The Daily Crust

In the days of yore, the daily crust meant survival. On nutritional par with gruel, these chunks of stale bread offered the minimum sustenance peasants could consume and still live to toil another day in the satanic mills. In the 21st century, exploding waistlines and exponential chin growth bear witness that the lack of food for the body is seldom an issue. Instead, a spectre is haunting the world: sustenance for the mind is needed. Through the use of cartoons and commentaries about current events, Honest Anarchist hopes to provide the minimum amount of Daily Crust for a starving body politik.

On being bullied (personal blog)

I hear the distinctive sound of someone running full-bore. Curiously, the sound disappears but is unaccompanied by the requisite skid that comes with stopping.

A foot -- the business-end of a flying Tae Kwon Do kick -- lands dead-center in my back. I stumble forward, barely managing to stay on my feet.

“Very funny, Larry.”

I had now joined the laundry-list of unfortunate pubescents to be bullied by Larry. I incurred his wrath because Chuck, my theretofore alleged best friend, earlier told Larry that I said he was “a dick and would not pay me back” if I loaned him money for lunch. Nothing could have been further from the truth. Even if I thought he was a dick I certainly would not tell anyone, especially Chuck. I chose not to loan money to Larry because I needed the money for Christmas, which was right around the corner. I explained to Larry my side of the misunderstanding.

Never one to believe the truth if it got in the way of a friendly thrashing, Larry followed me into the locker room and resumed his barrage.  Chuck's deranged laughter only fueled Larry's frenzy.

Larry backed me against a wall and unleashed a torrent of roundhouse kicks with his right foot. From that time in the 4th grade when I beat the kim chee out of Jeoung for getting into my desk and breaking my pencils, I had always stood my ground against those who sought to impose upon me their pecking order. But Larry was no meek Korean immigrant; he was the Nelson Muntz of Rancho. The angry son of a dead mother, a lost dweller in the Martial World, Larry was believed to be the only student in my high school legally old enough to drink. I sure as hell did not want to fight the guy. That said, I did not sit idly by and take an ass beating.

For every kick he delivered I stepped in from my right-neutral stance and jammed the kick by lifting my left leg, thereby taking a knee to the side of my quadriceps. After countless strikes Larry tired from tenderizing my thigh. He walked away, never to bully me again.

The bruising and numbness were so bad the day after the initial incident I thought I should go to the hospital. Two days later my friend and I went to see “Commando.” We walked a couple of miles to the theatre, me hobbling on my black-and-blue drumstick. My friend paid for everything: movie tickets, popcorn and drinks. That was the nicest Larry had ever been to me -- perhaps out of guilt, perhaps out of respect. Perhaps out of schizophrenia. We never discussed his bullying of me and my standing up to him (such that it was). Our friendship soon drifted apart.

Years later, after high school and well into adulthood, I crossed paths with Larry when I was shopping at his place of employment: the local gun store.

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