Bad Boy Soy Boy

Once upon a time, there was a biracial Korean, Jewish kid from the Riverdale section of the Bronx, Steven Park (otherwise known as Bad Boy Soy Boy, since he unleashed his Nunchucks of fury at a block party on a bunch of shit-talking, instigating, black gangbangers who wore the same wifebeater, corn rows, and cut-off jean shorts, looking like they were dressing up for Coolio Appreciation Day.     He never dared to call Bad Boy Soy Boy a ‘COVID chink’ in his midst ever again, as he cracked one corn row-braided skull in two after another without breaking a sweat in a New York minute.

            Son of Sam in the seventies was scary, no doubt, but the surge in hate crimes against Jews and Asians in the boogie-down Bronx, Jersey City, and throughout the Island of Manhattan were at an all-time high, with no relief or added protection in sight.

            Cops today are younger, softer, and far less hardcore than their 9/11 predecessors. Nobody in the force today possesses the balls to make money on the side through good old-fashioned extortion like 99 percent of the force in the movie Serpico.

            Bail was banned in NY, garbage filled the streets, and rats grew the size of Lena Dunham during Restaurant Week after challenging Leslie Jones to a Junior Cheesecake bake-off.

            But even these woke large and in-charge funny woman who couldn’t believe what a scary shithole their cherished concrete jungle of yesterday had become in just four years flat.

            Crazy talk slogans punctured the air, such as “Ban ICE,” because homeland security was so ‘weapons of mass destruction’. That’s no excuse to mug a Chinese grandma in Chinatown, yet the Wuhan-made virus made New Yorkers largely crazier than ever. They misplaced faith in a news media hell bent on feeding more unregulated hate and fear into the nation about black men in America being America’s most hunted; despite not one enlightened BLM member encouraging their fellow brothers to just stop resisting arrest (or the temptation to run out on a 2,000-dollar dinner check in South Beach for spring break, God forbid.

            Every day, Bad Boy Soy Boy worked at his parents’ deli in the South Bronx despite living in the leafier, more snuggle-soft confines of Riverdale in the Bronx, where abandoned, torched, burnt-down buildings (to salvage a semblance of ROI from the insurance company) were less common than a B-plus Korean student at Bronx Science.

            Bad Boy Soy Boy had to bite his lip at the deli every time some brother would come in there talking endless shit, yelling, “COVID Chink this, COVID Chink that,” despite him being fucking half Korean and half Jewish.

            That didn’t make a difference, because cum bucket dumpsters such as Cardi B were today deemed heady, culture-enriching poets from the street whose gaping, sloppy-thirds snatch couldn’t be beat, allegedly. Jim Rome lives, holla; thank you very much.

            But one day Bad Boy Soy Boy decided that enough was enough, so he opened a medicinal speakeasy weed milk bar in Bergen, New Jersey as a front to offer Nunchuck self-defense classes for Asian Americans, based in any of the five boroughs willing to make the schlep to fight for their lives to live out the protracted, rapidly fading American dream with a semblance of peace of mind as they raged and raged against the dying of the light. (Dylan Thomas lives, holla, thank you very much.)

            Now, Bad Boy Soy Boy’s Self-Defense Nunchucks Of Fury class became the number one tourist destination in Bergen history (not that there was much stiff competition in this department).

            But Bad Boy Soy Boy had a college roommate from UPENN, who he’d talk to on the phone every day, who worked as a rock star chef for a Korean food truck in old city Philly. They were known for their Korean eggroll cheesesteak hot pocket breakfast treats.

            They now had to invest in a bulletproof vest covered food truck in Old City, which was once the only really safe area in Philly, outside of Center City on Chestnut street. But, safe spaces for Asian Americans were now deader than Jeremey Lin’s chances of gracing the cover of Sports Illustrated seven times in a row, again (especially since JR Smith bitched to the Knicks management about the golden child Harvard grad who plopped into their lap out of the freaking blue, because he was hogging the Garden spotlight and bike lane all for himself).

            Asian Americans (including Koreans, Japanese,  and Chinese) who never bothered to study martial arts (thinking it wasn’t necessary to learn, from 1994 to 2020), were flocking to Bad Boy Soy Boy’s Self-Defense Nunchucks Of Fury class.

            Bad Boy Soy Boy’s grandfather, Michael Kornbluth, was a Holocaust survivor because when all the brown shirt ANTIFA members of their day banned the guns, he used his own Nunchucks of fury (gifted to him from his Korean father-in-law) and cracked NAZI skulls hyped on crystal meth all the way to freedom from Nazi persecution. He pawned enough Nazi gold teeth from the skulls he cracked in two with his Nunchucks of fury to buy a boat pass to NY, establish a family of his own with his reflexology wife therapist, and become a proud first-generation deli owner, getting Jewish New Yorkers hooked on kimchi for more reasonable outs from ever having to slip their wives some tongue again.

            Both young and old Asian Americans no longer had to live in helpless, paralyzed fear; all thanks to Bad Boy Boy Soy Boy teaching them the infinite beat-down possibilities unleashed from the all-mighty Nunchuck strikes of fury, to ensure they were never fucked with again in the name of the COVID Chink virus or not. Bad Boy Soy Boy was on a mission from God to prove that Bruce Lee’s weapon of choice ain’t nothing to fuck with.

Michael Kornbluth

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