JonahWeiland.com

During my senior year of high school I found myself over at Coach Huntington’s house one afternoon helping him load up his truck. There was a girl’s softball tournament the following weekend and it was a camp out thing, so there were many supplies needed for this trip. Mr. Huntington’s brother Roland was in town, too, and was helping us out load softball and camping gear into the back of Mr. H’s truck. Mr. Huntington never did anything without music on and this was no exception. The song “Do It Till Your Satisfied” by BT Express was playing on the car radio in the background as we loaded up the back of the truck. Roland struck up some conversation.

“Hey G,” that’s what Roland called his brother, short for Gilbert, the name no one ever called him.

Roland asked, “Hey G, what do you think of the band Boston?

Mr. H responded, “Boston?”

“Yeah, you know, Boston,” said Roland. “You know, ‘More than a Feeling,’ ‘Peace of Mind,’ ‘Don’t Look Back.’ You know, Boston.”

“Boston? Boston? Motherfucker, you is not a pasty white motherfucker. Why the motherfuck are you listening to Boston? What, let me guess, you listen to Chicago, Kansas, Alabama and Huey Lewis, too?”

Roland responded defensively, “How the fuck did Huey Lewis get on that list? He ain’t no location, he’s just a man.”

“Fuck you! Stop trying to switch the subject away from what a nerdy cracker you clearly are,” shot back Mr. Huntington. “Take out Chicago and put that snowflake Bruce Hornsby in if you must.”

“Man, I don’t listen to none of them cats,” said Roland. “I just happen to like Boston. Cmon, yo, you know, (sings) ‘More than a feeeeeelin’, more than a feeeeelin’…”

“No, I don’t know that cuz it’s crappy cracker music.”

“Wait a second, how do you know about all them white bands?”

Mr. Huntington shot back, “I keep up on it all so that I know there’s shit out there that no self-respecting black man should be listening to.”

“What, so there’s not a one white band out there that’s worth anything?”

“I’m not saying that, motherfucker. Rolling Stones. The Beatles. Fucking Elvis.”

Roland responded in agreement, “Fucking Elvis.”

“That’s right. I’m just saying Boston ain’t cool to be listenin’ to. Boston is a cracker band. Those other bands I mentioned, they all got inspiration from the great R&B acts, so they’re cool. You gotta know the difference between cracker music and white music.”

“What about Country,” asked Roland.

“We don’t talk about Country. Except Johnny Cash. Don’t talk no gruff ’bout Johnny Cash.”

Roland responded, “You with that fucking Johnny Cash. Like that boy ain’t white.”

“Brother, Johnny Cash alone could kick the collective asses of the members of Boston,” said Mr. Huntington. “That’s what a bad motherfucker he is. Stop talking smack.”

Roland asked one final question, “Well, what do you think of Steve Winwood?”

At that moment Mr. Huntington pulled Roland off the back of his truck, threw him on the ground and kicked him repeatedly while saying, “Roland, tell me you’ll no longer listen to Boston or Steve Winwood or any other cracker ass band you own the LP of and I’ll stop.”

“Fuck you,” uttered Roland, trying to fight back without much luck.

The beating went on for a good half hour until Roland agreed to go with both of us back to his home and let us witness him destroy every questionable album he owned. The amount of music destroyed that day was legendary– Kenny Logins, Glenn Fry, Bob Seger, Brian Adams, Peter Cetera– all of it destroyed. It truly was the day the (cracker) music died.

It’s been a while since I shared anything Mr. Huntington related, so I figure now is as good a time as any.

In addition to his being the P.E. Teacher and coach of many of my High School sporting activities, he supplemented his income by working securirty at clubs on the weekend (BTW, he did this despite the fact he was an exceptionally wealthy man, but more on that another time). Mr. Huntington worked the door of many a club and rarely found himself in a fight. At 6′3”, 300 lbs, this African American gentleman was incredibly imposing and no one wanted to throw with him. If someone starting acting up like a fool, he’d just walked over to them, wrap one arm around the guy and move his mouth closely to his ear and whispr in the deepest voice he could muster, “If you don’t bring it down, motherfucker, you’re going underground.” That worked for many years, but when kids started bringing knives with them to clubs, he called it quits.

For Mr. Huntington, working for four or five hours at some big club in Hollywood meant easy money and some amazing sights (“Oh, the booty I saw Saturday night would make your drawers shake like they’s filled with monkey shit on fire!”). One thing he observed over and over again was seeing the ladies play the “grubby grabby” - basically one woman grabing another woman’s breast in public, generally more than once a night. He was amazed at how often it happened and how casual everyone was about it. Oh, he certainly didn’t object in any way, but he found it surprising. And he found it odd that it happened at all, but especially only with women because it would never happen with men. Men simply didn’t pick up each other’s garbage. Sure, maybe a man hug or bump, but never the junk grab. Not even a tweaj of the man titties. And that’s the way it should be.

Of course, Mr. Huntington always said his favorite part of the job was “checking for chiggers” - checking for women “jilling-off” in the bathroom. I’m not kidding! He said it would amaze most people to know how many people, both men and women, that would skip off to the bathroom at some point for a quick trip to the land of good tinglies.

If there was a way I could make money as a “chigger checker,” well, I’d specialize.

I remember this one time back in high school when the girl’s high school softball team were all on the school bus going to a game. I went to most of the games as I helped Mr. Huntington with general stuff and also was the stats keeper. We had an extra long drive home that day after a disappointing loss so Mr. Huntington, or Coach as we were supposed to call him on game days, entertained us with another one of his amazing stories.

When Mr. Huntington was a little boy, he said he was a scrawny kid. Skinny, small, kind of meek and really didn’t speak out much. He said he had a high squeaky voice, too. That’s all in stark contrast to the man I knew in high school – 6′ 3″, 300 lbs., lots of muscle, outgoing, with a deep booming voice and never afraid to express his opinion. Mr. Huntington said he could mark the exact time and place when all that changed and he became a man. No, it wasn’t the sudden onset of puberty, rather a happening of significant importance.

One summer when he was 12 his parents decided it would be fun to go to San Francisco for a few days to take in the sites. His mother and father, brother Roland and sister Sela all took in the sites. They visited Chinatown, rode on those crickety Cable Cars, took in a baseball game at Candlestick, checked out the Golden Gate Bridge and visited Alcatraz Island. Young Mr. Huntington was most excited about visiting Alcatraz Island, the famed former penal colony. He thought it would be so cool to visit a jail!

So they did. The family took the boat over to the island and the moment it landed, the young Mr. Huntington ran quickly up the ramp to take in the giant structure at the top of the Rock. He said it was just so great and his little mind was filled with imaginative stories. Stories about all the bad men and the bad things they did. The cell of the famous Birdman. The many riots and knife fights that broke out in the mess hall. The giant sized rats that were known to eat the inmates if they didn’t behave. Stuff like that. His parents caught up with him and they went on a tour of the island.

At some point during the tour young Mr. Huntington lost track of his parents, but he didn’t notice because he was having too much fun thinking about all the license plates they made in the metal shop. Oh, and how all the inmates liked to run their cups up and down the bars to make noise, which didn’t make sense to him because he thought innocently, “Wouldn’t you spill your milk if you were to bump your cup back and forth on the metal bars?”

At that point one of the students, Stacie, interrupted to explain to Mr. Huntington that your cup would have to be empty in order to do that, so there wouldn’t be any spilt milk. Mr. Huntington stood up, walked over to the driver, told him to pull the bus over, turned around to Stacie and ordered her off the bus. He proclaimed, “You’re gonna have to hitch a ride back to school, Ms. Stacie. I don’t abide no interruptions when I’m talking, especially no saucy milk talk.”

It really wasn’t a big deal as the bus had stopped at the base of the hill our school was on, so it was actually pretty damn funny. Stacie went along with it, but that meant she missed out on the rest of the story.

So, back to the story, young Mr. Huntington wandered around the Island alone, looking for evidence of a true Bird-man, completely oblivious of the world around him. He was too busy thinking about the beat downs given new convicts in the showers and all the ink the men applied to each other out in the quad than to be concerned with where his parents were or what else might be going on in the world. Then suddenly, he realized, he was completely alone on the island.

No one was there. Not a single soul. And the sun was starting to set.

A worried young Mr. Huntington ran around the island like a mad fiend, growing more frantic with every passing second. Not a soul could be found. He was forgotten. And he was starting to worry about those giant sized rats showing up, ready to eat his scrawny ass up. At that moment he decided to swim for it.

Now, young Mr. Huntington may have been a small child, but he could swim faster than a spastic crack addict with turrets. He wasn’t going to be trapped alone on that island with the “Rats of Gigantic Proportions with a Penchant for Man Flesh.” No way. So, he found his way to the highest cliff on the island, removed his shirt and shoes, and took a four-story dive right off the Rock in to San Francisco Bay.

And he began to swim. Those scrawny little 12-year-old arms of his pumped and pumped away as his scrawny little sticks kicked like a small outboard motor as he made way for shore. He could see the ship he was supposed to have taken in the distance, but they were getting further and further away. So he pushed harder and those spaghetti like little arms broke through the water faster than a ho working a corner on a busy Friday night in Hollywood.

He was about half way across the bay when his right arm, on the down swing, hit something kind of cold and fleshy. It was a shark. He’d heard that San Francisco Bay had the occasional shark, but he forgot about that completely. All he could think about was starving to death back on the Island being chased by mongoloid rat things. The shark was none to happy about being bonked on the head, so it turned around and headed for young Mr. Huntington. Seeing as how he’d already managed to swim half way across the bay, young Mr. Huntington was feeling mighty sure of himself and uttered these seven memorable words.

“You wanna dance, shark butt? Let’s go.”

The shark came at him and Mr. Huntington stared him right in the eye. He was sitting there, in the bay, treading water like a child possessed, arms out front ready to bring a 12 year old beat down on the shark. The beast got closer, when suddenly Mr. Huntington began to kick his thin little meat hooks as fast as can be. His body began to rise out of the water as the beast grew nearer. Right about when the shark was ready to bite in to the body of the child, the young Mr. Huntington kicked himself almost completely out of the water and suddenly came down with both hands in a fist directly on top of the shark’s head with all the strength he could muster.

The shark…was dead. Young Mr. Huntington killed that shark good.

Through sheer will and inner strength and with just one blow, young Mr. Huntington pummeled the shark not just in to submission, but in to whatever existed as an after life for the shark population. The shark floated there dead in the water, unmoving. Young Mr. Huntington knew no one would believe his story, so as he continued on his way to the shore, he dragged the shark behind him.

About an hour later he found his way to a local beach and swan ashore. His exhausted little arms and legs were practically useless, but he managed to drag not only himself, but a very large shark up on shore. He collapsed on the beach next to the shark and caught his breath. A moment later he rose to his feet, every movement a struggle of intense proportions. He pushed and finally righted himself to a standing position and yelled for all the world to hear.

“I declare from this day forward, on this day here at this beach with this shark at my side, I propose to never be forgotten again. The scrawny, meek little bitch I was is no longer. A new Gilbert Loquacious Huntington will emerge, big as a mountain, strong as a freight train and faster than lightning. I will become one bad ass motherfucker and no shark or no one is going to stop my ass.”

A couple of things need to be pointed out here. First, Mr. Huntington said that was the first time in his life he ever swore. Second, that was the first time us students learned Mr. Huntington’s full name. Gilbert Loquacious Huntington. He told us if we ever made fun of his name, called him by his real name in public or revealed it to anyone at the school, he’d run us over with his car. No one ever spoke of his name to the other students. The girls softball team, myself and the bus driver were the only ones who ever found out.

God, I really hope Mr. Huntington doesn’t read my blog, see that I’ve revealed his name to the world and try to run me over with his car. That would suck.

A couple of people have written me recently to ask if my high school gym teacher, Mr. Huntington, was really as beloved as I thought he was. You couldn’t find a student at the school that didn’t love him as a man and a teacher. He was the most often thanked teacher at senior graduation. I think one year he was thanked 53 out of 54 times. Oh, and yeah, the person who didn’t thank him later had to issue a press statement apologizing for his oversight, blaming it on his recently acquired crack habit. Or something. But seriously, he really was the most liked guy anywhere.

In fact, rainy days at my high school were called Much Huntington Days. See, when it rained, that meant no PE, so what that meant was sitting in a classroom with Mr. Huntington as he turned another story for students lucky enough to have him for PE that day. It was a day we all hoped for, and it always at some point in the year. It’s the day we always learned the most about the world.

One of those days was in 11th grade. It rained and rained and rained. It was as if someone was doing a rain dance on speed, it rained so much. So there were many Much Huntington Days. He sat us down and decided to tell us about his previous weekend. Friday night he and his wife were invited to a friend of a friend’s live performance. It was a one-man show and was described to him as “Renaissance Comedy.”

“Reanaissance Comedy?” Mr. Huntington responded.

“Yeah, like how comedy would be if we lived in the Renaissance.”

“But we live in modern times, motherfucker,” replied Mr. Huntington vehemently. “And as if there was really all that much laughing and chortling going on back in the days of da Vinci and Michelangelo. Yeah, those guys were a fucking riot! No fucker, there weren’t ain’t no comedy back then, just fuckers painting naked bitches or carving ‘dudes’ in marble.”

But, Mr. Huntington being the good friend he is, went anyway.

The night of the performance, Mr. Huntington went to the small theater in North Hollywood, CA to see “Renaissance Comedy.” Turns out that was the actual name of the one-man show. The creative bastard was clearly hard at work with this one. Everyone milled about before the show, then took their seats when the lights were dimmed. They sat patiently when finally the night, of what Mr. Huntington thought would be pain, was about to begin.

The lights rose and there stood on the stage a man in full renaissance faire type garb. He had the fluffy, poofy, much of the gay blouse on, with trousers made of cotton material that was all loosey and flowy and what not, some turd brown mocassins made of thin leather that couldn’t possibly be comfortable shoe things and a pissed-Mr.-Huntington-off Renaissance flavored hat. He said the guy looked like a retarded Peter Pan, but not in a good way and no, there is no good way to view Peter Pan. And then he opened his mouth.

[English Accent] “Good evening my wonderful gentleman and beautiful ladies,” said the actor.

Mr. Huntington thought to himself, “Why is it that whenever there’s a Renaissance flavored sketch the actor always takes on an English accent. As if there were no other accents during the Renaissance. How about the French, motherfucker?!”

Getting back to the actor. [English Accent] “Good evening my wonderful gentleman and beautiful ladies,” said the actor. “Thank you for making a visit this fine day. (pauses, lays out right hand) On this hand we have comedy (then lays out left hand) and on this hand we have drama.”

At that precise moment, Mr. Huntington stood up from his seat and shouted, “And in this hand I have a big fuck you, motherfucker!” And there he stood with his right hand outstrecthed with a middle finger pointed squarely at the heavens.

Half of us sat there in the classroom quiet and dumbfounded, while the other half laughed hysterically! Did Mr. Huntington really have the balls to do that inside a crowded theater?

After about five seconds he said, “Shit, I didn’t do that shit. My wife would have my dick sack for lunch if I said that. But I wanted to. Oh sweet Vanessa Williams’ ass I wanted to.”

We all had a good laugh and he went on to admit he did go to Renaissance Faire’s as a young man with some friends because they wanted to. He’d always go along, mock his friends who went in costume, have himself a turkey leg and a healthy pint, then on his way out of the Faire he’d scream out, “People, there’s a reason we wear proper clothing and don’t ride mules no more - it’s called progress you cracker motheruckers!”

Back when I was in High School I actually looked forward to the return to school following spring break. Sure, I lamented the fact that my carefree days of summer were soon over, but the return to school always meant fresh new stories from Mr. Huntington. It was on my return to school for my senior year that Mr. H told us kids about one of his brushes with celebrity coupled with the capture of the “big fish.”

During the summer Mr. Huntington would routinely visit La Paz, Mexico for some deep-sea fishing with his wife and a friend or two. Sport fishing was something of a passion for Mr. Huntington. Considering how much he loved seafood, it fit. He’d come back from his trips with chests full of marlin, yellowtail, tuna and many other species.

Well, that summer of 1988 Mr. Huntington went down this time with his wife and his friend James. Mr. H chartered a boat for him and James to go out for the day while his wife laid on the beach, soaking up the Mayan sun. Now, Mr. H and James had all their own rigging, so all they needed was a big enough boat to handle the fishing. They found their boat and their captain and made way for the open sea and all the fish it had to offer.

Except there was one small problem – the boat stalled half way out. They hadn’t made it out far enough to the good fishing spots, but far enough away to ruin the entire day. It would take a while for the Mexican coast guard to come out and tow them back to land and once that was done, their chances for fishing that day before sundown were completely blown. Mr. H and his buddy were sorely disappointed.

Then, as if sent from God himself, they spotted another large boat making way for the open sea. Mr. H, standing on the bow of “The Shitty McShit Shit Steamer” as he called it, flagged down the approaching vessel, which pulled alongside the McShit. The two crews traded barbs and Mr. H explained how they were stranded there and all he wanted to do was get himself some fish that day. Well, the new ship, named “The Goddess Herself,” was making way for a great fishing location and invited Mr. H and his friend to join them. Mr. H was never one to miss an opportunity and gladly accepted the invitation.

The crew of the Goddess was very welcoming of their new guests, offering them plenty to drink and some great snacks and what not. Mr. H said there was the ships crew, which numbered two men, then about three different women who were all “one with the much pretty and booty,” two very bulked up men and two random dudes named Mikey and Ralphy who also had some rather expensive video equipment. It soon dawned on Mr. H that not only was he on a fishing yacht of some sort, but also on the set of an adult video film shoot. Mikey and Ralphy, the much Italian brothers, explained to Mr. H what was going to happen, how they’d be filming the group sex porn video at the bow or front of the ship, while Mr. H was more than welcome to fish off the stern or back of it. “I can say I’ve fished to the sounds of music, but never to the sounds of fucking,” said Mr. H. And of course, as you well know by now, Mr. H is always up for an adventure.

The Goddess dropped anchor about seven miles from shore and Mr. H and James got to setting up their rigging as the film crew and actors readied themselves for their shoot. Mr. H and James laughed about their odd set of circumstances, with a bunch of dumb ass white folk shooting some video at the front of the ship while the real action, the good fishing action, was back there with those two guys. They threw back beers and talked about the good times they had.

About an hour in, they started to hear rumblings from the front of the boat. Mostly a grunt or two to start with, nothing too crazy. They heard a little conversation, but the boat was big enough that it was hard to make out. Mr. H and James would steal a look once in a while, mostly ending up catching a shot of some guys ass, then it would disappear, then reappear in view, then disappear again. You get the idea.

Then, the timing got really odd. Just as the sounds of cottaging got louder and louder from the bow, the fish started to bite in the stern. Suddenly Mr. H’s main line grew taught, he jumped out of his chair and he and James began reeling in the big fish. At the same time, Mr. H heard the screaming sex, “Yes! Oh yeah, you do me so good! Come on baby, I want that big fish of yours!” As Mr. H wrestled with the big fish he found the sex talk to be very confusing and shouted out in response, “You like that, big fish? Huh? Do you? Well, you’re slippery ass is mine, baby! I’m gonna reel your sorry ass in!”

The dialogue from the bow continued. “Oh baby, that’s right, fuck me with that life preserver on! That’s so sexy! I’m gonna fuck you over overboard!”

Mr. H responded, “That’s right, keep fighting big fish! That’s how I like it! You’re lil’ fish ass is mine, motherfucker!”

As the ladies up front were being railed by the bulky guys, Mr. H and James began reeling in their catch. Suddenly, with unbelievable timing, as Mr. H caught the biggest red snapper he’s ever seen, some bulky dude caught an entirely different type of some snapper from the bow.

“Oh yeah, fish! Oh yeah! What up, gills? I’m gonna hammer your scaley fish ass,” shouted Mr. H as he and James brought the catch on board and put it out of its misery. The shoot was done, and so were Mr. H and James.

Everybody cleaned up and they returned to the shore. Once there, Mr. H invited everyone back to their bungalow where they prepared the fish and everyone feasted on the catch. They all exchanged addresses and phone numbers and had an excellent time. Ralphy told Mr. H he’d send him a copy of the video when they were done, with Mrs. H’s permission naturally.

About a month later the video arrived and Mr. and Mrs. H decided to watch it together. They watched the video, surprised to find that as your watching the pretty people humping like mad dogs you could clearly make out the sounds of Mr. H screaming in the background at his catch. In fact, there were moments when you could see their fishing pole randomly pop in and out of the frame. With odd timing, “You’re lil’ fish ass is mine, motherfucker,” could clearly be heard as the money shot began. There was a note inside the DVD from Mikey and Ralphy who said this could possibly be one of their best shoots ever and was already a top seller because of the crazy man in the stern of the ship screaming out the bizarre obscenities.

The video, “Big Fish At Sea, Volume 1,” was a huge seller and began a very popular series of videos that continue to this day. And every time they go out to shoot, someone is fishing off the back of the boat. Mr. H even gets an occasional residual check, because Mikey and Ralphy are the nice kind of porno directors.

Great story. Total bullshit, but someone really should try this idea out. Fishing + Porn = Much Profits.

A handful of years after I left High School I returned to my old stomping grounds to say hi to a few teachers with the mission of specifically finding Mr. Huntington and catch up with him. This must have been about 10 years ago now. So, I went to the school, caught up with a bunch of teachers, but didn’t find Mr. Huntington anywhere. I asked if he was still with the school and everyone assured me that he was, but he just wasn’t in that day. So I left, somewhat disappointed, but I figured I could come back another day.

As I was walking to my car I heard someone yell out across the quad. “Weiland!” I turned and sure enough, as you might expect, there was Mr. Huntington. Suddenly in my head I had one of those movie moments where we ran across the quad towards each other and embraced with great vigor. In fact, we simply walked towards each other with a hefty smile, shook hands and then gave each other a man hug with copious amounts of pats on the backs to make it as manly as possible.

We got to catching up. I told him how shit college was, he told me how shit all the school teams had gotten. It was good times. I asked how he and his wife, Lacy, were doing and he said good. We got to talking about my struggles with trying to get a full time radio gig and he then told me another one of his priceless stories. It seems his brother, Roland Huntington, had himself become something of a success in radio, anchoring the afternoon drive position at some Smooth Jazz/Easy Listening station up in Portland, OR.

Apparently about two months prior to my visit Mr. Huntington’s Mother, Flossie Huntington, had expressed some interest in going up to Portland to visit her son Roland. Now, I met Flossie once, or as we all called her the Great Mrs. H, and she was a truly amazing woman. Very southern and very outspoken. Mr. Huntingon had a way with words and it was clear where he got that talent from. Mrs. H was a true raconteur in the old style, with abilities well beyond those of the common folk.

But Mrs. H was an elderly woman and while she could get on quite well taking care of herself, traveling was a whole different beast. So, Mr. Huntingon decided to take Mrs. H up north to visit her son. Mr. Huntington taught me years ago that you should always do at least one good thing a week for your mother, whether that’s a simple phone call or lunch or whatever, if for no other reason that it’s just a smart idea. So this trip was going to keep him safe from any doghouse potential for a long time.

They arrived in Portland, set-up shop in their hotel and called Roland to see when would be a good time to stop by. He suggested that evening, so Mr. Huntington rented a car and they made their way over to the studios. It was a really joyous reunion; the three of them hadn’t seen each other in two years, but naturally Mrs. H had many a comment about Roland’s style of dress, weight, his thinning hair and pretty much anything else that was in eyesight of Mrs. H. The first stop set came up and Roland told everyone to put on some headphones so they could listen to him on the radio and instructed his mother to be quiet. “You don’t get to tell me when I’m quiet, Rolly,” Mrs. H responded in the indignant way she always did.

“Mama, just be good. I gotta be on the air and it’s got to be quiet,” said Roland.

“Oh you just shush up. I know how to be quiet. You do your job and I’ll do mine,” Mrs. H responded.

So they put on their headphones, Roland turned on his mic, which quieted the studio speakers. As he took to the air, the following happened.

Roland: “Ahhhh yes, the sounds of Kenny G on Smooth Jazz 107.5 The Storm. We’ve got another 20 minutes of smooth jazz coming your…”

And in the background, clearly heard over the air, Mrs. H just let out with, “Smooth jazz? Smooth jazz? Sounds more like smooth crap to me.”

Roland went absolutely quiet.

Mr. Huntington shouted, “Mama!”

Mrs. H: “Stop that nonsense, boy. Roland’s on the air! He’s got to play his bullshit jazz for the people and there you go shouting out my name.”

Roland quickly wrapped up his stop set, went in to the commercial break, took off his headphones and just stared at his mother. He had no idea what to say because he knew yelling at her would only cause more problems.

Mrs. H said to Roland, “Why you got that face? You look like you gots your grundle all up in a bunch!”

Roland just sat there, dumbfounded. Mr. Huntington got up, told his Mrs. H they should adjourn to the listening room next door to give Roland some space to do his job. No complaints ever came in to the station, despite the fact this was clearly heard over the air. As far as we know, to this day, Roland’s program director has no clue this happened.

Great Story. Almost completely bullshit, but a great story.

Well, by now what you know about my former gym teacher Mr. Huntingon is that he’s a funny man, loves teenagers (not in that Michael Jackson way), is big (”Big as a mountain”), fast (”Quick as lightning”), smart and just an all around good guy. Back in high school he was easily the most popular teacher. In addition to teaching our various phys-ed classes and coaching the basketball team, he was also a very able-bodied history teacher, specializing in early American history (he got his minor in History from UCLA). But the story I’m about to tell you illustrates what a truly great man Mr. Huntington was and his true sense of honor.

One day he was out and about in Downtown LA. He liked going downtown to the garment district to shop for clothes. So, he’s shopping and walking and walking and shopping when suddenly he witnesses a crime – some older woman, say in her 70s, had just had her purse snatched by a young latin kid. She began screaming, “OH NO! My purse! That boy stole my purse!” Mr. Huntington couldn’t believe his eyes. It happened in broad daylight and everyone stood around doing absolutely dick while this woman screamed her heart out. He told me he thought to himself, “You know, if that was my Mama what just got jacked, I’d want someone to smack that little shit’s ass!”

So he did. He dropped his bags over by the old woman and took off against the little burgling bastard. Remember, Mr. Huntingon was a very big man and surprisingly fast for his size. The latin kid was a good 40 or 50 feet in front of him, a spry little fellow himself, but that really didn’t matter. See, Mr. H had speed akin to that of the God Mercury. His long legs moved so fast, appearing as though he wasn’t even touching the ground. It was like something out of an old cartoon and you could just hear “wind up” noises as he increased his speed.

Mr. Huntingon called out, “You best know I’m coming to get you! I’m gonna get that purse and show you a thing or two about respectin’ your elders you piss-bastard! I’m gonna get get ya, motherfucker!”

The latin kid pushed himself to run faster, but to no avail. Mr. Huntington was closing slowly. “Ohhh, you ain’t gonna get away. I’m quick as lightning motherfuckerrrrr! I’m an unstoppable locomotive bearing down on your ass! You best get prepared because here comes the H-Train!”

Yes, Mr. Huntington did really talk like that in times like this.

The distance was closing between the quick-footed Mr. H and the purse stealing scum. They weaved their way through crowded sidewalks. People got out of Mr. H’s way instantly so as to avoid serious bodily injury. No one wants 6′ 4″ of 300 pounds bearing down on you at close to 15 miles an hour.

“Little motherfuckeeee, in five seconds you is gonna be cooked medium rare style and I’m gonna eat up your meat!”

They duo got closer and closer, but suddenly, as they approached an intersection, a car came up along side of Mr. H, then turned right in front of the latin kid who jumped in to an open window, loosing the purse in the interim. The car sped off with the latin kid’s legs hanging out the window. He got away, but without his prize.

Mr. Huntington stopped, bent over to pick up the purse, and walked back to the old lady. He returned the purse to the woman, she handed him his bags, said thank you and tried to give him a reward. He refused, saying “It’s what I do, little mama,” but agreed to have an iced tea with her at the diner around the corner. He figured, she’d been through enough that day and could certainly use a friendly ear.

See, this is why Mr. Huntington is so great. He may be vulgar at times, he might be a bit weird, but he’s the biggest hearted man I’ve ever met and that, ladies and gentlemen, is a rare occurrence.

Great story. Only partly true as it’s based on something that happened to my Bro-In-Law years ago, but still a great story.