One of my friends recently posted a video of Mike Tyson being interviewed by Ann Curry on her facebook (link below). Tyson was asked why he became a vegan at which point he went on a rant about how he was sick of sleeping with prostitutes.
You can almost feel the shock of all the whitebread snobs watching the Today show expecting to get diet tips and learn which plastic waterbottles contain the most toxins when they are hit with... some guy explaining why he became a vegan.
Because fuck your society.
I get it. He wanted to clean up his life in all aspects; that's how the whores were linked to the tofu, duh. Don't be mistaken Mike, no one was judging you for sleeping with hookers, but God forbid you should talk about it. But why? It's the truth isn't it? Doesn't matter. They just wanted some canned response about being environmentally conscious or some statistics about how beef consumption leads to certain health concerns. In other words, they wanted bull shit.Good ol' comfortable bull shit.
I've always liked Tyson 1) because he demolished opponents in the ring with his fast power punches 2) because the world hates him for being who he is despite knowing nothing about how he got there. Much as I wish I could relate to him for that first reason, I can only relate to him for the second.
All my life I was treated like I was an inconvenience, told to shut the fuck up and stop consuming air that was meant for better people; and I did. I guess I wasn't strong enough to find my voice in the sea of haters. But one day when I broke free from the Anchors, I started talking, and I liked it. And I discovered something I never thought would be the case: I was actually good at it.
I could spontaneously break out effective meaningful analogies mid-conversation as if I had stayed up all night thinking about what to say. I could twist the truth using verbal acrobatics to make my point of view seem like the only truth that ever existed. I could use poetic speech to turn a description of a mundane experience into a work of art. I amazed myself with this previously untapped talent, and used said talent to earn a good living in sales.
In my personal life, the words and thoughts that were previously kept below the surface now gained me attention and popularity... I was funny! I could entertain, me, an outcast running the show. Of course this did not apply to all people. Some people still hated me. I wasn't mainstream enough for them. They thought, "Why doesn't he dress like us?? Talk like us?? Believe what we believe??" It didn't matter though. My homies were there, they wanted to hear me talk, they wanted me to be part. It was all I needed.
Then I moved to Europa where I sit in silence with the whitebread in their collared shirts. A homogenous "Stepford" population, perfect sheep for a socialist economy, but a horrible environment for a man who has tasted and loves freedom. America is a place where there is a place for freaks like me. But now I must conform again.
I sit at the dinner table when the mom mentions she once came home to find her son's friend puking in the yard while the son was having a house party. That friend has been banned from the house. I wanted to mention the time I puked in my own car while driving a date back home. I had made fun of her because she puked in the parking lot after we got out of the club, but that Karma bitch got me good.
A funny story, right? A true story. An inappropriate story. Shut up, Brick, for you are... a Europan.
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