Standards and Practising: July 2013

Another successful Saturday night.Your usual mix of drinks, fights, hugs, tears and laughter.

But that's another story. I absentmindedly put the soccer player's jockstrap off my head and into my top shirt pocket. Again, that's another story.

Yes, like a handkerchief.

I went to the taxi rank and stood in the organized line. We all dutifully waited our turn. Ha, how weird would that be! It wasn't a particularly memorable taxi-line fight. I held my end up but I felt the other participants were lacklustre at best. So after clotheslining the woman in the improbably high miniskirt I was free to choose my ride home. Her gurgled response from the bloodied Tarmac seemed to say 'You were right David. These clothes were unsuitable to win a taxi fight.' I nodded to her, accepting her acceptance, and opened the taxi door. That's when it all went wrong.

The cab driver was listening intently to his cb. It was odd. The guy was not watching TV. He was not listening to Korean Traditional Trot. My ears thanked him. He seemed almost nervous. No, scratch that. He was anticipatory. Like a rapist watching a roofied victim slowly become relaxed, he seemed to be biding his time. I have ssen that look before. Whatever, I don't care. The dreams are fading and my music teacher still writes to me from prison. Now who's crying?

Hopefully, Djokovic again.Come on, Murray! Tennis, that's a real sport. LOL.

I just wanted to go home. I told him where I lived in my perfect cabnbeerean. Nothing. I repeated myself, figuring he was one of those cabbies who needed repetitions. Nothing. Suddenly the cb went off. I would not normally notice except my drunken ability to understand Korean had somehow ameliorated to outstanding. I understood everything being said.

"Drivers to the start line. We got a race." The cab started. I was pushed back by the force into the seat. The bucket seat. Something was off. I looked around the inside of the cab. It was very bright. J.J.Abrams would have been blinded by this lens flare. What the hell was going on?

The inside of the cab was not THAT different by Korean standards.

The cab drove through to the Kyoungpook Uni HospitalSubway crossroads. The police had lined up the road for their night time drinks checks. Only.. Some cars were just waiting there. And they were not your average Sonatas or Matizes.

Also, it appears they are on fire.

And one of the policeman looked oddly familiar.

No way.

Best. Photoshop. Ever.

It was then I also noticed something about my cabbie. It was not that he was lacking in Korean features. It was that he was overcompensating by having all kinds of Bro. There was so much Bro coming off this dude, I felt the sweaty strangulation of a thousand polo neck shirts being worn at once. I looked across the way. There were signs this was not going to be your usual ride home.

The rules were simple. There were no rules. The other rules were: you had to get your fare home and back again. I laughed at this. I lived so close my boy just had to win.

"Hey man, what's your name?" I asked him.

"Pau - I mean, Brian. Brian Pillbox. Or something." I was impressed with his ability to remember almost half his name.

"Brian, I live literally just down the road. You cannot lose."

"Oh man, That's what Liddy said. Then she died and came back to life."

"I'm sorry. I don't know what a Liddy is. I'm an English teacher. I use real words."

The next rule according to the ludicrously afroed policeman : go to the 24 hour burger King drive thru and collect whatever the fare wanted to eat.

"Dude, That's awesome. I want a double whopper no cheese, chicken royale, fuck it, I'll have a Royal Box. And a Coke Zero."

Zero times any number equals zero. That's why I don't put on weight.

"No, you'll get a hamburger. A generic hamburger. Our shoot cannot afford to pay our sponsors."

"BriPaul, I don't think that's how sponsorship works. And you say 'shoot', like this is a movie. Is this a movie? Am I going to be on Korean television every day for the next four months?"

"Shut up, just let me drive."

"Okay, but I do want a whopper."

"I told you! Generic names only!"

"Okay I'll eat a Biggie. Is that racist?"

"I honestly don't know what is racist anymore. I race against latinos, blacks and asians and I always seem to win. That can't be right, can it? I mean, the Law of Large Numbers would dictate I would lose eventually. But no, the white man is superior in every race. What's that all about? And I only lose to some guy whose ethnic background is so unknown, his DNA is probably some kind of pumped up quadruple Helix*."