said.
 
"Do not worry. I saw him wrestle in Miami once. I also went to the beach in Miami where women lay topless and I saw their breasts."

"You told me."
 
"Should we talk about wrestling or breasts?"

"Wrestling," the boy said. "Tell me again about the great Stone Cold Steve Austin."
 
It started to rain as the Florida man told the boy of the many powerful back rakes he had seen Stone Cold Steve Austin give his opponents.

The rain fell heavy now as the Florida man and the boy arrived at the pier on the beach.  
 
The Florida man set up a fishing pole he had shop lifted from a Dick's Sporting Goods. He baited the line with rotten fish a cousin who worked at the Olive Garden had given him.
 
"You do not have to stay for this," the Florida man said.
 
The boy looked to the Florida man. "I know."
 
The Florida man cast his line. And then again. The wind and the rain picked up and the boy tried to duck under the corner of the pier's wooden railing for cover.
 
After several hours the Florida man felt a pull of the line. He let the line run from his rod without the shark feeling any tension. "Take it," the Florida man said aloud. "Take it like you took a chunk from my fucking hand."
 
The Florida man let more line out and then pulled the rod back hard. “I got it.”
 
The boy stood motionless like a raccoon caught going through the garbage. “How do you know it’s the shark?”

“I just know." The Florida man's hand throbbed as he cranked the reel. He grabbed his crowbar.

The shark rose out of the water. It whipped around as it dangled. The Florida man leaned over of the railing. He hooked the crowbar under the shark’s tail and flung it onto the pier.

The Florida man circled around the three foot mako shark. He pumped his duct taped fist in the air. He dropped to his knees behind the shark and humped it. Three good thrusts showed the shark who was boss between it and the Florida man.

The Florida man sank his teeth into the shark’s right pectoral fin and jerked his head to the side. The fish thrashed. The Florida man spit the meat out. He watched the shark’s mouth open and close. Its gills fanned in and out.

The Florida man grabbed the shark by its tail and flung it back into the water. A salty mist washed over The Florida man and the boy.

You did not hump a shark and then kill it, the Florida man thought. You hump it for pride and because you are a man. You respect the shark before it bites you and you respect it after. If you respect it, it is not gay to hump it. Or is it more gay? Either way, something so badass should not die because it did what sharks do.

The Florida man's hand hurt worse than before. The sand of the beach swayed and swelled like the sea. The Florida man took the joint from behind his ear and put it in his mouth.  He sat down on the pier.  "Do you have a light?"

The boy took out a lighter for the Florida man.

The Florida man took a hit from the joint. He handed it to the boy and closed his eyes.  

"Rest now," the boy said.

The boy sat and watched the Florida man fall asleep. The Florida man was dreaming about breasts on a Miami beach.

Mike Jungman is a writer, comedian, and lawyer. He lives in Brooklyn with his wife and French Bulldog.

I Read My Liberal Friend's Facebook Post And Now I Finally See That Trump Is Bad

Though I initially thought that commenting on my liberal friend’s Facebook post would end with both of us hurling talking points at each other until we’re frothing with rage, I can honestly say she changed my mind and I will no longer be voting for Donald Trump, as he is really, truly, bad.

I used to be someone who wouldn’t listen to reason. But then my liberal friend reasoned with me, and that’s all it took to erode decades of deep-seated racism, sexism, and a vague sense of white nationalism. I could have sworn that after I insulated myself from any dissenting opinions or media that didn’t already conform to my skewed and narrow world view, that I was too far gone. But it turns out I wasn’t! It’s all good! I’m changing my Twitter handle from “@Christian_Nation_4_Trump” now.

After talking with this person whom I haven’t seen since high school, I see now that building a border wall is not just ineffective and prohibitively expensive, but also batshit insane. All the anti-immigrant bile designed to tap into my anger and fear that I happily consumed for years looks as utterly ridiculous to me now as my profile picture of Hillary Clinton with a Hitler mustache.

When I defended Donald Trump’s comments bragging about sexual assault as merely “locker room talk,” my liberal friend simply said “that’s not locker room talk.” And I immediately was like, “oh yeah, it’s not!” As more and more of her liberal friends liked her comment, it became increasingly clear to me that men are not the default gender, and all women have the inalienable right to their own agency. Someone accidentally un-liked the comment and things got a little hazy for me, but once a clickbait website made a meme about the post, it all started making sense again.

Sure, there were a few bumps along the way. When my liberal friend pointed out that there is no logical evidence that Hillary Clinton has a body double, I did threaten to murder her as is my God-given Second Amendment right. And I didn’t do myself any favors when I casually threw around the c-word in a poorly-written screed about Juanita Broaddrick, email servers, and Benghazi – three things that, on an intellectual level, I know nothing about. But when my liberal friend posted a link to the New York Times, a news source I distrust based on the fact that New York City has a lot of Jews living in it, it was like I could see clearly for the first time. Facebook has once again proven itself to be the perfect medium for thoughtful and effective political discourse!

Come November, it’s going to be a snap to vote in opposition to everything my immediate circle of friends and family hold true about the world. And I know that there’s zero chance that I scurry back to the safety and comfort of the anti-intellectual, jingoistic, faux-religious, race-baiting rhetoric the Republican Party has been serving to me on a platter since the Nixon administration. I’m woke AF, as the kids like to say, and I’m never going back to sleep – or my name isn’t Senator Ted Cruz.

Rupert H. Bingingham: "How dare you call my game Bingo."

by Clayton Moore

I am appalled. My game, neigh my life’s work is irreparably tainted by this foul name. Truly the sound evokes nothing of the cunning nor finesse required to succeed within it. The name is unfit for even the most simple and puerile of games. I am Rupert H. Bingingham, and how dare you call my game Bingo!

Bingo is a lowly, uncivilized title. Bingo is the name of a gimp dog, or perhaps a ill-formed lizard. Bingo is the exclamation one of you peasants makes when you spy a dirty shilling hidden in one of your pig sty dwellings. Bingo is the name of an unclean hick town buried somewhere in the dank West Virginian hills. Can you imagine President Bingo? Can you picture Bingo Hall? Then why is my perfect game titled with such a putrid utterance? Surely Bingo is not its name-o.

Its proper name is Rupert H. Bingingham’s Skill and Strategy Contest. There. Was that so hard? Were you able to stop shoving your mouth with Flamin’ Hot Cheetos long enough to stumble to the end of it? I hope so, for that is truly its proper title. This is the game that tests both your moral fortitude and your intellectual cunning, in less than 15 minutes. Such an impressive and refined game deserves an impressive and refined name. However, If its legitimate title is too lengthy an addition to your lower class vernacular than you may shorten it to Rupert Bingingham’s Contest or perhaps simply refer to it as The Beautiful Game.

Calling my creation bingo is an insult to it, me, and the entire Bingingham family. I spent the better part of three decades perfecting every aspect of the game mechanic, from the numbering on the sheets to the size of the pieces. If it had been titled correctly, in a thousand years it would have been hailed as the game of kings. It was supposed to be my legacy. As the last surviving member of the once proud Bingingham family, I was greatly distressed when I received the diagnosis of impotence after my croquet accident in 1891. Then it arrived. The answer to my prayers. The game that I knew instantly, would change the world forever. The way to preserve the honor and respect my family name commands. Rupert H. Bingingham’s Skill and Strategy Contest was supposed to be my heir, but those wily Parker brothers rendered it as infertile as I. All my time and effort undone in one grotesque abbreviation. I fear I’ve been dealt the same fate as my colleague, Francis P. Candylander. 

Clayton is a misguided high schooler who occasionally takes breaks from watching reruns of Star Trek: TNG to write for the internet.

An Email Regarding Safe Zones Across Our College Campus

by Addison James

"Subject Line Safe Zones"
 
From: Addison James
 
To: Faculty-All > Staff-All > Student-All
 
Safe Zone for Compassion & Caring: Woodrow Wilson Hall Room 2001
 
Greetings campus colleagues, staffulty, and students.

In light of violence jumping off across the nation and world, as well as acts of incivility and racism on our own hallowed campus, it has been decided to create a Safe Zone for our university community to connect and reaffirm our humanness. I realize Woodrow Wilson Hall is an ironic choice for this locale, seeing as how he was a vehement racist, but it was the only available spot with short notice. Despite the looming white-patriarchy, please feel inclined to stop by any time this week, refreshments will be provided.

This event is sponsored by the Division of Student Safe Spaces, the Sophomore Social Justice Theater Troupe, the Office of Counseling, and the office of the Chief Diversity Officer, as well as the office of Office Equity and Conformity.

Members of the Division of Student Safe Spaces will present their research detailing how Safe Zones have significantly decreased incidents of conflicting ideas and hurt feelings. The Sophomore Social Justice Theater Troupe will be directing “organic” dialog about how to foster socially acceptable art, so as to not offend any ethnic group, gender, or socio-economic class. The Office of Counseling will be available for private consultations (please bring your student ID or Health Care cards, so the proper paperwork can be submitted for payment purposes). The office of the Chief Diversity Officer will be on hand to dialog about your concerns with diversity on campus. Unfortunately, the Chief Diversity Officer will not be available, as he will be competing in a polo match in the Hamptons. The office of Office Equity and Conformity would like you to bring detailed lists of any noted discrepancies in office size, color, or lighting. Also, come prepared to name names of any offices that contain offensive furnishings, artwork, or plants.

To speak to our own issues of macro-hypocrisy, the university realizes there are issues and positions in need of revision. As former General Manager of the Washington Redskins, President White is familiar with how to handle public racism scandals. Thus, the dismissal of the student football players for racist chants was comported with the utmost grace and care. The media has decried the lack of a university hearing, but we resolutely affirm President White’s decision to deal with all instances of racism with severity, rapidity, and clarity; there is no time for jurisprudence when YouTube and Snapchat so clearly revealed the culture of racism running amok within the football program. Please do not let this deter you from attending the game this weekend though, as we will be the ESPN game of the week.

I would be remiss if I didn’t share a horrid tale of micro-aggression from a neighboring university. During Un-Named U’s dorm orientations, an R.A. conducted a Sensitivity Training with First Years. The R.A. posed the question, “Have you ever been the victim of micro-aggression?” When one student found it particularly difficult to come up with an incident, the R.A. explained how micro-aggressions were everyday verbal, nonverbal and environmental slights, snubs, insults or other acts of intolerance. Finally, the First Year said, “One time someone identified me as, ‘The dumb blonde girl.’” The R.A. did acknowledge how ‘dumb blonde’ was micro-aggressive, but the R.A. failed to address the most glaring micro-aggression, ‘girl.’ To suppose one’s gender is supremely micro-aggressive. Needless to say, the R.A. was summarily transferred to Un-Named U’s Siberian Study Abroad program. The proper R.A. response should have been, “That must have hurt when someone assumed you identified as female. It also must have been painful to hear your hair color being proclaimed publically as blonde. I apologize for the heterosexist and transphobic culture that wrought such devastating language to bear upon you.”

This is intended to be an on-going series, so take this opportunity to gather, (re)connect, and affirm one another. The Safe Zone will also include a space replete with coloring books, bubbles, Play-Doh, calming music, pillows, blankets, and videos of puppies, so do not feel obligated to bring your own infantalia.

Thank you for your consideration. We hope to see you, unless of course you are not an advocate for compassion and caring, in which case we hope to never see you on campus or elsewhere. If you do fall into this category, please seek help to normalize yourself and adhere to our way of thinking.

With sincerity…
Addison James, Ph.D
Director of Staffulty Safe Zones,
Non-threatening Facilities, &
Innocuous Plant Life
So-n-So University

Post Script: The orientation for employees employing proper terminology has been postponed until the Provost’s administrative leave of absence concludes. Please pray for all involved in this, his most recent sexual harassment scandal. Until the orientation is rescheduled, please DO NOT use the phrase sexual orientation during any First Year Orientations. Instead, use the phrase “affectional orientation,” but this will all be covered in the pre-orientation to campus-wide Terminology Orientation.

Addison teaches Grade Nine at an undisclosed locale in the Commonwealth of Stay Outta His Business. He lives in a re-purposed micro-home he fashioned out of ole' chicken coups and dog runs. His wife is a raving radical Republican right-winger who currently carries their first offspring. The expectant pair lives with their bloodhound Rufus in a rural out of the way spot surrounded by pastoral beauty and bovine sentinels. His work can be read in Weirderary, Red Fez, and the Concho River Review.

This Letter To An Advice Columnist Must Be Anonymous At All Costs

by Richie Pepio

Dear Advice Columnist,

I’ve never written to an advice columnist before, but I have nowhere else to turn. I can’t trust this information with anyone else because I’m a famous athlete and it could be used against me. No one can know my identity, not even you.

The problem is: my girlfriend has not been honest with me. I’ve invested so much into this relationship and now I can’t dunk my way out of this one. I think things moved so quickly, that I missed all of the red flags, even though a bull only sees red.

We first met at a local Chicago club. She caught my eye with the way she danced the Hula, which is weird, since the Hula seemed so old fashioned. But she did things her way. And I can relate, because I wear Hanes my way.

She was different from the other girls, more genuine. There were no awkward attempts to impress me - she just looked at me with her big, round eyes and said she “likes Mike” with that quirky accent. Sure, she talked like an old-timey gangster, but her voice was just one part of a free-wheeling persona I fell in love with. After several dates, we decided to just do it and moved out to the woods together, to be closer to her family.

Once we actually started cohabitating, though, things got almost as weird as that season I played for the White Sox. We’d get these deliveries at ALL hours of the night. Just huge crates of stuff. Whenever I’d ask her what she was ordering, she’d say they were for her “pals” and the conversation would stop there.

Every now and then, we’d throw parties at our little “hole in the ground,” and she would put on this stereotypical World War 2-era Japanese accent, which I found really offensive. And when I’d ask her what she wanted for her birthday, she said “war bonds.” Which would make her seem noble if she didn’t love playing mean practical jokes so much. On my birthday, for instance, she went through all this trouble to bake me a beautiful carrot cake, only to reveal that all the candles were sticks of TNT. I mean, I was OK: when the dynamite blew up, the explosion only sent my face to the other side of my head, but come on!  

One day, we were having a picnic outside with some Ball Park Franks and Gatorade when I realized her long, beautiful hair was just bunny ears tied together. Yes, my girlfriend is actually a male rabbit who dresses up like a woman as part of an elaborate ruse to hide from “prospectors” and “spinning demons.” When I tried to get back into our little “hole in the ground,” the rabbit zipped the hole up like it was a Trapper Keeper.

I realize now that the past year of my life has been a sham. When I Googled the ACME logo printed on all of her deliveries, I discovered that ACME is the arms dealer that got busted for selling “falling anvils” to terrorists. Upon seeing your handwritten advertisement for an advice column posted outside of my Highland Park home, it seemed way too coincidental but I’m in a real jam and am hoping you can help. You write with what seems to be a speech impediment, but you say you can help people, whether it’s “basketball season or wabbit season.”

Can you help me??

Sincerely,

Number 23 Looking to be Free

Richie Pepio is a writer, actor, and improviser who tumbls @Mindctrlaltdel and tweets @RichiePepio.