Pokémon GO: the hunt for Pikachu: a narration by David Attenborough*

A hunched back, an aching neck, legs overworked, both hands grasping the smartphone, eyes glued to its phone screen and all attention waiting on a single beep or a change of pixels, the human is on the prowl for more Pokémon. This human, mind you, has scarcely found initiative to leave its habitat prior to this. It had no reason to leave the comforting glows of its television or computer screen, after just having gotten over the glow on its phone screen. First, Netflix, and now Pokémon GO.

Armed with two portable phone chargers, some in-game incense and Pokéballs, the human makes the call to fellow humans. Together, they enter its automobile and drive at 30mph through its neighbourhood, careful, the driver too, not to miss any Pokémon on their way, and also mindful to cheat the Pokémon egg hatching system. Humans are cunning creatures, outsmarting the smartest of devices in order to exploit what they offer for what seems to be no benefit. At the end of each hunt, each human comes home empty handed, but with a digital archive full of animated rarities. Outside of the vehicle, many other humans can be seen glued to their phones, embarking on yet another day's journey, their young also joining them on their own phones, as offspring so little as just three years old have also joined the journey to be the very best, like no one ever was.

Today, after having spent almost an entire week on their phones, this group of humans is after one particular Pokémon: the ever so elusive Pikachu. This short yellow rodent, stubby in stature, is thunderingly charismatic. Armed with a cute looking face, do not let it fool you for innocence. Stored in its seemingly innocent reddened cheeks are thunderbolts, ready to strike out and smelter any who step in its path. If that's not enough to scare you, perhaps its five tiny fingers at the end of its short arms will. Like Australia's dropbear, the Pikachu has the capability to, in quite a cute manner, erratically claw at you. Luckily, we have sedated one today for the purpose of showing you its features up close. We found it gnawing on a powerline, and my team managed to catch it before a hoard of Poké-trainers rolled in. They are standing by now for its release. What you cannot see, photographed below, is the minute after this photograph was taken, wherein it blasted me to near death after its sedative wore off. You also cannot see its thunder-bolt shaped tail, which follows it swiftly wherever it goes. But what you can see is its tiny little ears, with a black tip on their ends. A mighty creature, so delicate in features. 

After releasing it, we headed back to our campsite behind the field where multiple Pikachu sightings have taken place. This may have to do with the multitude of lures that have been used by avid Poké-trainers. The group of humans observed earlier mumbled harsh nothings to one another. It looks as though they are having an argument. "I'll uninstall, you all better do the same because I don't think either of us will catch one unless we start over!" one screamed. The others seemed to have follow suit. According to our cameraman across the field, he heard them saying something about creating new email addresses and accounts to start this process, a process that has only recently been discovered. This process states that if you abandon all starter creatures over five times, a Pikachu will appear. The humans separated. We followed their ringleader, watching him leave behind several starter Pokémon.

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Surely enough, after abandoning Squirtle, Bulbasaur and Charmander five times, the human spotted the Pikachu we caught earlier. Unbeknownst to him, in a few minutes, this field will be teeming with them. But in order to allow him to retain his dignity, and to keep our camera crew safe, we chose not to notify him, and instead, watched him burn off all the calories months of Netflix binging have added to him. The human leapt up in delight with his mouth agape, and screamed, "I GOT HIM, I GOT HIM!"

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The humans he came with quickly gathered around him, trying to look at his phone screen. He held it up; a modern day Lion King, and shook. "Throw it!" some yelled. "Quick!" 

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The Pikachu, after having thought that its first encounter with these abhorrent humans would be its last, stared in horror as it began to count down its final minutes of freedom. It thought to flee, but it was programmed, once found in the game, to withstand the throwing of three Pokéballs before fleeing. Unable to turn itself away from the group of frighteningly excited humans, it turned towards it potential captor, and decided that the only thing left to do, since this was not a formal Pokémon battle, was fight off his Pokéballs.

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And surely enough, it did. The human threw the first Pokéball, and Pikachu swiftly tapped it away. "Shit!" he exclaimed. Another human said to it, "try again! Quick!" Pikachu almost had no time to evade the second, but did just in time. It frowned, and put itself in an attacking stance in order to try to intimidate the humans. But it was outnumbered, and more wannabe explorers joined its human rival, throwing bits and pieces of advice. One bit of advice stood out, "Use a Razz Berry!"

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The human complied. He threw a Razz Berry in front of Pikachu. Pikachu hesitated for a while, and then went for the bait. Just as he did, the human decided to throw the third and possibly his last Pokéball with a twist. He placed his finger on the screen, waved the Pokéball in a circular motion, and it leapt up in the augmented air. He threw a curveball. "GREAT" his phone flashed at him. 

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Pikachu panicked. His world turned a bright white and then a deep, velvety red. He was trapped inside the Pokéball. He strained. He wriggled. He punched its inner walls and screamed and even thunderbolts, it appears, could not help him. He cried out in surrender. One of my cameramen shed a few tears. This is a sad moment for all digitalised creatures. 

The Pikachu was then registered to the human's Pokédex. "Good work, bro!" "Well done!" "Awesome!" the humans cheered. As hastily as they were to find and capture a Pikachu, so too were they haste in leaving, and moving on to capture yet another. Pokémon all over the world now seem to be in danger of being ensnared in a Pokéball, forever indebted to a life of digital servitude towards humans who too are ensnared in the augmented reality joining the lives of Pokémon and humans alike. 

And in the mere flick of a finger, in a mere miss, in a mere additional flick, in a few mere pieces of advice and a mere  third try, Pikachu too seemed to be just a mere Pikachu to all present onlookers. The once elusive and highly desired Pokémon became just another Pokémon, and soon this game will be just another game. 


*not actually narrated nor transcribed from any narration by David Attenborough. This entire article is completely fictional and hypothetical. Read in the style of David Attenborough's voice to achieve full effect. 

A Child's Imagination

As a child I had quite a large imagination. In fact, I can safely say that my imagination is larger than the imagination of anyone I know, which possibly explains my mild paranoia, my fear of the dark and my fear of some toilets.

But as a child with a large imagination, and as a current young-adult living with the continuum of this enlarged imagination, I know that without it the world would appear dull to me. My imagination keeps me entertained, even if most of the time it frightens me to the extent beyond where scary movies attempt to reach. My imagination has also assisted me thoroughly in my educative journey.

Had I not been an imaginative individual, I doubt my creativity would be at the level that it currently sits. In a split second, I can think of things that most of my fellow classmates deem 'strange', 'unusual' or 'weird'. But just like the way I have, they soon succumb to the fact that my ideas are not as repulsive as they claim them to be, rather they ignite the spark which hones in all attention that is otherwise rather difficult to acquire.

Straying from my imagination's aiding in my academic progress, if you have watched the newly viral video shown above, you will understand the reason as to why I found it necessary to speak of this incident that has brought forth immediate reactions based on hilarity. The video above shows a toddler reacting rather heavily at the fact that his father caught his nose, or caught his ear. Some may view his reactions far-fetched, exaggerated, yet I view his reactions as an early sign of high intelligence later in life. This toddler can see things that others cannot, and indeed, his father is laughing at him now, however I am predicting that this child is no laughing stock in his future.

Critical awareness only benefits humans later in life, when they disperse away into realism from living a life circulated around imaginative thinking. If one cannot start at the realm of imaginative thinking, then when they reach the realm of critical awareness they will suffer and fail to be as critical as academia requires. Differentiating from my sister, who unfortunately does not share my wild mind, per se, and differentiating from most of my peers, I have found this to be somewhat true.

Imaginative thinking should be encouraged more in the education system, for I believe it plays a role of large importance, larger than that of critical awareness. This child is an example of the strength of the mind and how it alters perception so as to allow him to believe that his ears and nose are detachable. 

The Apple Falls Far from the Tree

There lies a partial explanation as to why students favour foods of a fatty basis rather than foods with a somewhat healthy basis, especially upon the observation of my current university setting, and it has crossed my mind that this is due to the susceptibility of humiliation.

One instantly draws attention to themselves after taking a mere bite from a crispy fresh apple, sending the juices from within it flying onto their peers who are quietly sipping away on their innocent protein shakes, or munching away on their seemingly quiet muesli bars. One panics as they do not wish to continue spraying their peers with natural juices, so one attempts to chew the apple in a way between not looking like they can fit the entire apple and their fist in their mouth, and opening their mouth enough so as to not bite into their inner-lip lining instead. This proves a difficult task, but one proceeds to chew into the apple at varied speeds, with their mouth opened at varied sizes.

But one soon finds that despite their best efforts, their apple crunching either dismantles their peers' thoughts, or the apple juices soak them. One's apple crunching sounds should not be undermined, for they can bring focus of even the most focussed of minds, particularly in the longevity of a literary in-depth discussion of a classic novel. One would assume that they would be spared by the apple and its noisy and messy injustices seeing as one is making a healthy choice by choosing a fruit over preservatives, but one is highly mistaken.

Apples are deceiving beings. They exist not to draw you away from the doctor, but to rather use that force to draw you into humiliation to the point where you feel the need to seek mental help for one, feeling victimised by an apple, two, being able to converse with an apple to the point where it victimises you and three, that you personified an apple so much so that it began to speak in the first place. The apple schemes all of this, and always in this order, so be weary of this mischievous lunchbox snack. It is the one fruit that has the ability to turn you into a fruitcake, and the one fruit that holds the ability to turn you into a vegetable. Be very wary. 

I would suggest before you decide to bring an apple into a classroom setting, that you should remove its sticker of identification as an apple from whatever origin, stripping it of its dignity, and cut it up at home. Yes. Slice into it, slice it into less than a half, slice it into quarters, into eighths, into tenths, twentieths, whatever you can manage. Slice it until it becomes weary and small, so that when you eat it in class it has no ability to humiliate you and when it is angry from this fact it cannot act in any way because you have either eaten it or it is so thin that it cannot utilise any of its decapitated body parts against you.

Only then, my fellow friend, will you defeat and conquer the deadly and vexatious fruit that is the apple. Only then may you continue to consume healthy foods in class without drenching your peers or attracting too much attention. Heed my warnings, for the apple does indeed fall far from the tree, and it also has relatives willing to assist it in whatever it needs.

Moomba

Due to the high amount of Vine videos all over Facebook and due to every teenager owning a device that connects them to the social media granting them the misconception that they too can be famous by attempting to be funny, I have lost interest in funny things in the world. 

Do not get me wrong, I still have the ability myself to be a tear jerker just by speaking in front of a large group of people which is probably why I should have chased the dream of a comedian. At least being overweight would be funnier then than it is now. But that is besides the point. The point that I am attempting to come across is this: that universities, all while being boring places to spend sleep-deprived mornings, can prove to be quite interesting comedic recreation centres whilst being educational settings depending on your lecturer. I am proud to say that my current lecturer is far better than any stand up comedian I have seen, and I expect that because I pay him far more. 

Regardless, each class of his is of a high amount of hilarity. I have never learnt and laughed at the same time in amounts as such before. I cannot control my laughter as my mind attempts to take in the information that comes straight after and my hand struggles to write neatly so I end up looking like a victim of an epileptic fit. A happy victim of an epileptic fit. It is quite the sight to see. And there indeed is nothing that beats the strength of the engagement of humour in the classroom, in the lecture theatre or anywhere for that matter. In one of these lectures, though I heard something that is so profoundly funny, it still makes me laugh every time I think about it. 

The city of Melbourne lacked a festival with an indigenous punch back in the old days. So, the mayor at a time when I was not yet conceived had decided to ask an Aboriginal man, Bill Onus, what Aboriginal word they can name this Melbourne festival that would entice attendees to attend simply because of the respect given to these original settlers by naming a happy event after a word of their choice, rather the choice of one. "Momba", he replied, and Moomba it became, Moomba it was and Moomba it still is. 

What most citizens of Melbourne do not realise, though, is what the word Moomba means when it is translated into the Aboriginal language. In actual fact, Moomba means 'big asshole' or 'up your bum' or 'in your buttocks' depending on what sounds funnier to you. So while citizens of Melbourne go out to spend their day and night every year for sixty years celebrating a festival, they have been celebrating 'big asshole' day. 

I will forever laugh at how poorly researched this name was and at how it is still in use today. This just goes to show that people of the government can really learn a thing or two about critical thinking. 

Gravity and Colds

I have never been as mesmerised at a bodily occurrence as I was with the banging sensation of one's elbow until now, mid-way through a terrible cold. 

For two nights I was unable to lay down simply because my head was clogged with gallons of mucus and it just felt as though I was drowning when I lay horizontally, not to mention my blocked nose. Now that I am four days into my cold though, I have had only one blocked nostril at a time when I lay down, so now I sleep in my bed again and not on the uncomfortable thing that is our new sofa, which is convenient seeing as though the heater in my bedroom knows its bounds, unlike the heater in the lounge area which loves to watch the world burn. But the topic of heaters is not why I am writing today. 

I am writing today about the odd occurrence that happens while one is sick and laying down. To achieve what I am about to explain, one must have only one of their nostrils blocked. They then must choose a side to lay down on, preferably the side of the blocked nostril so as to allow a sufficient amount of air to flow through the former, and one must lay there in that position for about ten minutes, or until one feels the difference between the two halves of their faces. When that is the case, one must then fulfil the experiment and turn their bodies to the other side, the empty nostril, and that is when something strange happens. 

That gallon of mucus then, losing its hard texture, slithers down one nostril to the next, glides down the canals of your sinus on to the next canal. And there it sits just like it sat in the latter nostril, and it slowly begins to harden again. Overnight, despite however many times you move and despite how hardened your mucus becomes, if you turn in your sleep, the mucus will shift. It is the most bizarre feeling, feeling as though somebody has screwed your face open and is pouring gravy in your facial canals. This is even stranger now considering I have not caught a cold in two years time.  This all feels new to me. 

And as strange as this sounds, I will savour this mucus moment. I have no sense of taste nor a sense of smell nor any sense in my head, on that matter, for wanting this to last longer simply just to revel in the strange feeling it brings. 

Where do Grim Reapers get their Cloaks from?

The grim reaper. A cloaked figure, dressed in all black, transcending through realms surrounding life and death, haunting all those in its wake. 

After searching through the internet via Google I have found no means of explanation which tells one about where the grim reaper acquires its attire from. From whence does its cloak come? Has anybody bothered to question its one fashion statement? Do some humans contribute black cloaks to these beings as a form of bargaining so that they may live a little while longer before these beings visit them and take them from their lives and loves? Surely it does not appear from thin air dressed in the way that it is, a neat black cloak covering the lengths it is meant to - perhaps there exists a tailor who creates these cloaks for the price of immortality? 

Perhaps even these beings create their own cloaks. Maybe some reapers reap whilst others sew for those who reap. Maybe even they spawn in that cloak, with one hand carrying a scythe, convenient because they may immediately get to work from the moment of their, if you like, birth. Maybe they inherit their clothing - maybe their time is too up after a certain period of time or after a certain number of reaping and then they pass their clothes onto the next of kin. Maybe the more rustic the cloak, the more ancient and the more experienced it makes the wearer, giving the wearer also a higher reputation earning them more souls to reap than others. 

Grim reapers are too elusive to interview, and that proves problematic because no human can ask it this question. No human thus will ever know where it obtains it's clothing from. And it is worrying because they all conform to one style of clothing which means that there most likely exists a large cohort of grim reapers who each must wear the same things so as to be noticed by another. That also means that the cohort exists, the number within unknown, but may multiply to exceed the number of humans which means that there may be competition between each reaper, which may be the reason behind why humans wage war - maybe they are among us and their cloaks are magical because they transform into that of the president's, or an army lieutenant. 

Either way, it would be of interest to know where their cloaks come from. Maybe they are like Macklemore and they go to the thrift shop to buy our granddads' cloaks. 

The Octopus

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Since I began my expansive and daily essay writing, I have built up a reputation amongst both my peers and my relatives, boasting a large passion for writing. It was tonight, though, that I realised to what extent my passion has reached with some of my relatives - according to them, I am an octopus. 

All evening, whilst tutoring one of my cousins, her brother and my sister were in the kitchen area behind a closed door, exploding with laughter, crying out in hysteria and gasping for air. I did not know why this was so. Ignoring them, as much as I tried, I continued to tutor, thinking they had come across something of substantial hilarity, enough to make them almost blow the roof off with heaving. Then I told my third cousin that what I overheard him saying was absurd, and the laughter, after having subsided, exploded theatrically again. It was at that moment that I realised that the laughter was directed solely at me. 

I decided to investigate. My curiosity knew no bounds at that stage.

"What, you've photoshopped my face onto a banana again?" 

No. 

"You found another video of a gorilla that looks like me on a bike?"

No. 

"What then?"

They promised that the laughter was not directed at me, and that they were laughing at the fact the word for a male's genitalia was written deviously by myself in a not so suspicious place on my sister's assessment task sheet. I did not believe them, and rightfully so, for that certain word appears daily in these people's lives - this is something not new to them, and certainly not this funny. This was something that really made them laugh. 

It was all forgotten, and we embarked on a journey consisting of three hours of shopping, after which we ended up at our grandmother's home, sitting in the lounge room, when the same peculiar eruptive laughter began again, after one of them mentioned the word 'octopus'. They quickly hushed after I inquired about why the word was that funny, and I decided that that was the code word behind their laughter, right after I mistakingly correcting them by offering them the plural for octopus, 'octopi' rather than 'octopuses'. I am that octopus, and for reasons I had not yet known. 

After minutes of snorting and gasping for air, they finally revealed to me the source of their severe hysteria. Apparently they can picture me as an octopus - two hands holding books that I am reading at the same time, another two correcting my students' essays, another two writing my own essays and my final two hands twirling a little girl around by her pigtails, a clever reference to the movie Matilda wherein I represent Miss Trunchbull, and I have been representing this vile character for months now that my wonderful sister had brought it up. My father even is contemplating buying me her outfit as a joke. I do not think that he means it in a joking manner, though. I mean, I admit I am evil to some children, like yesterday when I slammed the bins inside as I emptied them of their full bags in order to instil fear in the children outside in the shop as they hurriedly and loudly gathered around the ice cream freezer. Surely, they finished the task of obtaining a desired ice cream and walked off quietly with googly eyes, but not before making sure all of the freezer doors were closed nice and tight, which they never are due to my kindness to children. I have earned that name, I suppose.

I have also earned 'octopus'. This came to me as mildly offensive, but then I received it as complimentary. I am a multi-tasking problem solving octopus and I have the reputation of being around literature constantly. I have worked hard to create a memorable reputation which does not revolve around my humour alone, and which incorporates my intellectualism and my need to write and express myself through words. Thank you, kind family members.

Googly Eyes

There sits a poster, depicting big and strong,

A serious one at that,

A big old lion, and so it seems

It is an unapproachable cat.

But then I came along,

And planted googly eyes,

Within a flash its toughness was gone,

I hurried off with laughter in my cries!

About a month ago I purchased a packet of one hundred googly eyes from Hong Kong, for a mere dollar, including postage. What inspired me to do so was an appreciation post of googly eyes on Tumblr.

So I decided to try it for myself – I would find all posters, calendar photos or inanimate objects that lacked character, and I would bring them to life with a pair of googly eyes that face downward with such wit. And so, I began with my sister’s much appreciated dog calendar. Now, there sits a Pomeranian atop the month of February, staring down at my sister’s dates with large, googly eyes, judging her handwriting and her pen choice.

Though these extremely cheap googly eyes are not self-adhesive, I have worked my way around it – I simply use a glue stick. My next target was the tissue box, a dull blue ocean sits on all corners, hidden behind a large white seashell in focus. To put it out of focus, I simply pasted a pair of googly eyes. Now, the ocean in the background has regained its attention, and can look far and beyond the seashell that once blocked its way, thanks to the help of its new googly eyes that stare deep into your soul.

That was not all, though. I felt my work had not succeeded because despite my best efforts, my sister had sat on her side of her desk completely oblivious to the fact that she had four fake eyes staring her down. She simply shut her laptop down, and walked off, continuing her daily habits. I searched her desk, far and wide and found an inanimate object perfect to animate – the sticky tape dispenser. Now, right underneath the sharp blades, sit a pair of waiting, wanting googly eyes, hoping for somebody to touch and use it.

Yet still my sister did not notice. I had to point out each pair of googly eyes, so that she could appreciate my work. Instead, she had a minor panic attack about the fact that her beloved Pomeranian carrying a delightful rose in its mouth now has a pair of crazy eyes, making it look the epitome of a serial killer.

It appears my job here is done. Unless, of course, I decide to carry around a glue stick in public and stick these tiny googly eyes on posters that I see. I am now considering this.

Frantic Flying Beings

Whilst I sat there in the serenity of three o'clock in the morning in my study, I opened a new word document only to find that I had an unwelcome visitor. A large, frantic moth flew in at a rapid speed and began to bang its body furiously around the four walls that I had, prior to this drastic event, deemed my very sanctity.

This frantic being had invaded my very peace, and demanded I give it my undying attention by making vibrating noises with its wings so loud that it even woke my poor parrot. At that moment in time, one thing immediately found itself alerting my mind to take action - bug spray. I decided that with great haste, I would leave the study, shut the door and find the bug spray. And as if to challenge me, the moth had landed itself in a confronting manner on my bookshelf. It stared at me upside down, in an intimidating manner. I simply turned away, sealed the door shut, and made my way to the kitchen.

Alas, there was the bug spray - a shiny, glimmery golden aerosol can containing the very poison that would ensure this creature's very death and my very relief. I took it in my grasp - 'one hit kill', 'no odor' and 'kills' and 'moths' were amongst the other very promising things on the can. I held it in the right manner, in preparation of this human verses insect duel - my index finger on the comfortably molded plastic head on top and the rest of my hand's members gripped with adequate strength around the canister. I then headed back to the study, and opened the door slowly, keeping my sight on the last place I sighted the moth, and there it remained and patiently waited.

I creeped slowly in its direction, my hand holding the bug spray outstretched, pointing right at it. It did not move. It did not flinch. It sat there, seemingly awaiting its early demise. I pressed my index finger down on the cap, firmly, taking a step closer in the moth's direction each second that the poison was being sprayed. Unfortunately, the sound that the bug spray made when I pressed the cap down was faster than the speed of the poisonous mist, and the poisonous mist was no match for the moth and its reflex skills - or so it seemed. Slowly but surely, the moth was dying - or so it seemed. It was, rather, suffocating in the way an asthma victim would if they were on a fast merry-go-round. Now, rather than frantically hitting into the walls, the moth began to break dance - or so it seemed. It flapped itself all around the floor, unexpectedly taking a liking to remaining beneath my sister's computer chair, who is afraid of moths, and who, luckily, was sound asleep in her room.

I knew that that one spray was not yet enough to phone the grave digger of the insect world and inform them to dig another grave. So I aimed at the mouth everywhere it slowed its newfound dancing skills, and sprayed it some more. It really seemed to be challenging me. Six long sprays later, and three dance-offs, the moth lay perfectly dead on its back - or so it seemed. I spray it one last time to make sure it did not move, and it was dead - or so it seemed. I made my way outside to soothe my parrot back to sleep, and heard a vibrating sound coming from inside.

Could it be? I turned around, entered the study again, and looked in the corner where the supposed dead moth lay. It was on its feet again, flapping its wings whilst on the floor, facing the wood panel of my desk and head-butting it while it flapped, scraping itself along the wood, left to right. I stood there dazed, probably because of the so-called 'odorless' smell. I did not know what else I could do. Well, I did, but I did not want to do it.

My plan this time was to stop spraying bug spray - obviously, this moth is a strong contender. Instead, I planned to trap the moth beneath the steel bin I have under my desk. But I did not. I thought about underestimating the length in the area beneath the bin and thought about the disgusting feeling that would pulsate to my fingertips if the moth was crushed. I would not be able to handle the crunchy feeling. I decided instead to stand there and stare at it for a while longer. I then left the room, shut the door, and headed to my bedroom.

I have chosen to let the mouth take its fate into its own little hairy hands and antennae. I hope that when I wake up tomorrow, my sister does not slaughter me with deafening cries because of the fact that I let it die - or live - underneath her computer chair.

Baby on Board

“Oh my God, Shut up! Shut up! Enough!”

“Sir, I really don’t think that that is appropriate to say to my chil-“
“I’ve had enough! Oh my god, all the way!”

“Stop telling my child to shut up!”

“Stop telling me to shut up, and tell your child to shut up! You bloody stupid!”

Today, this was not a conversation I was merely eavesdropping on. It was not a conversation from a stranger. It was initiated by my father, who was infuriated with the constant loud crying of the chubby infant behind him on the flight back to Melbourne.

I had only thirty minutes of sleep, and the entire time that I was kept awake by the discomfort of the hotel bed and my mother’s snoring, I heard my father pacing the kitchen and living room, unable to sleep as well. The sleep that I acquired is barely what my father acquired too, so it is safe to say that we were quite on edge. The flight from Melbourne to Queensland bared the same crying infant, though he was perched beside someone in the start of the plane, and my father, seated with us at the back, said, “I feel sorry for whoever is sitting next to him.” The irony that the infant sat right behind my father was too much to cope in the duration of the flight.

Two whole hours – my mother had modeled a ship out of the vomit bag provided to her for the flight, to give to the infant in order to calm him down, however I told her that I would rather not see her breakfast than see it sprawled all over the innocent passenger sitting in front of her. She unfolded it, and returned it to her spot. The infant kept crying. Its mother did nothing in those entire two hours to soothe him, nor did the father. There were around five other infants on board, and their parents kept them quiet and entertained with ‘whooshing’ and other noises that planes make, and gestures. Unluckily for this baby, though, its parents begged to differ, and my father’s patience was running thinner.

And so, the burst of conversation above happened. Every passenger turned in our direction and tried to contain their laughter. My sister, mother and I certainly could not. My father was seated next to two good-looking young men, too, who he most likely had deafened in the miniature dispute. The flight attendants dared not comment, they simply hurried past, doing their jobs of checking the chairs and passenger bagging faster, to avoid an imaginary explosion of my father’s insides from pure anger.

The funniest thing about this entire ordeal was not the flight attendant’s reaction, nor mine nor my mother nor my sister’s nor anyone else on the plane, but the fact that the infant, after being screamed at to “shut up” actually had. In fact, after my dad had shook the plane with his voice more than turbulence, the infant had sat there with its eyes widened and mouth sealed shut. A Japanese man wearing white headphones seated across from me could not stop giggling to himself. Surely, my father had done what everyone else on the plane wished they had. It was an 8am flight, and nobody had time for a constantly wailing infant in the midst of turbulence.

The infant’s father, I predicted, was soon to fight with my father after the plane had landed. When it did, however, and my father stood from his seat, he overshadowed the infant’s father by height and by weight and by anger, so the infant’s father slumped back down in his chair slowly and acted as though the incident never occurred in the first place. In fact, I could have sworn he would have given his infant as a sacrificial meal to my infuriated father, had he been any bigger than he is.

That moment in time was certainly entertaining for me and all the plane passengers, except for that infant. Why is it that infants are allowed on flights? I only dared for less than a few seconds to imagine this situation on a flight that went for over twelve hours – in that event, I presume that my father would have catapulted the infant, its mother and father out of the entire plane with one breath.

Gangsters and Toenails

Gangsters have an evil reputation that they must withhold wether they are free or imprisoned. With that said I cannot imagine one cutting through the inevitable growth of his toenails.

Gangsters are seen by the status quo as destructors of things and people, as movers of illicit substances and stolen money. How will the status quo perceive them, though, if they are sitting down with one leg crossed over the other as they are calmly trimming their toenails? One can imagine this scene taking place. Read the following with a Boston Italian Mafia accent:

Vince calls Tony from downstairs:

            “Hey, Tony, hurry up! The boss is waiting!”

Tony is sitting on the edge of his bed wearing his white singlet and white boxer shorts and black socks, one leg folded up and the nail clipper in his hand:

            “The boss can wait, Vince, look how long my toenails are!”

Vince comes up the stairs and opens Tony’s bedroom door rapidly:
            “Would you rather have long nails or no toes?”

Tony looks up from his toenails, then clips his big toenail and it flies and lands in front of Vince:
            “I feel them scrape on my shoes. Come on. Stop distracting me Vince, I’m almost done.”

Vince stares down at it in disgust, then looks back at Tony in disbelief that he is still cutting his toenails:
            “The whole of Boston will hear when the boss is done with your toes Tony. Remember what happened to Peter.”
Tony almost cuts his toe rather than the nail at the thought of Peter, their ex-friend who was a snitch having his toes clipped off with a bolt cutter:
            “Don’t bring that crap up Vince, argh I almost just cut the meat! Just wait a bit.”
Vince turns to head back down the stairs, shaking his head:
            “The boss ain’t going to be too happy about this.”

It is vaguely possible to have that scene run in your mind. When it runs in my mind, however, Tony is in a pink coloured bathrobe. In this situation I can imagine an Italian Mafia Broadway production, with singing and dancing and suits and guns, however I simply cannot fathom a real-life situation whereby a gangster actually sits down and trims their toenails. I simply cannot bring myself to picture a tough man performing a feminine-like act of self-pampering.

With all the running gangsters have to do, it is impossible to do it with toenails that poke into the front of their shoes. If they stumble upon and kick a sizeable rock and break off a toenail, it will stall them in their tracks while they are attempting to escape. A bank robbery can go horribly wrong if a broken toenail stands between a gangster and his escape route.

I think the same way when I think about African-American gangsters:

        “Tyrone, get your ass up from that bed, we gots to go!”
   “Yo, hold up, Trey, I broke a nail!”
        “Oh hell no, n*gga, you ain’t just say that! What kind of f*ggy shit is that!”
   “Nah man it hurts! Can’t run with this man, hold up yo!”

What a strange situation to be caught up in. Breaking and entering in an unfamiliar neighbourhood in an empty house and a savage pit-bull has broken free from its chains in the backyard and is on its way to attack Tyrone and Trey. What can Tyrone do, though? He needs to trim that awful toenail because he forgot to after he showered last night. He did not know that he would be in this house at this time, caught in this situation. Yet my mind still deems this situation impossible, and my brain notifies my mind that Tyrone and Trey are humans thus they have toenails that need to be trimmed almost every four weeks.

These hypothetical situations seem quite unrealistic, however think about it – gangsters need to trim their toenails too. Whenever you are exposed to a mugshot of Al Capone or some other gangster, imagine them attempting to trim their toenails while business calls. What a disaster.