The Next Iron Asshole
By Michael Fowler
Nice fall Sunday, Indian summer,
folks outside relaxing. I takes my’s super-heavy-duty leaf-blower out of my’s
shed and cranks it. Folks jumps all down the block. My’s old neighbor-man napping in his lounger
chokes on his dentures. Dogs goes into spasms, cats blows up their tails and
scoots off like rockets. Now I goes in the street and blows one leaf along the
curb. I grins as the noise shattering the neighborhood. I crosses the street, turns
the machine off. Quiet descending. Then I cranks her up again, blows one leaf
the other way along the curb, all up back to my’s driveway. In the memorable words
of my’s mentor Mr. Naga, the mysterious Chairman of Asshole Academy: Let the assholing
begin!
That is my’s motto. So when I gets
a promotion at work, I sashays past my’s coworkers, swinging that butt. I
sashays by all the open cubicles, and I’s a guy! I looks around, my’s
expression says, Is you fit to breathe in my’s presence? As my’s spiritual
guide the enigmatic Chairman says: Join me in assholedom today!
At my’s door the meter reader arriving.
I lets my’s dog take crude bite on his leg. Little girls looking for lost kitten comes by.
I bares my teeth and shoos them away. In the words of the indecipherable Chairman:
Be ready for the asshole challenge! I listens and listens, and now I’s ready to
be the next Iron Asshole. People knows this. Every people must know this.
At the store I parks my’s enormous butt
in the electric cart and kicks it in gear. My’s butt as wide as the cart. I goes
all-out down the fruit and cereal aisles.
I stops after ramming elderly shoppers and slams it in reverse. My’s
annoying beeper comes on. My’s beeps-beeps is annoying as I backs into displays
of apples and whole grain breakfast foods, my’s huge butt riding over the
entire store. I beeps-beeps and creates rage over the entire store. I leaves
every aisle in pandemonium and every shopper with barely suppressed murderous
rage. Word of my’s deed is on everyone’s lips. My’s fame spreads.
Soon Mr. Naga, the renowned Chairman
of Asshole Academy, summons me to Asshole Stadium to compete for the title of the
Next Iron Asshole. The world will see what a asshole I is when I competes
against and beats a established Iron Asshole. Asshole Academy is a old castle
in Japan where the cruelly rich and incomprehensible Chairman reigns supreme
over four categories of assholeness. I seeks to join the ranks of those
invincible masters of assholeism: Iron Asshole Annoying Coworker, Iron Asshole Bad
Neighbor, Iron Asshole Sociopath, and Iron Asshole Pervert. At Asshole Stadium
I will perform assholeous acts for a panel of harsh judges. I must take assholeish
behavior to heights never before reached. These judges is world-renowned creeps
and misfits. They’s standards for assholeism is very high.
At Asshole Stadium I challenges
Hasimoto Hurihama who is current Iron Asshole Pervert. The Chairman looking harshly
civilized in finest silk kimono and polka-dotted obi. With sly smile he asks me
why I choose Hurihama. I says, Hurihama is old and ready to retire, and if I
wins, I becomes the next Iron Asshole. An Excellent choice, says the Chairman, smirking
in his way and fondling a pepper. He also says, But there’s one other
ingredient in today’s challenge: It is the secret ingredient. He opens a sealed
chest to reveal a unexpected object, now shouting its name: A magnifying
lens! Incongruous spaghetti-western
music fills Asshole Stadium as he cries: Let the challenge begin!
For today’s challenge the
neighborhood is included in Asshole Stadium, so I follows Hurihama when he
heads outside. I see he goes down to the schoolyard to ogle little girls in
their neat uniforms. But all grown men in Japan do that. In today’s Japan ogling
schoolgirls is no more shocking than marrying a robot, and Hasimoto going to
get low marks from the judges for creativity and style. Even though he holds
the magnifier right through the linked schoolyard fence, close enough to some moppets to count they’s
eyelashes and the cute pimples on they’s little chins, I sees he is a loser.
I takes a more inspired tack. I runs
to a nearby porno shop, buys the cheapest, grainiest magazine, then rushes to
the yard over at the boys’ school. Scaling the fence I hands a group of curious
lads the magnifying lens. I opens the
zine and points to a smudgy gray picture. I says, in my’s best Japanese, “Focus
you here, a breast!” and turning the flimsy page, “What do you spy now, a buttock!”
I dashes back to the stadium, makes it just before the time limit expiring.
The Chairman, obviously impressed, says,
Can you tell us what your inspiration was for today’s perverse act? I bows
politely and says, When I was 13 or 14, I purchased my’s first pornography. I mailed
five dollars saved from my’s allowance to a company in California that sent me
a small grainy photo that looked like shadows of people, or trees in a dark
woods. I had a incredibly difficult time getting aroused over it.
The Chairman nods his head and delivers
the verdict: The judges have spoken, and by a margin of a single point, you win
today’s competition. Thank you for an excellent perversion. It is a great honor
to name you the next Iron Asshole. Now can you please tell our audience what
philosophy will guide you in your new endeavor?
I thinks a moment and says, My’s
motivation for being a asshole is in keeping with my’s personality. I wants to
show different aspects of assholeness to different people. You cannot thinks
well, sleeps well, or eats well until you is a asshole well.
The Chairman seems pleased, but is
he really? Shrouded in dry-ice vapor he crosses Asshole Stadium in the
direction of his private chamber deep in the castle. There, as rumor goes, a
Iron Masseuse waits to relieve him of his iron-like stress.