Tuesday, February 26, 2019

Ruth Bader Ginsberg


 
 
Chapter 70

          Yesterday, I woke up at 5:30 a.m. and drank a cup of instant coffee. Then I read the news on my smartphone while taking a nasty shit. A teenager from central China loved playing computer games more than studying. So his mother hired the services of a behavioral bootcamp in order to change his evil ways. The poor kid was taken by force from his home and placed in a detention center where he died under mysterious circumstances. Mom is now distraught and desperate for justice, but she should have thought of the consequences before placing her kid in the hands of strangers.

          Video games and Asian boys go together like ketchup and French fries. And this unhealthy relationship has darkened my very own home. Ken the Chicken Man is a twisted Starcraft addict. He can play it for days on end. But I try to count my blessings. Things could always be worse. At least he isn’t hooked on dope or alcohol.

          I took a quick shower and dried off with a tiny towel. Then I walked downstairs to eat breakfast. I had oatmeal with granola on top. The food was delicious.

          My mother called me using WeChat.

          She said, “I have some bad news. I went to the doctor, and they found nodules on my lungs.”

          “Nodules? What does that mean? Do you have cancer?”

          “They don’t know. According to the nurse, most nodules aren’t cancerous. They can be caused by common things like bronchitis.”

          “Holy shit.”

          “Relax. I’ve got great health insurance. But I’ll be driving back and forth next week for all types of tests, so try not to panic if you can’t reach me.”

          “Wow. I don’t know what to say. You never even smoked a cigarette in your entire life.”

          “I’m seventy-one years old, son. These things pop up.”

          “Yeah, but the idea of being an orphan sends shivers down my spine. You got to make it until you’re ninety. Fight your ass off.”

          “How can I control my life span?”

          “Look at that old bitch, Ruth Bader Ginsberg. That twisted old cunt has suffered through lung, colon, and pancreatic cancer, but nothing seems to kill her. Be tough. I need you.”

          “I’m sure that everything will be fine. There’s no cancer in my family tree.”

          I walked to work with Rice-Boy Larry. We passed several Chinese men who were puffing on their Marlboros. Sometimes, I have the urge to pick up my old habit. And why not? Life’s a losing battle. In the end, something’s going to kill you.

          Larry said, “Is Granny going to die?”

          I said, “Well, son, we’re all going to die. That’s just the nature of how things work.”

          “Is Granny going to die tomorrow?”

          “She’s a rough and tumble old bird. Let’s have faith.”

          I got to work at 7:30 a.m. We had a morning meeting. Sadly, I can’t remember a fucking word that anyone said. But cake was served, and I’m a big fan of sweet vanilla frosting. Therefore, I actually had a good time.

          Later, during class, I read one of Dr. Martin Luther King’s letters with the students.

          A bright kid named Seth said, “I heard that Dr. King was a playboy. The FBI has files on him.”

          “Well, as most of you know, I’m no fan of the FBI. The director at the time was a man named Hoover. Trust me. That pervert had no right to comment on anybody’s sex life.”

          Seth said, “What made him a pervert?”

          “He was a homosexual and a transvestite. Enough said.”

          The class laughed.

          I got home at 5 p.m. I watched Manchester United battle Liverpool. The match was pretty good. It ended in a scoreless draw.

          I went to bed at 10 p.m. I slept like the dead.

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