ENDGAME 14: Little Red Rockets
By Dave Carnie
The Song family lived down the street from us at the end of the cul de sac. I often say, “I grew up with a Korean family,” but that’s not entirely true. While the parents were Korean, they were hardly ever home, thus leaving the boys, Philip and Frederick, who were born and bred in America, to their own devices. Which is why their house was the preferred hangout and meeting place for our little horde of idiots. I spent a lot of time at the Song house with the Song brothers performing feats of mischief while growing up. They were like any other dysfunctional American family, but with a dash of Korean weirdness thrown in for flavor. Their house, for instance, was permeated by an unusual odor that was, at least in part, Korean.
The freezer in the Song’s garage was completely empty save for a giant jar of kimchi resting atop a large green pile of Ajax. I think the Ajax was mistakenly intended to absorb odors like baking soda, but the bleach had the exact opposite effect because it amplified the stench of the fermented cabbage to such an extent that you could smell it just by looking at their house. In hindsight, I wonder if this wasn’t some sort of North Korean satellite chemical weapon operation?
Another peculiar mashup of Korean/American traditions were the bear dicks on the kitchen table. The bear dicks were prepared weekly by Mr. Song. To make bear dicks, place a package of hot dogs on a plate and microwave for ten minutes. Or 20 minutes. Whatever. The longer the better. Because the casings need to explode and the meat filling needs to flow out like molten lava. Then place the plate in the center of your kitchen table. After a couple days of air-drying, the wieners will shrivel up and take on a deep mahogany appearance. I have no idea what a bear’s penis actually looks like, but the first time I saw Mr. Song’s assembly of exploded wieners, that’s what came to mind: bear dicks.
“DAVEED. HAVE,” Mr. Song would say gruffly, pointing to the plate of bear dicks.
“Thanks, Mr. Song, but I’m okay right now.”
On the surface, Mr. Song seemed like a very angry man, like any stereotypical Korean father, but I think that was just his resting-bitch face. He was actually a very nice guy. Hard to say, though, because he was never really around (he played golf every day, all day) and I don’t think he really cared much about us. There was, however, one thing that consistently raised Mr. Song’s ire: Herky, the family cat.
Mr. Song did not appreciate this creature’s behavior one bit. While Frederick, the oldest brother, was responsible for a wide variety of household chores, the cat was under Philip’s care. And Philip’s performance in this area was not up to Mr. Song’s standards. It was, therefore, not unusual for us to be messing around in the creek, or something, when we’d be interrupted by Mr. Song’s siren call.
“PHILIP!” Mr. Song’s voice would bellow through the neighborhood.
Although “Philip” isn’t an accurate representation of what he yelled because Mr. Song was an older Korean man with a very strong Korean accent, so “Philip” sounded more like, “PHUUUP!”
Whenever Philip heard the call, “PHUUUP!” he would interrupt whatever we were doing in order to respond to his father. “Hold on a second,” he’d say to us. Then, as loud as he could, he’d yell back, “WHAAAAAAT?”
There was generally a brief pause before Mr. Song would respond with his most common complaint: “MEW-MEW POO-POO!”
“Mew-mew poo-poo” meant: the cat had taken a shit and Philip was required to come clean it up. Immediately.
“OKAY! HOLD ON!” Philip would yell whilst we giggled our little asses off. “Fuck.” Then he’d take his leave of us, grumble all the way home, and clean up the mew-mew poo-poo.
The mew-mew, Herky, was a Russian Blue. Herky was a weird cat. Probably due to the weird environment he grew up in. Our attentions toward it alternated between affection and torture because we were young, stupid, adolescent boys. And, in fact, you can decide for yourself whether the following story equals affection or torture. I think it’s a little of both.
Like most cats, Herky liked to have his ass spanked. He got off on it. During these spanking sessions, he would stand on his tippy toes, with his ass in the air, his tail erect, and his big ole, blue balls sticking out. Herky had some big-ass balls. They looked like little, fuzzy blue tennis balls. They were adorable. So it was during one of these spanking sessions that Philip and I conducted an experiment on Herky’s adorable fuzzy balls.
Herky was at about chest level on the stone wall that surrounded the Song’s porch. It was too hot to skate and there was nothing to do but lazily spank the cat. With his blue balls practically being shoved in our faces, Philip and I started poking the cat’s downy orbs. That made Herky even more agitated.
“Oh! He likes it,” I said, flicking his testicles with my finger.
“Mkgnao!” Herky growled.
Philip, emboldened by his cat’s randy behavior, applied two fingers to the task of tickling the Russian Blue’s wooly globes. He made the “peace” sign and fluttered his fingers in rapid succession, working the small blue sack like a tiny boxer at a miniature speed bag. Herky seemed to like that even more because his hindquarters started twitching and he alternated his weight from leg to leg. We didn’t realize it at the time, but Herky had begun marching up Orgasm Mountain.
“MKALKROOGGWWWW!” Herky moaned.
And then Herky came all over the wall.
“Holy shit!” I said leaning in to have a closer look at the small, milky puddle that Herky left behind. “You just made the cat cum!”
I, of course, ran off and told all our friends. “Philip made the cat cum! Philip made the cat cum!”
I’ve been recalling this incident from my childhood a lot lately—a young American and a Korean kid make a Russian cat cum—because the three world leaders who dominate the news these days also happen to be a Russian, a Korean, and an American: Vladimir Putin, Kim Jong-un, and Dingbat Twit. I’ve been imagining them reenacting our performance and jacking each other off onstage with Kim playing Philip, Dingbat as me, and Vladimir Putin as Herky the cat with the big, blue balls. The characters in my imaginary script echo their real-world counterparts and the surreal, sword-rattling statements they’ve all come to be known for:
A wall on the North Korean border with Russia. Afternoon.
The supreme leader of the Democratic People's Republic of Korea, KIM JONG-UN, gazes wistfully over the Russian border. The US President, DINGBAT TWIT, approaches.
DINGBAT TWIT: Hey Kim. What are you doing? You look a little down in the mouth. You okay?
KIM JONG-UN: Oh hey, Dingbat. I’m fine. I was just thinking about how enormous my penis is, but then I was filled with great sorrow when I realized that most people will never know what it’s like to have a penis as magnificent as mine.
DINGBAT TWIT: It’s a shame, Kim, a real shame. I know how you feel because you may have a big penis for a Chinese man, but it is nowhere near as mighty as my member. Sad.
KIM JONG-UN: (Angry) First of all, I’m Korean. And my penis is giant. My penis is named, Victorious Fatherland. It is the Master Of Destiny. A new star appears in the sky every time I make water and The Victorious Fatherland is the author of six operas. All six operas are better than any other opera ever written.
DINGBAT TWIT: ’Fraid not, Kimmy. In my pants, right now, is the most beautiful chunk of cock you’ve ever seen. Beautiful.
KIM JONG-UN: No way, Dingbat. My gigantic wang demonstrates to the full the heroic stamina of the powerful revolutionary Paektusan army in a drive to create the Korean speed.
Enter Russian Blue cat, VLADIMIR PUTIN, who hops onto wall.
DINGBAT TWIT: Oh hello, Vlad, I was just telling Kimmy about how—
VLADIMIR PUTIN: (Interrupting) Shut up. Slap my ass.
DINGBAT TWIT: Oh, well, I—.
VLADIMIR PUTIN: (Yelling) NOW!
DINGBAT TWIT: Well, sure, Vlad, anything you say.
Dingbat clumsily gropes and manhandles the cat’s rear end.
VLADIMIR PUTIN: STOP! Not like this, you stupid man. Kimmy, please show Dingbatsky how make Russia with love.
Kim dutifully stands behind Vladimir and begins slapping the cat’s ass with great force.
VLADIMIR PUTIN: Now Dingbatsky, you have watch. Kimmy will show how make pleasure to Mother Russia.
Vladimir arches his back, puckers his little brown starfish, and farts in Kim’s face.
VLADIMIR PUTIN: (Laughing) Why I make air poop on Kimmy’s face? Because I has perhaps many cabbage vodka in morning? I do not know, it is maybe.
DINGBAT TWIT: (Fanning nose with his tiny hands) Wow! Smells like your wind farm has a dead bird problem. Bigly. Lots of dead birds, folks. They’ve killed so many eagles. You know they put you in jail if you kill an eagle.
Vladimir does not respond because he is too busy growling at Kim to slap his ass harder.
VLADIMIR PUTIN: Yes, Kim-meeeeow! YES! Make stroke of staff, cup of balls!
As Kim spanks Vladimir’s rump with one hand, his other massages the insides of the Russian Blue’s twitching legs before reaching up to caress the azure fuzz on his succulent scrotum. The Korean’s fingers dance across Vladimir’s testicles like a fish on ice, bringing the Russian leader to the brink of orgasm. His colossal red rocket emerges from its sheath, the warhead glistens in the afternoon sun. Then, with a deafening roar, the Russian ejaculates. Great torrents of semen shoot out of his meat stick and the warm stones are shellacked with his love juice.
Dingbat and Kim inspect the semen as Vladimir exits laughing.
DINGBAT TWIT: (Removes phone from jacket pocket and reads outloud while typing on Twitter) “Long dong Jong hearts Putin’s pussy. Terrific hand job. Cum everywhere. No one is more passionate about Korea Russia relations than me.”
I wish in reality that were the only little red rocket those silly men had access to.