Jackknife by Jeff Donnelly and Erik Randall

Christmas is my favorite holiday. Who doesn’t love getting presents? I’ve been trying to get my birthday on the national calendar for years, but until that happens Christmas is my favorite. The months leading up to Christmas I am constantly dreaming of what commercial goods I will receive in celebration of Santa Claus' birthday. But, this last Christmas was among the most awesome. I received a jackknife.
 
My Jackknife came in an army green pouch made of that material that only a jackknife can justify. The manufacturers don’t mess around, the pouch comes standard with a Velcro seal, and the knife itself has every gadget a Man could ever need. They even thought ahead and added a flashlight. Have I used it yet? Heck no, son! But, I am ready for anything!
 
I’ve run through the scenario a thousand times in my head.  I’m just sitting there in my Chevy Love pickup, while my buddy runs into a Circle K to fetch us two Thirstbusters, Oh, man what I wouldn’t do for that Thirstbuster right now. It's so hot the heat waves formed a union and  are suing the Miami Heat for mis-representation  and I am trying to figure out why I’m sitting in this non-air conditioned chevy love! Then someone that obviously means me harm begins his approach toward me.  I already know what he is thinking, “Hey, that guy must have air conditioning, screw robbing this Circle K … easy target!”  Well pal, you thought wrong.
 
My assailant approaches. Despite the fact that he says nothing, I know he means business. Not like negotiating business, like fighting business. Maybe its one of those gang initiation things you are always getting mass emails about. I hate those things, like the one about hypodermic needles in seat cushions.  No time to think, it's GO time.
 
As he approaches, I pull the Jackknife out of the glove compartment as casual as James Bond. Not, the new Bond - but like Pierce Brosnan. And not the last Bond movie Pierce was in. That one sucked.  Anyway, I step out of the vehicle, looking as tough as a guy wearing Birkenstocks, plaid shorts, and an Amish-style neck beard can look.  Without warning, he tries to roundhouse kick me.  He thinks I am looking for a punch, so I will never expect a kick. What an idiot! I spin quickly to the side, cunningly dodging his kick.  I give him my toughest Dirty Harry look, which just so happens to be the face I make when I try to add numbers together and I have to carry. My angry math face doesn’t deter the attacker. Instead he one-ups me with his angry multiple division face. It looks like he is even trying to divide decimals when it is obvious his math skills cannot go beyond the 4th grade! He pulls off his shirt to show his steroid-laden muscles and a tattoo of a pirate flag on his chest! Really pal - did you once work at the Pirates of the Caribbean ride? A crowd starts to gather – a few old people, random children, and a few good looking women in bikinis carrying 18x24” cardboard signs with numbers.  No one intervenes, and the crowd is hungry for blood.
 
The shirtless man spits a huge wad of snot and saliva to the battleground. It makes a bat-ting sound like in cartoons, then he swings at me with a right cross.  I duck it, and do one of those get-a-load-of-this-guy faces while parading around the ring.  The crowd laughs. Its time for the grand finale: I reach into my pocket, and grab the knife.  Just as I make the transfer, here comes that big dumb idiot swinging the putter he just stole from the back of my truck.  As he comes down to try to pop me on the head I dart to the side and plunge the blade into his spleen.  He drops - I’ve stunned him. He looks at me confused, and then looks at his side. Falling to his knees, he sits there for like three seconds, before finally falling directly on his face.  The crowd bursts into a golf clap which progresses into a game winning home run roar.  
 
My buddy rushes over, and we do one of those jumping in the air high fives. I pull my knife out of the guys’ side, wipe it clean and tuck it away in the belt holster. Oh yeah, it came with a holster. My buddy is still standing over the dude’s body in shock. “It’s about time you get here with my damn Thirstbuster!” I say loudly, making sure the bikini girls hear me. I snatch the drink and escort my buddy to the Chevy Love. As I drive away, I wave to the crowd and the beautiful girls blow me kisses.
 
When my friend finally gets over the shock, he asks what happened. “Not much… I had a JackKnife, he didn’t.” We both laugh and high five again as I burnout of the Circle K.

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Spit It! by Jeff Donnelly

This is the first post by Jeff Donnelly. He likes long walks on the beach, earl grey tea, and is looking for a soul mate.

Spitting: It’s been accepted on the ball field and into a napkin -like when you take a big heaping bite of something and then the cook has the audacity to divulge that that scrumptious teriyaki chicken is actually Labrador retriever. It’s an act that otherwise is socially unacceptable and widely viewed as tacky or even barbaric. Some countries have made it illegal in public areas. In the U.S, if you’re not from here, it is an expression of disrespect and social deviance.

Since the age of three and into my adolescence my mother instilled in me that it was not good manners and "gross." Yet now that I am an adult, I can’t say that my mother is always right. There is a time and place for everything.

Two dudes yelling start marching toward one another like a couple of apes – but they don’t just walk up and start swinging. No, there’s a ritual that has to take place. Each dude… and it’s usually when they’re about 10 feet away… both pause and take the time to muster up a wad of saliva buried deep in their throats, mix in some snot for good measure, and shoot it to the ground. In this act, they communicate to one another that social norms have gone out the window. They don't spit because they think it makes them look tough or macho. They spit to make a statement.

As I walk home today I may need to make the same statement. I am about to encounter every type of individual you could imagine in a half mile of city streets. But within that variance of awesome people, it’s not the hot blonde in the mini skirt that is going to go out of her way to talk to me. No, it’s that crackhead scratching at the goiter in his neck. I can’t acknowledge him or I’ll be stuck with this guy. I need to send him a message in a hurry. I’m going to have to tell him to “F*ck off. But any sort of verbal engagement will draw him in.

Instead, I need to act smarter yet communicate at his level. Just one quick turn of the head while drawing up that wad followed by a laser beaming spat is all it takes to change a crackhead zig into a zag. You can see it in their eyes right away. They’re so surprised they usually blurt something out to the imaginary friend accompanying them like, “Man, that is one socially deviant individual!”