[Tonga Part Two. Fishing and partying while weird spirits visit Rich in Part Two of his adventures on a South Pacific island, excerpted from his book The Corporate Cult.]
This is Rich Zubaty, The Rude Guy, welcoming you to the Reality Cult. Where we tell real stories about real things.
This show is a continuation of the last show, Part Two of my adventures on a South Pacific island called Ufo. Excerpted from my book, The Corporate Cult.
In Part One, I mailed some gifts from Chicago to Ufo, to the family of an old friend of mine, Saia, who had died earlier that year. Then I flew a third of the way around the globe, to catch up with my presents, only to arrive on Ufo, and discover I had mailed the gifts to the wrong family. Their father had the same name, and lived on the same island, but he was NOT my old friend, he was a different man. Someone I had never met. So, did I immediately own up to the blunder, and tell everyone the truth? No, I did not. I pretended along with the charade. I pretended I HAD known their father, even though I hadn’t. Because I had already sent them a bunch of gifts, and they had offered to let me stay at their place for no pay, in honor of their deceased father. And I didn’t want to upset the deal that we had in place. Or else, where would I go? So I sculpted my mistake into a lie.
We pick up the story again, a month or so after I arrived. The loose ends of my lie have becalmed themselves, disappeared like chaotic minnows, under the flat waters of the turquoise lagoon.
MY “FAMILY” HAS VOWED to continue one of the great traditions of their dead father. Every New Year’s Eve, Makana put on a huge feast, and fed anyone who wished to come. In island parlance this type of feast is known as a faka afe. It’s a direct cultural relative of the annual Potlatch ceremony, held by Native Americans of the Pacific Northwest. The purpose of this annual feast is to, “share the wealth”, and the man whose family puts it on, is held in high prestige, and given greater weight in tribal decisions, throughout the coming year. Plus it’s just a wonderful thing to do — as if Thanksgiving came on 30 different days, for 30 overlapping “families” — spread throughout the year.
But we have a problem. It’s three days before the announced faka afe, and we have no pigs, no fish, no money — no food for the big party. Paké and I decide the only thing to do is go fishing. We get up at 4:30 but it’s raining and blowing hard, crackling the palms leaves, so we go back to sleep. By 5:00 the wind has settled down and it’s getting light, so we pack up fishing poles and roasted breadfruit, and shove off in the outboard. Paké has a plan. He wants to follow a “valu line” that his father had told him about when he was a kid. A valu, also known as a barred mackerel, is a delicious, highly-prized food fish, kin to the wahoo, with jawsful of vicious teeth that make a barracuda look like a chipmunk. A “valu line” is a line-of-sight between two markers — in this case a beach at the tip of one island, and a clump of trees on a distant atoll. By driving on this “line” we can guide our boat over some deep, UNseeable, underwater channels, where schools of valu like to congregate, if they’re visiting this part of the ocean.
We unspool our lines and troll over to Lekeleka atoll, me with a fishing pole, Paké using a 200 lb. nylon handline, he keeps loosely wrapped beneath his foot. We come about at the far corner of Lekeleka, and aim for a clump of trees across the lagoon on the horizon. We’re both trolling blue and silver, six-inch plastic squid. I have NO expectations whatsoever of catching a fish. Most days I fish from shore, casting jigs over the edge of the reef at low tide. I’ve had more luck with that. I’ve trolled back and forth to town, a dozen times, when I was going to market, and never got a nibble, so trolling the lagoon just seems like a waste of gas. But I’m HAPPY to be out early, fishing in the pink and purple dawn. I tie a short piece of rope around my fishing pole to keep it from falling overboard, and began idly sifting through my lures, swaying with the gently rocking boat, as it chops through the waves. The clouds start breaking up, and shafts of yellow, spotlight the bright green islets, scattered around the lagoon.
My reel lurches against the rope, screaming for attention. Paké cuts the motor and pulls his handline out of the way. I fight the fish for 5 minutes, as it makes three powerful runs, but it tires quickly. I reel it alongside and Paké gaffs it — a 15-pound valu. We cheer and slap palms. It seems like the “ghost” of Makana, is bringing us luck. Paké starts the motor and puts out his squid.
My squid is shredded by the valu’s wicked teeth, so I tie on a blue and silver Rapala, sinking lure, and let out my line. But when I try to stop my line it keeps on going, the drag is BURNED out, my reel is broken.
“Ika!” shouts Paké. He has a very large fish on his handline, tearing off line beneath his foot. I try to reel in to clear my line out of his way, but the handle just spins, I can’t wind on line. Paké fights his fish for ten minutes, tugging hard with both arms, then releasing line when the fish runs, slashing a nylon arc across the surface of the lagoon. When he gets his fish close to the boat I stop messing with my broken reel, set my rod down, and grab his leader, so he can gaff the fish. He heaves aboard a frantically convulsing 40-pound valu, and beats it over the head with a broken floor board, to kill it before it can chomp our bare legs. It’s a beautiful fish: blue back, silvery sides, sleek head and terrible teeth. Blood and slime have splattered the wooden bench along the starboard gunwale, so I shift to port, and start fooling with my broken reel again. I try to reel in line without the handle, working my thumbs back and forth, inch by inch, on the open spool. Stupid and impossible. By now my lure must have sunk down 50 feet into the dark water.
Yow! My line peels off the reel so fast it burns my thumbs. My thumb pads feel like they’ve been stung by wasps. I have to lift them off the spool, as yet another powerful fish surges away — this time on light line with a broken reel.
“Grab the line”, I yell to Paké, who’s clearing his line at the stern of the boat. He swings his arm wide and catches my 40-pound test line, in his bare hand, just as the fish circles back at us. My line is a LOT thinner than his 200 lb. Handline, and he stands a good chance of getting his palm sliced, if the fish takes off.
It DOES — with a taut “thwang” of salt spray. He frees line as fast as he can, but it still cuts a groove in his finger joint. Paké plays the fish gently, alternately pulling line with both arms in front of his chest, and sucking the blood that trickles from his sliced finger. After ten minutes we have another big valu thrashing in the bottom of the boat, hammering its tail against the floor boards. “Be careful!” I yell. I’ve already suffered one broken ankle off the coast of Florida, thanks to a spunky mahi mahi, and I knew that the combination of blood, slime and flailing fish were a dangerous mix.
“I not afraid of no fish,” mutters Paké, bashing it to stillness with the broken floor board. My line, is a baseball-sized, tangle, of “bird’s nest”. There are three big fish on board; blood and slime, splattered all over the back of the boat. We motor to calm water nearer to shore, to clean everything up. I don’t want to take any chances slipping on the slime, and breaking another ankle.
We douse the blood with buckets of seawater, and chew down a couple chunks of boiled breadfruit. I shove my useless trolling reel into the cabin, rig my spinning reel, and we motor back out to the “valu line”. As we swing toward Lekeleka to make a pass through the same stretch of water, we see Manna, the gray-haired matriarch, waving at us from shore. We figure the women must have some kind of problem, so we steer home. Plus, disobeying Tongan elders, is simply not tolerated.
But it turns out Selu only wants to use the boat to go to the bank and, “check up on her loan”. The women don’t leave for another hour. That pisses me off. They cut short our morning’s fishing — in the thick of the action — when we finally had everything working right — for a no count reason. But at least we now have enough fish for the faka afe.
Makana’s “spirit” had seen to that. He had blessed this faka afe from outSIDE of Time. His knowledge had outlived him. (Little did I suspect he wasn’t done with me yet.) But, so far everything is “explainable”. After all, we just did what Paké, as a boy, had been instructed to do — around this time of year. Follow the valu line. There’s nothing remarkable about that. It’s nice to know the old man’s advice still holds true, but there’s nothing other-worldly about it either.
Next morning Manna weaves a form-fitting palm leaf basket for one of the fish, and Blackie bakes it in a small, earth oven, “umu” — which is the only way to preserve it, since we don’t have refrigeration. While that fish is baking underground, we go out and catch anOTHER 15 pound valu. Paké drives it across the lagoon to town, and reappears a couple hours later with two piglets, squirming in a flour sack. Trading fish for pigs — “Living without losing money”, grins Paké.
Meanwhile Blackie and cousin Samuel, take the rowboat over to Lekeleka, to raid the family plot of breadfruit, papayas, pineapples, yams, and maniocay (yucca) root. They even manage to capture one of the wild chickens that run around on the little atoll.
New Year’s Eve dawns with 60-year-old Manna dancing around the radio, doing a hula to some Christian song. She’s thrilled. The big day has arrived and she will not have to mope in shame, because we now have piles of food ready to be prepared — to carry on the tradition of her dead husband. Samuel, the city boy, shipped over from Nuku’alofa to spend the holidays with his cousins. Sporting gold earrings, an eagle tattoo and red bandana wrapped around his head, Samuel, dubbed “Smoothie”, pulls the piglets out of the sack, and holds them on their backs by their hind legs, bobbing his head and singing along with the radio. Blackie grasps the piglets throats, and slides a knife into their hearts. They thrash, blood gurgling, past the knife blade, then stop.
Lolo, another cousin, plucks the wild chicken Blackie and Smoothie caught on Lekeleka. Selu folds taro leaves, readying them to be filled with meats and fish. Manna extracts coconut milk by twisting the shredded meat inside a “cheesecloth” of coconut husk fibers. Melisi, another big city cousin, sings, flirts, and dances around with a long pole, knocking limes out of the lime tree — which crash onto the tin roof of the chicken coop, rolling to a stop next to the dead pigs.
Blackie ignites a huge pile of logs in the umu pit, and peels some sweet potatoes with the same knife he used to kill the pigs. When the fire blazes up, he tosses on the piglets. After a few minutes he yanks them out again, and scrapes their skin with a dull knife, to remove the charred hair. Smoothie “bleaches” the pigskins by rubbing them with green coconut husks, while Blackie pours warm water over them — and presto, suddenly the pigs, look like something you might see, in a butcher shop — no longer filthy and bloody and distressed — but clean and pink and asleep. I hear a squawk behind me. The chicken pokes his head out of a hole in a flour sack. He’s next.
Two of our big valu, which were stashed in somebody’s freezer in town, are thawing on the tin roof of the chicken coop, their sharp teeth, vicious-looking even in death. I slice one open, pull out its long yellow egg sac, and fry it for breakfast — sweet like orange duck. The, quote, “boy who comes by for food”, grins and asks me for some. He’s an 8-year-old illegitimate relative, of some FAMily member, who’s not living on the island at the moment. Whenever this boy gets tired of his mom, or step dad, yelling at him, he comes over to our place to eat and listen to Paké play guitar — and we love having him. He’s always welcome. In Polynesia every man is an “uncle” and every woman an “auntie” and every kid “belongs” to everyone else.
A row of watermelons lines the steps of Blackie’s shack. Lolo finishes plucking the wild chicken. Stripped of its feathers it looks scrawny as a knotted dish towel. Smoothie pulls out a Bic shaver, and shaves the skin of the pigs, removing their last few hairs. Manna wraps corned beef and coconut milk in taro leaves to make lu, a spinach-like “ravioli”, that will be wrapped in banana leaves, and baked in the fire. Selu whacks lamb ribs, with a machete, to crack the bones, and supply Manna with more lu stuffing. Paké weaves a form-fitting palm-leaf suit, for one of our valu so it can be baked in the fire. The other valu will be diced into raw fish ota.
Blackie lifts hot rocks out of the fire with the long automobile axle used for husking coconuts. He wraps the rocks in breadfruit leaves, and stuffs them inside the pig carcasses, so they cook the pigs from the inside. Then he wraps the pigs in pele leaves, an edible bush leaf. As he pulls unburned logs out of the fire, the family lines up woven palm baskets, loaded with foodstuffs, at the edge of the pit.
Into the pit of hot rocks go split “logs” of kapi, a white tuber the size and shape of a scuba tank. In go bamboo sticks, laid perpendicularly, to hold the other foods above the kapi, and facilitate heat circulation. In go the peeled breadfruit, and a basket of sweet potatoes. In go the pink piglets, and the valu in its woven basket. Next, banana-leaf-wrapped packets of lu.
Lolo burns the “hair” and quills off the wild chicken, by holding it over one of the logs, Blackie pulled out of the fire earlier. Meanwhile Smoothie lays a “roof” of dried coconut husks over the pile of food. Then come a few armfuls of pele leaves, green palm leaves, a tattered piece of canvas and some plastic flour sacks. Finally Blackie shovels a covering of dirt over the entire mound.
With part one.
Puppies and kids wander around the backyard, bumping into each other like drunken sailors. Lolo waves her plucked, mangy, chicken in their faces, scaring them, and making everyone else laugh. As all the cooks spread out in the shade, under the tangerine tree, smoking or drinking water, Melisi waves her arms and sways on her hula hips, teaching baby Saia (another Saia!) to dance. The baby shakes his head and rear end, trying to mimic her, and everyone laughs again. Then Blackie gets into the act, wiggling his knees, in and out, like a vaudeville performer. Yahoo! The chef’s dance. For Blackie, the hard part is over.
Stern Selu, second-in-command after her mom, sits under the tangerine tree, dicing the remaining valu into bite-size cubes for raw fish ota, a delicious combination of fish chunks, lime juice, sea water, coconut milk, vinegar, and tiny bits of any onions, green peppers, tomatoes or mushrooms, one might have lying around. Ota is, without question, the premiere South Seas delicacy. It tastes, like a sunset over the lagoon, looks.
Preparing the umu takes three hours, plus another three hours to cook. But there’s lots left to do. Lemons to be squeezed for lemonade. Otai beverage, to be squished by hand from chunks of watermelon, grated coconut, cubes of papaya, and sugar. Bean thread “chop suey” to be boiled, hotdogs to be roasted, canned spaghetti to be heated, pineapple to be sliced. I get exhausted just watching them work. I fall asleep on a mat in the shade of the mango tree. Unbeknownst to me, while I’m sleeping, uncommon events take place, in the empty space between my ears.
A couple hours later they wake me up to eat. A banana leaf table has been laid over the mats on the floor of the wood frame house — my house — the best of the five thatch, tin and rotting wood dwellings on their compound — and therefore the guest house. The 12-foot-long table is rimmed with “logs” of kapi, spaced by halves of baked breadfruit. The two steamed piglets are placed on trays at the far ends. Piles of banana-leaf-wrapped lu, filled with corned beef or lamb or fish, are spread amidst bowls of raw fish ota, sweet potatoes, “chop suey”, hot dogs, fried chicken and canned spaghetti (probably purchased in my honor). Lolo brings in her boiled wild chicken which looks, and tastes — surprise, surprise — like gourmet poached pheasant, having spent its life running free on Lekeleka, munching bugs and fallen fruit. What do I know? Manna arrives with an armload of breadfruit pudding, wrapped in banana leaves. Melisi carries in bowls full of watermelon and pineapple chunks. The 12 by 4 foot “table” is heaped with so much food, there’s no room for plates.
The adult men eat first: Paké, myself, a strange church minister, and Uncle Izzy — Makana’s wizened, look-alike brother. Not even the young men, and hardest workers, Blackie and Smoothie, are invited to sit. After several weeks absence, Uncle Izzy arrived on a boat, with a 30ish church minister in tow. I call the young minister “Ota” because he devours five bowls of the raw fish marinate, in an hour…
So… four men sit on the floor, at a table big enough for a dozen. We grab what we fancy and eat with our hands. After we pare the edge off our hunger, the fresh-faced minister, stands up and says a few words in Tongan. I can’t tell what he’s saying but it has to be something religious. I munch “pheasant” (wild chicken that is), fish, yams, and watermelon, oblivious to his message. After ten minutes he sits down and helps himself to a third bowl of ota. Then Uncle Izzy rises. Normally Izzy is a dizzy, cheerful old man. He loves the spontaneous chaos of life, and I often see him sitting on a log, chuckling to himself, feeding bits of breadfruit to a chicken, or laughing at Paké who is whistling and waving a stick, chasing the fruit bats out of our orchard. But this time Uncle Izzy talks soberly for about ten minutes, and brings Manna and Paké to tears. This is, after all, Makana’s traditional faka afe. It’s being laid on in his honor. The Tongans are eating and grieving at the same time — not a bad way to grieve.
But not me. I’m not grieving anything. While Izzy talks, in incomprehensible Tongan, I eat fried chicken, umu-baked pig, so tender it falls off the bones, more valu ota, lamb-filled lu, sweet potato, breadfruit pudding, pineapple and watermelon. Then Izzy sits, and Paké nods at me to get up and say a few words. Apparently it’s a tradition among them.
I’m stuffed, I feel good, I rub my belly, nod, and jerk myself up onto my feet. I start to talk about how, on Sunday, a few days ago, we didn’t know if we would have any food for this big feast. So Paké and I decided to go fishing. Paké remembered a “valu line” that Makana had told him about when he was a boy. So we motored offshore, swerved onto the line, and immediately caught three fish. It was, I preach, as if Makana was finding the fish for us, and putting them in our boat. His wisdom and knowledge had outlived his body — kinda like Jesus. “He is still here among us!” I say. (In a metaphorical manner of speaking, of course). Everyone stops eating. Everyone is staring at me — even the women and young men outside. So I throw more gas on the oratorical fire of my impromptu eulogy. I swell myself like a puffer fish, bloated with heady prose, all the while certain that these are just pleasant and uplifting things to say. Then…
A hot wind blows through my brain. My voice cracks. I blunder ahead blabbering about what a great guy Makana was — this guy I never met. My eyes water. I try to talk about how catching those fish, provided us with the island “currency”, to barter for watermelons and pigs. But I can’t. I stutter and balk and break into sobs, tears dripping onto my hands. I feel like I’ve been taken over by a spirit or demon. Something “ELSE” has taken possession of my mind and emotions.
It’s incredible. I didn’t know this man at all. I’m a fraud, a faker. But here I am having an honest-to-God, EMOtional breakdown, “remembering” Makana, “feeling” his presence, through the people in the room. The people who love him.
What’s happening is absolutely real. I love him too. I’m overcome by Makana’s psychic presence in the room. Some part of him really IS with us, hovering over the banana leaf table, heaped with food, sharing the meal with all the rest of us.
Nooo, I’m not seeing any ghosts or hearing any voices. It’s not eerie or spine tingling — not spooky at all. Just very “clean” and direct. An out-of-body transmission. A message in a bottle, from outside of Time. “Spirits” really can invade the present moment. The 90% of our brains we “don’t use” are somehow fashioned to gather information, that exists, outside our five senses. By living and breathing and fishing, on an island with no phones or electricity or cars, I have laid myself open to forces neither science nor psychology can explain. This moment is an epiphany. A shocking introduction to different memes — invisible memes — parts of consciousness that get trampled, in the stampede, of modern techno-culture.
It’s as if Makana is making a joke of MY joke — transforming a fraud into a truth — but gently and compassionately. I arrived on Ufo with good will, and pure motives. I wanted to help this family, and I wanted them to help me. Faka Tonga. The Tongan Way. Sharing what I had, and hoping they would share what they had. I stayed true to Faka Tonga, even when I found out I had prayed over the grave of the wrong man. And in the great scheme of things, what did it matter that I never met this man? I had showed up with good intentions, and stayed true to good intentions. I had known his soul. I had helped his family out, in the vacuum created by his final departure. What more could he want? And the truly marvelous joke is that we — he and I — accomplished all this, without ever shaking hands in our physical bodies.
A TRUE BELIEVER IN psychic phenomenon could argue that Makana had called me across the ocean, to help his leaderless family. But I’m not a true believer in psychic phenomena. I have more fun picking my nose, than analyzing psychic events. They happen. So what? In India, Bede Griffiths convinced me, that psychic experiences are most often an impediment to spiritual growth. They titillate our egos, rather than pushing us PAST our egos. (More on that in the chapter about God).
But this experience was real to me. By throwing myself wholeheartedly into preparing for this feast, by immersing myself in this family ceremony, I had unwittingly thrown open an invisible book of memes. The fact that I was a fraud and a faker meant nothing. Nothing at all. I had participated with good will, and honest intentions in Faka Tonga, the Tongan Way, and the “meaning” of doing that had dropped anchor inside my brain. I couldn’t miss the point. I honored an ancient tradition, and it honored me back.
Maybe renegade biologist Rupert Sheldrake is right. Maybe there IS some scientifically explainable zone of “morphic resonance”. Some as-yet undetectable place, where biological “energy” is stored for later use. Perhaps I had entered some kind of “resonant body”, some collecting point for feelings. Maybe I crossed into some kind of psychic space, whenever I rode the boat out to Ufo. It certainly FELT that way — like I was traveling back in time, entering another dimension. It never failed. I felt it with my whole body.
I’ve seen it in other westerners too. Once an Italian couple visited the island, and when they stepped out of the boat, they stopped still as deer — wide-eyed and reverent — like their eyes couldn’t drink in ENOUGH of this fairy tale scene — frozen in wonder by the South Seas mystique, of gray-haired Manna, cleaning sea urchins, under the banyan tree; white boats tethered to palm trunks, bobbing on the blue/green lagoon, while shouting kids splashed nearby; rustling leaf houses, nesting on goat-mown grass, a couple feet above the high water mark, on the soft yellow beach… So it wasn’t just me.
ANYWAY, I CHOKE and sob my way into some kind of ending for my silly little speech, and sit down.
“Thank you,” says Paké.
AFTER THE MEN FINISH eating, the women and a half dozen of their friends sit down. I flop my head on a grass mat under the mango tree where I’m immediately assaulted by the “maybes”. Maybe I’m bottled up with grief – long overdue to grieve over something – like the loss of my kids. I’m as good as dead in their lives. Here’s a family who prepared a feast to honor their dead father and I, who am still alive, am prevented from breaking bread, with my own kids. I mull that over for awhile, but it doesn’t “feel” right. I haven’t been obsessing about my kids. Yes, I hunger to see them. But that’s not why I cried over a man I had never met. That’s not what this was about.
Maybe I was just picking up contact grief from the family? But that doesn’t seem right either. I was perfectly willing to gorge myself at the feast, and play along with the charade that I had been Makana’s “best friend”. I DIDN’T know the man. I’ll admit my soul is a pork steak marbled with sentimentality, but my emotional blubber doesn’t cook hot enough, to grieve over a mere photograph. Something had moved the molecules between my ears. Something had STREAKed through my brain.
SUDDENLY A TWENTY PIECE BAND, followed by a dozen giggling kids, troops through the coconut grove and assembles on the grass in front of the house. There are harmonicas, drums, guitars, banjos, ukuleles; one guy smacking a fork on a bent piece of iron rebar; another guy banging a piece of roofing tin with a stick; a drummer sitting sideways on a cowhide barrel, beating both sides with his hands. An instant riot of music and fun. The women burst out of the house, and join the entourage of kids, clapping and hopping in barefoot circles.
Gray-haired Manna is the happiest of all: handing out bundles of food, throwing plastic cups high in the air, dancing around wildly with Aleki, the fisherman. What a volcanic shift from the deep grieving, just a short while ago. Manna joins in robustly, singing traditional island songs. Her face is split in a watermelon grin, as she moves through the throng, pouring fresh pineapple juice into the cups she had just tossed them. Then some boys start throwing juice in the air – and Manna joins in, laughing, sprinkling juice on bystander’s heads, startling shrieking girls, who dart like frightened minnows, tumbling over each other with hysterical glee. Pushing, grabbing, rough-housing. A jubilant mob of happy people, throwing their arms in the air, spinning in circles, singing ecstatically, doubled over with laughter… barefoot and radiant with joy. What a commemoration to Makana! Amazing that he is still able to inspire this much joy, so long after his death. No wonder these Tongans took so readily to Christianity. The celebration of life after death already made sense to them. It had been part of their culture for millennia.
Paké bums five dollars from me and gives it to the band leader, so the musicians can buy kava. I join the entourage as the musicians move on to serenade other houses along the beach – clapping, shouting, marching under the coconut trees, from hut to hut, while the band plays the same three songs over and over again, and accepts whatever donation is offered. The crowd of onlookers swells to fifty giggling kids, shrieking moms, and chuckling dads. I am lost at sea – swept away like a bottle, on this human wave.
Wanna read some of my other travel adventures? From India and Mexico and Peru and more? Go to amazon.com and buy the book: The Corporate Cult by Rich Zubaty. Just make sure you get The Corporate Cult BY Rich Zubaty. There’s another book, of the same title, by a different author. My fuck up.
The Corporate Cult is not a boring book. It’s not a typical researchers’s compilation of shitty facts about corporations. What I do is, I take you on trips to other parts of the world – corporate free zones I call them – where people have lived… just fine, thank you… without corporations, for 2.2 million years. And you really get it. You really GET that life can be different. Not perfect, but more soulful, without corporations. We don’t need corporations. Corporations rot our souls.
The Corporate Cult by Rich Zubaty
And here’s something else I want you to think about. If every one of the 1000 people, who download my shows in given a month, donated $3, I wouldn’t have to live in my truck any more. And that would be very very nice. So splurge. Be generous. Help a homeless guy.
Go to my websites: happyfool.orG or therudeguy.com… Click on “make a donation”. Send me three bucks off your credit card. It’s easy. Effortless, almost.
And if enough of you do it, I’ll rent a room somewhere, and get my laptop, out of the winter rains, that drip, drip, drip through the roof, of my 86 Ford Bronco.
This is The Rude Guy. I’ll be back. Stay strong. Don’t let anybody intimidate you. Don’t let anybody shame you. No more bullshit. That’s our motto…. No more BULLssshhhiiittt.
Ahhhh, feels a little better already.