by Jefferson Navicky

My uncle is a barber. He cuts hair with a pair of chopsticks. People don’t know the difference. It’s like he’s tossing a salad, or, for short hair, like he’s checking for lice. Sometimes he makes buzzing noises with his mouth for the sound of the clippers. He says to his customers, close your eyes, let your brain release, let your hair hang free, I must work. There is an art in his touch, the energy and attention he pays to those once living strands. Often, hair bounces under my uncle’s touch like a dog about to go on a walk. Other times, hair shines with a light from within. It’s love, my uncle says, I love hair; it is only natural that hair should respond to such love. Who doesn’t love to be loved? My uncle clicks together his chopsticks. No one, he answers.

by Jefferson Navicky

     Inspired by Harper’s Magazine, March 2013

On the night of 23 March, I was summoned to 9 Berkeley Place, the home of Mr. Justin Bieber, to resolve a disorderly conduct. I arrived at 9:43 to find Mr. Chambers (41) shirtless in the front lawn. The house spotlights illuminated him. He was wet with sweat. I asked Mr. Chambers what he was doing. He replied he was, “Givin’ it back to that little piece of shit!” I asked him to calm down, to which he replied, “I’m gonna cut his balls off.” I asked Mr. Chambers to specify and he replied, “Justin Bieber’s balls!” At this point I radioed for back up and tried to convince Mr. Chambers to settle down and come with me. Instead he dropped to his knees and screamed, “Faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaker!” at the house. I asked Mr. Chambers who was a faker. “Bieber,” he replied. “I had Bieber fever first!” At this point he began to cry. I asked Mr. Chambers to tell me about it. “I got the tattoo first,” he sobbed. Through the rest of the blubbering, I ascertained that Mr. Chambers, in support of Mr. Bieber’s recent album “Believe,” tattooed Mr. Bieber’s name across his upper arm. However, Mr. Chambers soon discovered that Mr. Bieber had tattooed “Believe” on his own upper arm. Mr. Chambers, in response to this information, declared, “You know what, you little turd bait, it was my idea first.” In an effort to sympathize with Mr. Chambers, I said, “that sounds tough.” “It’s so hard,” Mr. Chambers said, “when people copy me!” At this point, he began to hug me, sobbing harder. “You know what, Mr. Chambers,” I said, “you’re better than this.” He wailed. “You’re better than Justin Bieber, Mr. Chambers. You’re a good man.” “No!” he cried, “I want to cut his balls off!” “I don’t think you do, Mr. Chambers.” I proceeded to tell Mr. Chambers about the time when I got my ex–wife’s name — she was my fiance at the time I did it — tattooed across my very low back. Mr. Chambers interrupted to ask, “so you got her name tattooed across your ass?” Basically. He stopped crying. “And look at me now, Mr. Chambers, I’m a well–adjusted officer of the law, and that tattoo? I’m over it now and you know what? I’m ready to get a new name tattooed on my ass. And you know what name I’m gonna get tattooed on my ass? Justin Bieber, Justin Fuckin’ Bieber, that’s who. And you know why? In your honor, Mr. Chambers, you’ve inspired me. I’m gonna do it because of you.” Mr. Chambers looked at me. “I’m gonna cut your balls off,” he screamed. At that point, I arrested him.

by Jefferson Navicky

I’m eating leftover people. They taste worse than I thought because they sold the company just before I ate them. I used to want more than that, but yeah. Yeah, right. The money’s not there. It’s more of a half smack. I toasted a nonprofit yesterday. I just don’t know. I’m heading out on a positive beef gathering venture soon, so that I can get excited about, among other things, money. I’m gonna bring that in. Anyway, it’s been great. Great to gnaw on muthafuckers who left their asses in shit baskets. These were my orders. I’m just following them. That’s fun. I tuck my shirt in in a way that makes my upper body puff up like a bloated turtle. Sometimes I stay in hotels and clap at odd things, like boots. I ate a half boot yesterday. It gave me nightmares. In any case, the boot cost, I heard, 350 bucks. You believe that bullshit? Cheap hiking boots, I’m learning, are cheap for a reason. No one likes cheap, especially the dogs I eat. I’m sorry. I’ve got buttons, and I’m going boating on your asses. Laugh all you want, uh–huh, yuck it up. Go to Whole Foods. Frown real good. I’m gonna eat your yak pack.

by Michael Estabrook

So Dad didn’t die when he was only 36
Dr. Zullo gave him an experimental drug
that rolled the stomach cancer back out to sea

And Mom didn’t marry that jackass pencil salesman
with his shotguns and beehives
and his big stupid Lincoln Town Car

She and Dad came around a lot and spoiled
the grandchildren taking them to the movies and ball games
and out fishing like our grandparents spoiled us

And Dad was there when we needed him for advice
and to diagnose the problems with our cars
simply by cocking his head and listening