The Man Who Teaches My Son Karate

The man who teaches my son karate

Is turning him against me

I was cleaning out the garage

The other day

And my son appeared

As if out of nowhere

I’m afraid that he’s being taught

The ways of the ninja

And I consider pulling him out of class

But his therapist says

The physical activity

Is good for his confidence

And so I do nothing

But part of me

Prepares for what comes next

I order swords online

And then get a letter

Notifying me

That I’m on a government list

Of some kind

As if you could overthrow

The government

With nothing but Samurai swords

I feel like writing back

To the government

And telling them

That I have no interest

In a revolution
I just want to defend myself

Against my son

Before he learns

The Dark Art of Chinese warlords

My son tells me that my misunderstanding of karate

Is offensive

But his newfound cultural sensitivity

Is just further proof

That part of his soul has been taken over

By his teacher

Master Bob

Bob is a forty-seven year old divorcee

Who almost took his life one night

In a condo in a part of town

I only visit if I have to pick something up

At the all-night Target

But then an old Bruce Lee movie

Came on the secondhand television

In his living room

And he stepped off the chair

And into a life

Of turning my son against me

Using nothing but Eastern Philosophy

And nunchucks

Every week, when I drop my son off at practice

Master Bob waves to me from the door of his studio

Located between a nail place

And a travel agent

At the Bay Lake Minimall

Like we’re old friends

Well, maybe in a past life we were

But we certainly are not now

The past life is the past life

And I am living in the present

Where I only have one son

One thing that’s truly mine in this world

And Master Bob wants to take it from me

My son now meditates after dinner

Instead of watching tv with me

Or asking me how my day was

Or quizzing me on how to make a Long Island

So I can finally pass the bar exam

And start working behind at Ruby Tuesday’s on Saturday’s

To make a little extra money

I watch my son sit on his bed

And hum to himself

And I can’t resist

I tell him that meditation

Is just masturbation for the soul

And he says that I’m out of touch

With my true self

Which is hysterical

Because my bullet journal is on point

I know when all my meetings are

And I have my goals written down

On my Achievement Board

So I couldn’t possibly be more in touch

With myself

As if sitting on a beach

Chanting the theme song

From ‘The Lion King’
Helps you know yourself any better

I’m sure it wouldn’t make you any better

At slap-chopping a bad guy

That’s for damn sure

My son tells me my opinion of karate

And his teacher

Is racist

Which is so laughable

I mention that it’s laughable

But then I don’t laugh

Because at that point

It just seems redundant

But--RACIST?

First of all, I am not a racist

I am part Cherokee

And I love Sly and the Family Stone

Second of all, Master Bob isn’t even Asian

He’s whiter than me

So how the hell can I be racist again him?

I guess I could be racist against karate

But I’m not

I just think it’s Korean voodoo

That can kill a person

If that person forgets to put the padlock

On their son’s bedroom door at night

So he can’t get out

And kill anybody

The man who teaches my son karate
Is a hero

And I am simply a person
Who facilitates the hero worship

That I do not get any of

Tell me that’s not

Screwed up

I just wish one of these days

I could pull up to the studio

And have my son look at me

And tell me he doesn’t want to go to karate that day

Because he’d rather spend the day with me

I’m not saying he could never go back

Because then my deposit would go up in smoke

But if he could just pick me

One day

Over Master Bob

It would mean the world to me

It really would

Maybe I could teach him something too, you know?

Maybe I could drive him

To the beach

And we could go out on the sand

And he could hit me

And I could fall

And pretend to be hurt

And he’d feel all proud of himself

For knocking out his old man

I don’t know what he’d learn from that exactly

But I know I’d like it

Just thinking of him standing over me

Looking all triumphant

While I lay there on the sand

Not really hurt at all

Because he hits like a three-year-old girl

But pretending all the same

Just to make him happy?

Just to make him laugh

The way only your dad can make you laugh

And not like Master Bob

Who probably doesn’t make him laugh at all

Because he thinks hurting people should only be serious

Even when they get kicked in the nuts?

Just to spend a day with him

Just a day

When it’s just us

Hanging out?

Yeah, you know, I’d...

...I’d like that a lot