Letter From Milo: A Soldier’s Comfort (Strong Drink and a Piece of Ass)

Memorial Day is a wonderful day for politicians. There are graves of fallen American soldiers scattered all over this country and the photo opportunities for Senators, Congressman and Governors are endless. No career political hack can resist the opportunity to wrap himself in the flag and be photographed at a soldier’s grave site on Memorial Day.

For other folks, the best thing about this holiday is that they don’t have to work on Monday. It’s an extra day away from the office or factory, another day free of the indignities that come with working for a living.

Memorial Day has an entirely different meaning for veterans, especially combat veterans. Military personnel who have been awarded the CIB (Combat Infantryman Badge), which is given to soldiers who have personally fought in ground combat operations, often have mixed feelings about a holiday that was created to honor the dead.

Chances are, if a person has a CIB, they’ve seen and done some terrible things. They have spent time in the Inferno. They have experienced true horror. And the absolute worst of those horrors was seeing friends die. The ghosts of Alpha Company still haunt my dreams.

Some combat veterans, including me, are uneasy with the overly sentimental veneration of America’s fallen soldiers. It’s too little, too late, and the sentiments are usually off the mark.

It makes me uncomfortable when I hear politicians exalt dead soldiers, or read editorials comparing them to saints, calling them God’s warriors, elevating them to the status of angels with assault rifles. The image of the American foot soldier as a noble warrior, different than all the cruel, heartless bastards that came before him, is a false one.

Normandy Cemetery

The truth is, the American foot soldier is a bad motherfucker, a highly-trained, superbly armed, brutal and efficient killing machine.

A lot of the soldiers in my outfit were tough kids, urban and rural poor boys, before they went into the service. A few months in the jungles and paddies made them even tougher. Spending three weeks at a time on Search and Destroy missions, sleeping in muddy foxholes at night, waiting for the next bit of Hell to arrive, and wondering if your next breath will be your last, has a way of bringing out the beast in a man.

After three weeks in the bush we’d be sent to a relatively safe firebase to relax and unwind. Those seven days were spent trying to forget the terrors of the previous three weeks. We drank heavily, smoked copious amounts of weed, and visited the whores who set up storefronts near every American firebase.

The liquor and drugs helped us escape the grim reality of our lives. The intoxicants made it possible, for a short time, to forget some of the things we had seen and done.

The young whores made us feel human again. The act of love, the skin-to-skin contact, the primal connection between a man and woman, helped soften the rough edges of our memories.

True, these were coarse comforts, frowned upon by church, state and the general public, but they were all we had. A few drinks and a piece of ass made an intolerable existence somewhat bearable.

No, we weren’t knights in shining armor. I doubt we would have been welcomed in polite society. We were just common foot soldiers, flawed in so many ways. But we were young and valiant, and did the best we could.

Here are a few lines from a Rudyard Kipling poem called “Tommy,” about British soldiers. I believe it captures the ambivalence that some civilians have for the military, why dead soldiers are honored, and living ones not so much.

“An’ if sometimes our conduck ain’t all your fancy paints,

Why, single men in barracks don’t grow into plastic saints,

For it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ ‘Chuck him out, the brute,’

But it’s ‘Savior of our country” when the guns begin to shoot.”

As I mentioned, I’m not a fan of Memorial Day. It brings back too many bitter memories. But I can understand how the holiday can be a comfort to people, especially those that have lost friends and loved ones in wars.

So, go ahead and celebrate Memorial Day any way you like, and I’ll celebrate it in the old military tradition.

Letter From Milo: Dickie Kaiser

Dickie Kaiser was a wild Indiana boy. His father owned a rough and tumble, workingman’s tavern on 5th Avenue in Gary, near the main entrance to the U.S. Steel plant. Dickie grew up among rowdy, hard-drinking, and often violent steelworkers. Juke box music was the soundtrack of his young life.

Dickie and I were high school classmates and friends. As teenagers, we enjoyed some of the same low-life pleasures – hanging out in pool rooms, drinking cheap beer, trying to get lucky with the local girls, and smoking reefer when the Serrano brothers had some available.

We were classic bad influences, the kind of guys that parents warned their children to stay away from. As a result of these well-intentioned parental advisories, Dickie and I never lacked for company.

Dickie was always up for a good time. Everybody liked him. He was a lot of fun, but sometimes, when he was drinking, he would get mean. He’d start arguments with people for no reason and sometimes those disagreements turned into brawls.

Dickie was scrawny, about 140 pounds, and not very tough. But he had a big mouth and it regularly got him into trouble. Fortunately for him, some of the boys in our crowd were genuine tough guys. They saved Dickie from taking a lot of beatings. They liked and protected him. Dickie may have started the fights, but the big boys finished them.

After graduating high school, Dickie enrolled in a college. He lasted about two months. Shortly after dropping out, he got drafted into the United States Army and sent to Vietnam, where, I believe, he served as a mechanic or a truck driver.

A year in a war zone didn’t do much to improve Dickie’s temperament. If anything, his time in Vietnam made him even feistier, and he was drinking more than ever.

He tried college again, on the G.I. Bill, enrolling in Indiana State University, where I happened to be studying. Again, he only lasted a couple of months. Despite a few unpleasant incidents, it was fun having my old friend around.

I was in a fog most of my college years and don’t remember much of Dickie’s short stay, but I do recall that he once asked me to call him Rick, instead of Dickie. Apparently, the name Dickie wasn’t dignified enough.

I said, “Sure, Dickie, whatever you want.”

He went to work in his father’s tavern for a while, but argumentative bartenders are bad for business and the old man fired him. Dickie wasted a few years knocking around the country, spending time in Florida, the West Coast, and then back in Indiana. The last I heard, he had relocated to one of the southwestern states.

In the mid-1970s, I had settled in Chicago, sharing a coach house on Burling, just south of Armitage, with my dear friends Bruce Diksas and Wayne Gray. One afternoon, about two o’clock, I was awakened by a phone call from my sister.

“I’ve got some bad news. It’s about Dickie Kaiser.”

“Ah, shit. What did that crazy fucker do now?”

“He’s in a hospital in Phoenix. He got beat up in a bar. I heard his skull was fractured in several places. If he lives he’ll have serious brain damage.”

I made a few phone calls, trying to find out what had happened. The story, as I heard it, was that Dickie had gotten into an argument over a game of pool in a seedy bar in Phoenix. The argument quickly escalated into a fight and Dickie was nearly beaten to death with a pool cue. He had 11 fractures in his skull, which meant that some brutal bastard smashed Dickie’s head 11 times with the cue stick.

Dickie survived, but he would be hospitalized for the rest of his life. Fortunately, he was a veteran, so his medical costs were covered. When he was well enough to travel, his family had him transported to Hines V.A. Hospital, just outside of Chicago, where he would be closer to his loved ones.

When I heard that Dickie was at Hines V.A., I decided to visit him. I had told Bruce Diksas about Dickie’s misfortune and Bruce said he wanted to come along. Bruce and I were both Vietnam vets, living somewhat ragged and uncertain lives, and figured that while we were visiting Dickie we’d check out the hospital’s emergency room facilities, just in case.

I was shocked when I saw Dickie. He was slack-jawed, drooling, and pacing the hallway like a zombie. His head was misshapen, as if his skull had been squeezed in a vise. His hospital gown was stained and he smelled of piss. It was one of the saddest sights I had ever seen.

I was even more surprised when Dickie recognized me. As soon as he saw me he became animated, rushed up to me and grabbed my hand. “Tell my brother to come and get me real quick,” he said. “I got hurt in Vietnam. Tell my brother to come and get me real quick.”

“Sure, Dickie, no problem. I’ll tell him.”

When I introduced Bruce, Dickie recoiled, fearfully, at Bruce’s offer of a handshake. Then he turned to me again. “Tell my brother to come and get me real quick. I got hurt in Vietnam. Tell my brother to come and get me real quick.”

Bruce and I left the hospital pretty quickly. We didn’t have much to say on the drive back to Chicago. Finally, when we got close to the City, Bruce said, “Man, Dickie is in real bad shape. What was he like before this shit happened?”

I shrugged. “He was always a bit of a fuckup, but he was my friend. We grew up together. He and his brother, Danny, once put up 35 bucks to bail me out of jail on a disorderly conduct charge. He didn’t deserve to end up like this.”

“Nobody does.”

Letter From Milo: Ethnic Sausage

I received some bad news a few weeks ago. My dear friend, Mr. Choi, owner of a popular home-style Korean restaurant on the North Side, passed away after a short illness.

Mr. Choi’s untimely passing is a bitter loss for me and an even greater loss for the Chicago business community. Not only was Mr. Choi considered an expert in what is known as “authentic” Korean cuisine, he was also very successful in his many other business ventures, which included dog kennels, a dog walking company, a pet grooming facility and a cat-sitting service.

But there is an even more personal reason that I deeply regret Mr. Choi’s demise. At the time of his leave-taking we were close to finalizing a deal that would have solved a problem that has made me miserable these past few years.

Mr. Choi was going to help me get rid of Otis, the mangy, treacherous and murderous tomcat that weaseled his way into my home eight years ago. The rotten feline followed my youngest daughter home one day and refused to leave. I tried everything to chase him off. I even tried to shoot him, but the bastard was obviously familiar with firearms because every time he saw me with a pistol he would quickly duck out of range.

If it wasn’t for my wife and daughters I would have gotten rid of Otis a long time ago. For some unfathomable reason, they adore the cat. They informed me, in no uncertain terms, that if I harmed the cat, in any way, they would make my life a living hell. The lovely Mrs. Milo, in particular, threatened to withhold certain wifely services, which I have grown rather fond of over the years, if anything happened to the cat. I had no reason to disbelieve her.

I even talked to The Third City’s esteemed attorneys, Dr. Matt and El Dragon, about the situation. I told them I was considering giving my family an ultimatum – either the cat goes or I go. They advised me against making such a rash statement. They said, “Never ask a question unless you’re absolutely sure you know the answer.”

Despite the dire threats issued by my family, I was determined to get rid of the cat. But I had to be smart about it. The ideal solution would be to make the cat disappear without a trace, not even leaving a hairball behind. That way, I could claim that Otis had just run away. My family would still suspect me, but they would have no proof that I had anything to do with the cat’s disappearance. And, of course, I would refuse to take a lie detector test.

Shortly before Mr. Choi departed for Graceland, he told me that he had come up with the perfect plan to get rid of Otis, and there would not be a shred of evidence left behind to incriminate me. Unfortunately, Mr. Choi died before he was able to pass on this valuable information.

Last week, I was moping around the house, drinking more than usual, feeling sorry for myself, and lamenting yet another lost opportunity, when someone knocked on the front door.

It was Mr. Choi’s son, Mr. Choi-il, who had inherited his father’s business empire. He was carrying a manila envelope, which he handed to me when I answered the door.

“For you, from my father.”

“What is it?”

“Very old family recipe.”

The envelope contained a single sheet of paper, covered with neat handwritten lettering. At the top of the page, in capital letters, were the words, “GRANDPA KIM’S CAT SAUSAGE.”

It was a complicated recipe with lots of ingredients, spices and condiments, that were unfamiliar to me, and certainly couldn’t be found at the local generic supermarket. But I memorized every word. And when I had the recipe down pat, I burned the sheet of paper.

Later that evening, as the lovely Mrs. Milo and I were enjoying an inexpensive but tasty pinot noir, I asked, “Sweetie, are there any good Asian groceries in the neighborhood?”

“Sure, there are a couple of them within walking distance, on Lawrence Avenue. Why do you ask?”

“Just curious.”

A while later, I said, “I was thinking about buying a meat grinder.”

“What on earth for?”

“You know, I’ve always enjoyed a good hamburger. I was thinking they’d taste even better if I could grind up better quality cuts of meat. Plus, I have a feeling that there’s something deeply satisfying about grinding your own meat.”

“Milo, are you okay?”

“Sure, sweetie, I feel fine. In fact, I haven’t felt this good in a long…”

EDITOR’S NOTE:

Due to the overwhelming flood of phone calls, letters, emails, telexes, faxes — all complaining about today’s blog post — and one cease-and-desist order from the SPCA, we have had to suspend Milo, at half pay, for the next several weeks. For the record, The Third City does not condone, endorse, or promote the slaughtering and eating of family pets in any way, shape or form. On the advice of our attorneys, we can say no more.

Letter From Milo: That’s My Road Game, Jack

Benny Jay, my esteemed colleague here at The Third City, has a tough day job. He is a journalist, and his beat is City Hall. In the course of his work day, Benny routinely deals with some of the sleaziest, most conniving and treacherous bastards on the planet — Chicago politicians.

Anyone that knows Benny or has seen his work will agree that he is a fearless reporter, steely-eyed, dedicated, daring and relentless. He will go to any lengths to get a story. If there is breaking news in Hell, Benny will grab his laptop, clamp a knife between his teeth, and parachute into the Inferno, just to bring us the sordid details.

Yes, Benny is as tough as they come, hardened by journalism’s school of hard knocks. He’s seen it all and lived to tell about it. Still, a lifetime spent in the company of swinish aldermen, greasy ward healers, and pinky-ringed fixers can take a terrible toll on a man.

Surviving the rigors of political journalism in Chicago is not easy. After a long day of swimming in the cesspool of City Hall politics, a reporter needs to unwind. Benny Jay is no exception.

So, what does Benny do to relax after a long day at the office? Does he drink himself senseless, like any normal guy would do? Does he spend quality time with a skilled and motivated mistress? Or does he take my good advice and spend a few pleasant hours at Mr. Choi’s Opium Den on Argyle Street?

No, he doesn’t do any of those things. What the fucker likes to do is go bowling.

Benny Jay in his younger years….

That’s right, the great Benny Jay is a kegler. He’s got his own bowling ball and bowling shoes. And he’s been involved in a bowling league for years. Every Monday evening he goes to Timber Lanes on Irving Park Road and joins his buddies, Cap, Norm, the Young One, J Dub and others for a night of riotous, unrestrained bowling revelry.

Now, I’ve got nothing against bowling. I think it’s an excellent pastime for fat, beer-guzzling, bratwurst lovers from Milwaukee. But for someone of Benny Jay’s stature and experience, someone who has stared greed, hypocrisy and corruption in the face more times than he can remember, bowling seems like a rather tame undertaking. A guy like Benny should be climbing mountains, wrestling alligators, or playing high stakes baccarat in Monaco, not fretting over a 7-10 split.

My dismissive attitude about bowling resulted in an awkward moment a few days ago. Benny and I had just finalized a brilliant new scheme for screwing The Third City’s readers out of a great deal of money when he asked if I had any plans for the weekend.

The Third City’s editorial staff has a meeting….

“Yeah, I’m going to Steve Ivcich’s birthday party.”

“Where’s it at?”

“Some kind of club.”

“What kind of club?”

“It’s, ah, a bowling alley.”

“Are you shitting me! You’re going to a bowling alley. Are you going to bowl? Do you even know how to bowl?”

Normally, when someone asks me if I know anything about a subject, my instinct is to claim to be an expert. That’s because I’m a bit of a windbag, by nature, and have a hard time admitting ignorance of any topic under discussion. If I ran into NASA scientist and was asked if I knew anything about astrophysics, I probably say something like:

“Astrophysics is my road game, Jack. I paid my way through the seminary with the money I made on astrophysics. The only reason I’m not in the astrophysics business now is that I’d have to take a cut in pay.”

So, when Benny asked me if I knew how to bowl, I said, “I can’t believe you’re asking me that question. Bowling is my road game, Jack. I paid my way through barber college with the money I made from bowling. If I hadn’t gotten into the blogging business, I’d be on the PBA tour right now.”

Benny called me a couple of days later on the pretense of talking about the blogging business, but he really wanted to know about the party at the bowling alley.

“How was it?” he asked.

“It was fun. I had a good time.”

“Did you bowl?”

“Yeah.”

“How’d you do?”

“Pretty good. I bowled about 212.”

“Jesus, that’s pretty damn good. In fact, that’s real impressive for someone that doesn’t bowl.”

“Unfortunately, it took me three games to rack up that impressive score.”

“Are you saying it took you three games to knock down 212 pins?”

“Yes.”

Benny started laughing. “Maybe you better give up bowling and take up ping pong.”

“Ping pong! Did you say I should start playing ping pong? For your information, I’m a killer ping pong player. I’ve made shitloads of money playing ping pong. That’s my road game, Jack.”

Letter From Milo: Everybody Wants in on the Act

It’s been a rough week. I’ve suffered personal and professional setbacks that would have ruined a man of lesser character.

For one thing, I got some absolutely rotten news from our veterinarian. When I took Otis, the family cat, in for a checkup, the vet told me that the cat was in excellent health and could easily live another 10 or 12 years.

My long-time reefer dealer, Nickel Bag Bernie, unwisely sold some weed to an undercover cop and, consequently, will be out of business for the next three-to-five years. I found a new connection, but I’m not very happy with him. The bastard doesn’t make house calls, refuses to take checks, and doesn’t keep any snack food items in his apartment.

And, the other day, as I was rummaging through my wife’s lingerie drawer, I came across a couple of items that puzzled me. Tucked away with the lovely Mrs. Milo’s dainties were a couple of books with disturbing titles. One was a recently updated version of “Women Are From Venus, Men Are Rat Bastards,” featuring a new forward by Lorena Bobbitt, and the other was a manual called “How To Make It Look Like An Accident.”

I only mention these things because I want to explain why I wasn’t able to come up with a new blog this week. So, I’ll fall back on the old columnist’s trick of posting letters from readers, adding snappy replies and calling it a column.

Fortunately, The Third City’s readers are an elite group, worldly, sophisticated and accomplished. In fact, more than 40% of our readers are MENSA members. The other 60% are not that bright. Here, then, are a few letters from our distinguished readers, followed by my snappy replies.

Letter #1:

Motherfucker, where’s my money!

Reply:

Your money should arrive any time now. I gave it to my friend Janosz Pezghrab to deliver to you, but he had to run an errand at the shopping center first. The Czech is in the mall.

Letter #2:

Hey, Milo, thanks for sending me all those great porn links. I haven’t left the house since you sent them. You’ve got an excellent taste in sleaze. If you know of any more interesting porn sites, please let me know about them.

Reply:

Glad I could be of help. As you probably know, I spend most of my time in my basement, dressed in my favorite ratty bathrobe, drinking extremely strong Irish coffee and surfing the internet for porn. Here are a few more sites you might enjoy.

cafeterialadiesgonewild.com
cleanshavengrannies.com
conventcapers.com
spankmyguidancecounselor.com
benjoravsky–thehungryyears.com
russiangalswithmoustaches.com
trythisonforsize.com
mormonfamilyfun.com

Letter #3:

Hey Milo, I am being your cousin Vlade from the Old Country. As you are very well knowing, I have been trying to emigrate to your wonderful USA for many years. But I am having various troubles getting a green card at this time. Would you please speak to some of your many friends in high government places and ask them to help me. I will pay any reasonable bribe to get a piece of the American Dream.

Reply:

Cousin Vlade, I hate to tell you this, but your timing is terrible. Your family should have come here after World War II, like mine did, when things were better. The American Dream has been outsourced. There are no jobs here, the health care system defies common sense or decency, right-wing moneyed interests are trying to kill off essential social programs, and womens’ rights are being taken away. On top of that, these ignorant right-wing cocksuckers are blaming immigrants for many of the country’s problems. If I were you I’d avoid this place. You’d be better off trying your luck in China or India.

Letter #4:

Milo, you’ve got to help me, man. My wife made an appointment with a marriage counselor. She says our marriage is in trouble and counseling is the only way to save the relationship. I hate the idea of going to a marriage counselor, but what choice do I have? I’ve grown rather fond of the old lady over the years. Losing her would be an inconvenience. Any advice?

Reply:

Dude, I feel your pain. The lovely Mrs. Milo regularly drags my ass off to see marriage counselors. I’ve discovered, the hard way, that marriage counseling is a brutal, take-no-prisoners assault on your manhood. It’s designed to break you down and reshape you into the wimpy, neutered wuss that your wife has always wanted for a husband. But I’ve picked up a few tricks over the years that have helped me survive some savage counseling sessions. If you follow these few simple rules, you might, just might, come out of counseling with your manhood and dignity intact.

1. Agree with everything your wife tells the marriage counselor. If she says that she caught you cooking and eating one of the neighbors, just say, “I can see how that would upset you, dear, and I’ll try to do better in the future.”

2. Never admit to keeping a mistress, gambling debts, drug habits, or that minor indiscretion with Sarah the Slut at last year’s New Year’s Eve party.

3. In the extremely rare case that you actually like your marriage counselor, immediately begin complaining about her. The more you complain, the more your wife will think the counselor is doing a fine job.

4. Try to moderate your bad habits for a couple weeks at the onset of counseling. Bring your wife flowers and chocolate. If you can stand it, try to watch Oprah and the Lifetime Channel together, at least twice a week.

5. Avoid lesbian marriage counselors at all costs. They are notoriously hard-headed and won’t succumb to your manly charm. Plus, if things get tense and it comes down to a fist fight with a lesbian counselor, there’s no guarantee you’ll win.

Letter #5:

Hey, Milo, I wish I could write for The Third City. The money and the chicks must be awesome. How did you get the job anyway?

Reply:

The Illinois State Work-Release Program.

Letter From Milo: A Shameful Episode in the Life of a Pussy Magnet

The high school I attended was blessed with an abundance of beautiful girls. Everywhere you looked there were long-legged teenage beauties, with angelic faces, fine asses and perky young tits. It was a paradise for an aspiring pussy magnet. I spent most of my high school years walking around with a pronounced limp.

The best looking girls in the school were the Anderson sisters. They were every young man’s fantasy, beautiful, poised and shapely. I’m sure they were responsible for a majority of soiled sheets in my school district. My laundry bills were certainly excessive.

Ordinarily I wouldn’t have hesitated to approach one of the Anderson sisters, maybe invite her to see a movie or go to a school dance, then, afterward, hope to get extremely lucky and get my hands on her pillowy parts and secret places. But, to my eternal regret, I never did ask one of them for a date. In essence, I chickened out.

You see, there was a problem with the Anderson sisters. They were African-American and I was not. And in Gary, Indiana, the racial divide was a wide one.

I grew up in a mean, backward, brutish and segregated town. My high school wasn’t integrated until I was a freshman, and it did not go smoothly.

There were fist fights nearly every day, tough blue collar black kids and tough blue collar white kids beating the shit out of each other to prove, well, who knows what they were trying to prove? There were police cars parked by the school every day to keep the violence from getting out of hand. Not that it mattered. When young men want to fight, they generally find a way.

In time, however, things settled down. After school brawls became rare as the black kids and white kids began to accept each other. Tentative friendships were formed that often turned into genuine friendships. Black and white jocks began hanging out together. Black and white misfits began drinking cheap beer and smoking Lucky Strikes together. And black and white nerds got together to work on their slide rule chops.

But the one gap that was never bridged was interracial dating. At the time, it was too much to ask. I don’t recall ever seeing a black and white couple walking the halls of my school and holding hands. I don’t remember ever seeing a teenaged black and white couple out on a date. It just wasn’t done.

Now, you’d think that a legendary pussy magnet like me would be the one to break the interracial dating taboo, especially with a prize like the Anderson sisters at stake.

But no, the great Milo, in his teenage years, didn’t have the balls to do the right thing — the right thing being overcoming peer pressure and taking my best shot at the best looking girls in town. I was a disgrace to the pussy magnets of the world.

Would Errol Flynn have hesitated? Would the immortal Porfirio Rubirosa have given it a second thought? Would a beautiful woman’s skin color have mattered to Richard Burton? Would peer pressure have swayed any of these great men? No! Absolutely not!

Sadly, young Milo couldn’t come up with the goods when the occasion called for greatness. It was abject cowardice on my part, a blot on my otherwise sterling reputation.

Times have changed. We have all moved on, even the Anderson sisters. One of them, with a slight name change, became a well known entertainer. I don’t know what happened to the other sister, but I assume she did well in life, too.

As for me, I became a famous and wealthy blogger here at The Third City. I spend my days lost in thought and my nights lost in a fog. I don’t have many regrets, but there is one shameful espisode in my life that still haunts me, one moment of weakness that still ruins my sleep. To this day, I mourn an opportunity that is lost and gone forever.

Why, in heaven’s name, did I ever let the Anderson sisters slip through my hands?

Letter From Milo: Random Acts of Spite

There are people in this world that better hope I never get diagnosed with a terminal disease. If a doctor ever tells me I’ve got just a few months to live, there are a lot of rotten bastards I’m taking with me.

I’ve got a shit list, and it’s a long one. It goes all the way back to grade school.

I’ve been told there’s a phrase in the Bible that says vengeance belongs to the Lord. Well, I’m not much of a religious guy, so where does that leave me? Besides, I’ve got a lot of grievances. I can’t be certain that the Good Lord will take my side in each case.

No, if there’s any revenging to be done, I’ll have to do it myself.

A while ago, having discovered several new aches and pains, and realizing I wouldn’t live forever, I decided it was time to start settling scores. I was sitting at the kitchen table, making an enemies list, when the lovely Mrs. Milo came by and asked what I was doing.

“I’m making a list.”

“What kind of list?”

“I’m writing down the names of all the low-life sons of bitches I’m going to shoot, stab, strangle and run over with my car in the next few weeks. I’m also planning on chopping up a couple of these cocksuckers with a machete.”

“Milo, have you been drinking?”

“I may have had a smidgen of red wine with lunch.”

“Let me see that list,” she said, and grabbed it off the table. “Are you crazy? What have any of these people ever done to you? And why in the world is your brother-in-law, Bill, on this list?”

“My sister heard about my plans and asked me, as a personal favor, to run over her husband with a car. I said okay.”

The lovely Mrs. Milo looks a lot like this….

With the possible exception of cats, human beings seem to be the only creatures to commit, and take pleasure from acts of vengeance. There’s something deeply satisfying about hearing that something terrible has happened to someone you despise, someone who’s treated you shabbily, abused you, and made your life miserable.

Just imagine how great it would be to find out that someone you truly hated — someone who embezzled your retirement funds, killed your dog or ran off with your wife — had come to a bad end.

Then imagine how much better it would be if you had personally caused this despicable person’s destruction.

Vengeance, after all, requires a personal touch. Random accidents don’t count as proper vengeance. It’s not enough that a person slips on a banana peel and breaks his neck, gets torn apart by a pack of pit bulls, or gets crushed by a falling piano. You have to be the person that leaves the banana peel on the sidewalk, lets the dogs loose, or drops the piano.

And Milo sorta looks like this….

And, finally, the object of your vengeance has to know that you are responsible for his or her predicament. Ideally, in the moments before the ambulance arrives, there’ll be enough time for you to walk up to the bleeding, mangled victim and gleefully take credit for their misfortune.

“Hey, Mrs. Shimkus, you remember me?”

“Aarrgh”

“Maybe next time you’ll think twice about giving someone an F in algebra and making him go to summer school.”

I was sitting at my computer, surfing legal aid sites, when I got a phone call from Benny Jay, my esteemed colleague at The Third City. He seemed agitated.

“Milo, your wife just called me. She thinks you’ve lost your mind. She says you’re planning to commit some sort of wholesale slaughter.”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“I’m sure you’ve got your reasons. But I have to tell you that, in my opinion, this might reflect poorly on The Third City.”

When I explained my reasoning to Benny, he grew uncharacteristically quiet. After an awkward silence, he said, “Well, I can see your mind is made up, but while you’re at it can you do me a huge favor?”

“Sure.”

“Put Hue Hollins on your list.”

“The NBA referee?”

“Yeah, I haven’t had a good night’s sleep since the bastard called that ridiculous foul on Scotty Pippen in game 5 of the 1994 playoffs.”

A couple of hours later, I got a call from my dear friend, Bruce Diksas. I believe he had been drinking. “Hey, Milo. You remember Carlos Rivera, the rotten fucker who hit a king on the river to beat my flush?”

“Consider it done.”

Just before I went to bed, I got a call from my sweet, gray-haired, 87-year-old mother. “Do you remember Mrs. Popovich, that lady I met at the bingo parlor?”

“Don’t worry, Mom, I’ll take care of it.”