Smuggling Surfers

 

In this week’s excerpt from Maui Wowee, I wanna tell you a little about the smuggling surfers of Maui. I met them through my grow partner Ray, who ran with a fast crowd. And by fast, I mean traveling by private jet fast. I first met the guys while still living in Kona. We’d formed a mutual admiration society. They loved the Kona Gold I grew, and I loved the hash and cocaine they smuggled. Recreationals aside, what I loved most about the Maui’s corps of smuggling surfers were their stories.

 

I’ll share one in a moment, but first, check out this wave from Jaws, home of the world’s biggest waves, and  just down the coast from our rainforest home in Happy Valley. This photo doesn’t really do Jaws justice, but the waves there get over 60 feet high. And yet, the pro surfers I knew had  balls titanic enough to look at them, and think: All right! I can’t wait to get out there. You’d think with balls that huge, they’d sink like a stone. After watching my friends ride waves like this, I realized crossing a border with a ton of felonies was nothing for someone with that much courage. Or was that insanity?

 

 

I was eating breakfast out on the lanai, wondering what to do for the day, when Ray said, “Hey, Mikey, Panda just called. He’s got reservations for three nights in Haleakala. Wanna go?”

A rhetorical question if I ever heard one. On an island loaded with fantastic places, Haleakala Crater was probably Maui’s most distinctive feature. Biggest, anyway. Other islands had killer beaches with great surf. They also had rainforests, waterfall pools, and volcanoes. But none had a volcano with cabins to camp in. Haleakala, apparently some kind of vampire volcano, was sleeping, not dead, no doubt waiting to barbecue unwary visitors one surprising morning.

“Of course I wanna go. Who else is going?”

“Me and Flower, the Panda and Jewels, Hagar and Lily, Heavy Chevy and Cherry, and . . .”

“Outtasight. When we going?”

This would be fun. The Panda, a big blond surfer with constant great vibes, his petite and pretty wife Jewels, and a feisty madman with a red neck called Hagar lived in Haiku in a big plantation manager’s house. So did Lily when not fighting with Hagar. Chevy, curly-haired and glazed of eye, and Cherry (his gorgeous hapa-haole (half-white/half-Japanese girlfriend) lived on some acreage tucked below Makawao in Kaluanui Gulch, and these guys loved to socialize. So, after catching waves at Baldwin Beach and a lunch in nearby Paia, Ray and Flower and I would head up-country to one of their houses. As smugglers typically did, they had da kine stash. You name it: excellent pot and hash, pure cocaine, the finest LSD, vintage wines, and well, let’s just say, if it was worth getting high on, they had it.

But hell, so did we, and for me, the highlight of our visits was listening to their outrageous stories.

Like the time the Panda said, “Just brought this back from Peru yesterday. You lived there, Mikey, lemme know what ya think.”

“Peru? Yesterday? We just saw you last week.”

“They’ve got these things called jets,” explained Panda, as if to a child.

“Any problems with Customs?” asked Chevy, probably for future reference.

“We did have that little hiccup in Tahiti,” said Jewels.

“Wait. . .” I asked, confused, “you were in Tahiti, too?”

“Sure,” said Panda, “all part of the routing, brah. And I hadn’t been there since prison, so how could I resist stopping off, catching a few waves? You know what I mean, right?”

“Of course, who wouldn’t?” Besides me. “What was the trouble?”

Panda chuckled. “Seems we didn’t offer the Customs guy enough cash.”

Jewels shook her head. “What do you mean, we?” To the rest of us, she added, “I told him a grand per bag would do the trick, same as usual, but you know the Panda, he’s all business when it comes to negotiations.”

“Hey, come on,” he protested, “we had six bags full of felonies. Can you blame me for wanting a group discount?”

None of the other smugglers could.

“Then our luggage got lost for a day in Toronto,” said Panda, laughing at the idea. “Now that was a little sketchy.”

A little? These smugglers had ice water in their veins.

“Toronto?” I showed them I was no slouch at geography. “That’s a long way from Tahiti.”

“From Hawaii, too,” agreed the Panda.

The way he said it? I kinda felt like a nerd.

“Right. So, what were you doing in Toronto?”

The Panda gave me an incredulous look. “Isn’t that how sneak your loads back into the States?”

“Uh. . .”

“Exactly. And then, after all that traveling, we almost got popped right here in Haiku. Wouldn’t that be ironic?”

“I can think of other words. What happened?”

“We hadn’t been home ten minutes before my parole officer  was banging on the door for our monthly appointment. Any earlier, he’d have seen us drive up with all those suitcases.” Panda slapped his knee. “Can you imagine my embarrassment?”

“Not to mention the prison time,” joked Jewels.

“Heh heh, yeah. I barely had time to change out of my new Bora Bora t-shirt.”

Since the Panda was on parole and confined to Maui, the Parole Board might frown if they knew he was flying around the world with suitcases full of felonies. Same with the folks who ran the Federal Courts. Panda, only a couple years older than me, had a million stories like that. The smuggling surfers led an exciting life compared to pot growers. Or, well, almost anybody except James Bond.

 

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The Michael Cohen Tapes

 

President Trump called about the Michael Cohen tapes this morning. The poor guy sounded all stressed. I couldn’t blame him. Well, actually, I could, and for so many things, but I had to let him slide on the stress issue. Who wouldn’t feel stressed after being caught in so many lies? Let me try to recall the gist of our conversation. I’m not allow to tape our talks because of the “need for deniability,” but no one says I can’t paraphrase them. Granted, my short-term memory is impaired, but even so, some things stick out.

“Have you heard the Michael Cohen tapes?”

“Just part of the one, where you discuss paying off Karen McDougal 150 g’s.”

“I didn’t say use cash. At least not articulately enough to be clear.”

“So, just like your Tweets and speeches. But really, what’s the difference how you paid?”

“Heh heh, none really, but I like to muddy the water so Rudy can do his spinning. And really, what’s the big deal? A measly 150 g’s is nothing to a guy like me.”

“The point is you lied to the country yet again and got caught. . .yet again.”

“So what? People expect it of me by now. Lemme ask you something. What kind of lawyer tapes his client?”

“The kind who doesn’t trust his client.”

“Like he’s trustworthy himself. You know, I have half a mind to revoke Michael’s security clearance along with all those ex-White House staffers. Image them bad-mouthing their president? Where’s the dignity?”

“That’s funny, coming from you.”

“How come everyone’s criticizing me instead of praising me?”

“I guess they figure you do enough of that for the rest of the world. And then some. As far as criticizing, you give them so, so many reasons. I don’t know where to start.”

“What about the Trade Wars I started for no sensible reason? Look what they’ve done for our farmers!”

“You mean gutted the soybean industry? Putting them on welfare?”

“What are they complaining about? Didn’t I donate 12 billion dollars to their charity?”

“Of taxpayer money.”

“All right, maybe I didn’t think this whole Trade War thing through, but that’s not my style. Besides, didn’t you see those terrific Make Our Farmers Great Again hats I had made? For only $9.99 each, those whining farmers can feel wonderful about themselves.”

 

 

“Judging by how inexplicably excited the ladies are to see the hats, I’m sure America’s farmers will be lining up to vote for you again.”

“Thanks, Mikey, so am I.”

“I was being sarcastic.”

“I don’t get sarcasm.”

“I’ve noticed. That’s what makes it fun.”

“Well, I’m not worried about the farmers, not as long as I have a Big Mac on my TV tray while I’m watching Shark Week. Did you catch last night’s marathon?”

“Must have missed it. I was busy reading about the Karen McDougal payoff. Also, that Michael Avenetti has three more clients claiming you paid them off just before the 2016 election.”

“What can I say? I’m a horny old fart. A horny old far who’s not worried about payoffs to chicks.”

“I know, I know. . .you’re the Teflon Donald, but doesn’t anything get to you?”

“Actually, yeah, something did. When I heard Allan Weisselberg’s name come up on the Michael Cohen tape, I felt my sphincter pucker.”

 

Allan Weisselberg’s Got the Dirt. . .enough sludge to bury Trump Tower

 

“That got my attention, too, although in a different place. Allan’s got all the dirt, doesn’t he?”

“Decades worth of it, Mikey, decades. Enough sludge to bury Trump Tower. But I’m not worried; Allan said he’d take a bullet for me.”

“Isn’t that what Michael Cohen said?”

“Aw, shit, you’re right. Lemme ask you something. Dr. Strangelove still has his wet team, right?”

“You kidding? They’re getting kind of long in the tooth, but they’ve still got skills. Also, access to poisons and shit you wouldn’t believe in the Secret Weapons Lab. Wait a second, you’re not thinking of putting a hit on Allan, are you?”

“Just something Rudy suggested, you know, to get ahead of the situation.”

“Sorry, Donald, Dad’s pissed off at you.”

“Why? He’s a Republican, he supported Nixon, Reagan, and both of the George’s. What’s he got against me?”

“Dad’s a maniacal commie-hater; you seem to love Putin and Kim Jong Un. After hearing your press conference remarks in Helsinki, he thinks you’re a traitor to our country. In fact, if I mention the words wet team and Donald Trump in the same sentence, well, I wouldn’t wanna be in your golf shoes. Hey, that gives me an idea. . .”

“Know if off, Mikey, that’s not funny.”

“Neither are your policies. Kidnapping children, alienating our allies, snuggling up to our enemies. . . and that’s just the last couple weeks. I gotta tell ya, Donald, I’m not political or judgmental, but you make make it tough on Americans and our allies to respect you.”

“My base loves me. Women love me. My money, anyway. And most of all, I love me. So would everyone else in the world if it wasn’t for our number one enemy, the Media.”

“Not Europe?”

“That’s so last week. You saw me take your advice and make up with those foreigners, didn’t you?”

“You pat yourself on the back for fixing something you broke?”

“You don’t seem impressed.”

“I’m not.”

“What if I told you I’m a billionaire? That my apartment is the nicest around? That I’m much more elite than the elite.”

“Sorry, Donald, your egomania, though boundless, doesn’t impress me, either.

“Damn, you’re a tough crowd. So, tell me, what’s it gonna take for you not to call Dr. Strangelove?”

“How about telling me what you and Vladimir talked about in secret?”

“All right, but only if it stays between us.”

“Sure,” I said, fingers crossed behind my back, “you can trust me.”

 

What were those secrets? Depending on how Donald behaves himself in the near future, I’ll share some with you. But first, being honorable, I’ll give him a chance to mitigate some of the damage, show me some positive moves.

 

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The Helsinki Summit

 

All everyone’s been talking about this week is the Helsinki Summit, starring Donald Trump and best friend Vladimir Putin. When I saw our brave president squirming toad-like at the press conference when asked if he believed Russia meddled with the election? I gotta tell ya, I’m having trouble with what’s going on. Which is why I called the Donald about the Helsinki Summit, a meeting that insiders have called “disgraceful,” and a hell of a lot worse. The Donald’s handlers won’t let me tape our talks, nor do they want him talking to me at all, but you know how he is at taking advice. Even sensible suggestions like mine. And yet, I gotta try. Obviously, the Republican party hacks are afraid to.

 

In this shot from the Helsinki Summit Putin is telling Donald, “Make sure Mike Pence is out of my new office when I arrive in Washington.

 

 

“There you are, Donald. You’ve been back from the Helsinki Summit all week and haven’t returned my calls. What’s up with that?”

“Sorry, Mikey, it’s been a brutal week. I feel betrayed.”

“How do you think America feels?”

“Who cares? What about me? Even Fox News questioned my amazing victory in Helsinki. When Fox starts making up fake news, well. . .”

“Yeah, they’d never do that.”

“You seem uptight. What’s wrong?”

“I can’t believe you didn’t have the balls to tell Putin to his face that you knew his team of GRU agents meddled in the election. We talked about it before you left and you’ve said it numerous times in previous press conferences, but when it comes to standing tall, making America proud like you promised, you shrink like a violet–in front of the whole world. I wouldn’t call that presidential.”

“What do you mean?”

“Come on, Donny, you know what I mean. The same thing you’ve been hearing all week. You take the word of our nation’s enemy over our own intelligence agencies.”

“But he was extremely strong and powerful in his denial. Other stuff, too, if you know what I mean.”

“Please, Donald, focus.”

“Hey, I’ve said it could have been Russia, but it could have been a lot of people. We’ve all been foolish.”

“That’s what everyone who voted for you should be telling themselves.”

“Always with the jokes. But you know how it is, there are a lot of people out there. Last time I checked, millions.”

“You mean billions. But those billions of people were not the 12 GRU agents Mueller indicted.”

“Who knows for sure? Maybe it was a 400 pound fat guy.”

“Somehow I don’t think so. Nobody else does either.”

“Look, if it makes you and America feel better, Vladi made an incredible offer to have his own intelligence agents quiz the indicted GRU guys. That seems more than fair to me.”

“Not if you wanna get at the truth.”

“Here’s how much I want to get to the truth. I’m sending Mueller, his entire team, and any witnesses he may have to Russia. Hillary and Obama, too, if I can get them on the plane.”

“One way tickets, I presume.”

“Don’t worry, Vladi’s picking up the tab. Who knows, once they get a taste of Putin’s hospitality, they may never come back. And really, I don’t see what all the fuss is about. I don’t see why Russia would meddle in the election when everyone knew I’d kick Hillary’s crooked ass all over the place. I’m sorry, Mikey, but Vladimir’s word is good for enough for me. I’ll take it over the CIA any day.”

“Other people aren’t so gullible. In  fact, they can’t believe you are, either.”

“What are they saying?”

“John Brennan, former CIA Director, mentioned “high crimes and treason.” He suggests you’re in the pocket of Putin.”

“Pfft. . .I’d never fit.”

“It’s a figurative term. Means he’s got something on you. Which we both know is true.”

“The pee tapes? Big deal, everyone knows about those, and nothing’s happened. It’s not like I’m a Catholic priest. There’s no morality clause when you’re president, and if there was, you can pardon yourself from it.”

“I’m not talking about the pee tapes.”

“Oh. . . You’re not going to rat me out are you?”

“You know me, I have a code. On the other hand, I can’t take much more of this. Sooner or later, something might slip to someone not as close-mouthed as me.”

“Would a hotel in Siberia change your mind?”

“No, it’ll take a change in your, ahem, leadership style.”

“I don’t have one.”

“See? That’s a big part of the problem.”

What about my triumphant meeting with NATO?

“What about my triumphant meeting with NATO? That’s gotta count for something.”

“Oh, I’m sure it does. Also, what triumphant meeting?”

“You kidding, when I left everyone was thrilled. They even said, “Thanks.”

“Donald, you’re too much.”

“Too much man for the Queen. Did you see how tiny she was next to me. I could’ve body slammed her just like that.”

“Let’s get back to NATO. At the press conference, I noticed a guy from Brussels asking how they could trust you, when you say one thing, then Tweet another.”

“How can I be expected to say what I mean, when my mind changes so often?”

“For a very stable genius, Don, you say some crazy stuff. What did you mean when you told NATO to shell out more bucks or you’d do your own thing.”

“Oh, that’s a little secret between Vladimir, Jongy, and me.”

“That’s what I figured. Who’s your next new pal gonna be? The Ayatollah?”

“That’s an idea. I’ll run it by Bolton. Hey, Mikey, you see the soccer ball Putin gave me? Bet you wish he gave you one.”

After that, the Donald’s attention wavered relentlessly. I guess he was coming off the meds. Anyway, America, I’ll keep fighting the good fight, calling them as I see ’em, hoping I can help get our president on track before we’re the United States of Russia.

 

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Hawaiian Centipedes, stingrays with a 100 legs

 

In today’s excerpt from Maui Wowee, we’ll take a look at Hawaiian centipedes, evil brutish creatures that reigned fiendishly and everywhere in Happy Valley. Here’s a nice Hawaiian centipede right now, not that it’s nice. About the best thing you can say about it, is that it’s dead. How do I know it’s dead? Because it is not attacking the guy holding it. Let’s just say, no one would pick one up otherwise. Not without a lot of pain and serious regrets.

 

 

Our new pad in Happy Valley was comfy enough, long as you didn’t mind invasions of venomous insects. Or insomniac peacocks. Who knew those gorgeous birds were such a pain in the ass? Our friends Matt and Carmen, that’s who. They raised the damn things—not on purpose, but the horny birds wouldn’t stop mating. Anyway, they’d given some to the Sloth.

“Take as many as you want. Please.”

He thought they were being generous. The beautiful birds were noisy, and not as much fun to have around as you might think. On the other hand, they make excellent guards, going off whenever they heard a vehicle. Because there weren’t many vehicles in Happy Valley, they went off whenever they heard us. Afraid of the dark, they roosted on our roof. A pretty picture from the outside. Not so much inside. It was like having a dozen tap dancers on meth on our roof. Bad ones, with no rhythm.

“Like your guitar playing, Mikey,” said Ray.

The relentless scratching noise kept us awake and drove us up the wall. Ray grew to hate those birds.

“Shut the hell up,” he’d shout.

Obstinate for birds, they never listened. Ray decided to solve the problem with a shotgun. “They’ll listen to this.”

But Flower, into peace, love, and herbal enemas, was aghast at the idea, and wouldn’t let him induce silence.

I also opposed the idea. “Our roof leaks enough as it is.”

As for me, I found them irritating, but after living with African geese, even vultures would’ve been an upgrade. Plus, they ate centipedes, and that earned them a pass in my book.

My roommate Flower, a gentle soul, put up with a lot from her boyfriend Ray, who was not. A domestic goddess, she took care of the housekeeping. Good with math, she’d also give us the daily centipede report. Happy Valley seemed to be centipede central, and though the house’s foundation was raised on posts, the uninvited little devils still squirmed their creepy way in. You name a bug, we had it in spades: cockroaches, centipedes, spiders (big ones), and a natural history museum’s worth of weird-looking things. Many of them bristled with barbs, fangs, pincers, or stingers.

Pointing at a large bug with all of the above flying past, Flower said, “I don’t even know what to call those guys.”

Neither did anyone else. Unknown to science, some had no names yet. I started collecting various oddities, planning to turn over my collection to the Smithsonian; maybe have a hideous bug named after me. Imagine the honor. But it was the centipedes, arguably the creepiest bug on Mother Earth, that bothered us the most. Ray had a phobia of them. I was not fond of the terrifying monsters, either. Flower, who’d never felt their sting, said we should love them; that they were a vengeful God’s way of showing displeasure. Following a sting and a trip to the Emergency Room, she changed her mind, decided they’d been sent by Satan instead. A ‘pede attacked my sleeping neighbor on Oahu, climbing into his bed and biting his nuts.

Stingrays with a hundred legs

Big Steve claimed his balls (which had achieved grapefruit-sized proportions) had done nothing to provoke the incident and yet the ‘pede attacked them anyway. “Just ‘cause they were there.”

That’s how nasty Hawaiian centipedes are. No way I could love something that did that. The best way to deal with one was a quick stomp. Obviously, not when barefoot, and as I learned the hard way, not while wearing flip flops, either. They made Bruce Lee seem slow, and as I brought my lightning-fast foot down for a lethal squishing, my foe, moving even faster, poisoned the shit out of me. Worse, he got away before my stricken foot ever hit the ground. I spent the next three hours in excruciating pain, banging my fist and screaming every cuss word I knew, as mad at my myself as at my nemesis. Centipedes made wasps seem like pussies; grown men, too. They were sting rays with a hundred legs and our property was alive with them.

Before moving in, Ray had set off a barrage of bug bombs. Looking through the windows from the lanai, it looked like our house was on fire.

“You think that’s enough?” I’d asked.

Ray shrugged. “Hope so. That’s all they had on the island.”

We aired the place out, and after sweeping up a couple dozen cockroaches, countless spiders, scorpions, and way-too-many centipedes, we moved in. Ray and Flower went to the market to stock up on groceries while I relaxed at home with the dogs, entertaining/harassing them with some blues guitar. It’s not easy entertaining others when you’re tone deaf.

Listeners suggested, “Not easy? Try impossible.”

Still, I kept at it. After all, practice made. . .people walk away. Good. Music critics bugged me.

As I sat on the front steps, I noticed a prime example of my dreaded enemy. Da bugga stalking me was mid-sized, about ten inches long and thick as my middle finger. Which I gave him to let him know how I felt about his company. Though insulted, he didn’t attack. That could only mean one thing: he was dead. I looked at the ‘pede, then smiled at my killer guitar. Damn, I was good. Well, bad. Either way, I was proud. A revolting brute, the beast was a sort of reddish brown on top, but when I flipped him over, using a safety stick just in case, I could see the brilliant orange iridescent stripes on his belly—no doubt the last thing his prey saw as he climbed aboard for a snack.

They weren’t just creepy, they were fierce. Any insect that can kill and eat a baby rattlesnake is one badass bug. And they can. I saw it on TV. They have some in Venezuela that live in caves, get thirteen inches long. They slither their way to the cave roof, then hang down like venomous uvulas and snag bats as they fly by. I know, bats. Yuck. They probably hate the taste and do it just to show they can. They do not make good pets. Unless they’re dead. I used the safety stick to play with my pal for a minute. Nope, no fun, not even dead. . .

Still, I thought of a way to have some laughs with the ‘pede, and I moved my little buddy next to my bare foot. Even in death, his corpse posed in attack mode. The only mode centipedes come with. I’d never touched one before, except with the bottom of my work boots. And the one time with my flip flops. . .I mean, ankle. I wanted Ray to see the playful ‘pede when he came up the steps. When he returned with groceries under his arms, I stayed put and kept strumming, knowing it would annoy and distract him. And so, he didn’t notice the monster until his foot was inches from it. You should’ve seen the look on his face. I never saw a tan fade so fast or Ray jump so high. Ah, good times. Except for the smashed beers. I hadn’t thought that part through.

Ray, a lax student of the martial arts, knew some moves and used all of them on the dead centipede, squashing the corpse into a thin layer of toxic gunk. Seeking revenge for stings long past but still remembered, it took a minute or so to fully vent his fury. Finished, he stood back and took a hopeful look. You can never be too sure with resilient Hawaiian bugs. Proud of his work, he beamed a smile. Dressed in his usual khaki uniform, he looked like a deranged great white hunter admiring his tiny kill.

I strummed some chords, paraphrased something from the White Album. “Hey, Bungalow Ray, what did you slay. . .”

“I love the Beatles, please don’t ruin them for me,” begged Flower.

“What am I? Yoko Ono?”

“If only.”

The ultimate musical insult. I stopped singing, but feelings hurt, I kept strumming and got even.

Ray pointed at the goo. “Look, Flower, I got one.” Then to me, “Lucky for you I got home when I did.”

I would’ve told him it was already dead if not for the wasted beer. As we’d learn, ridding our house (let alone a hundred acres of rainforest) of centipedes proved an impossible task. Not that our work boots didn’t try their best.

I told my roomies, “I’m starting to see why the Sloth sold this place.

 

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The back side of Haleakala.

 

In this excerpt from Maui Wowee, we take a quick trip to the back side of Haleakala, the site of the most recent eruption and a place the rent a car companies want you to avoid at all costs.

 

 

The back side of Haleakala, rocky, remote, and desolate, aside from offering stark but amazing scenery unspoiled by tourists (the gnarly “road” treated rental car tires like Hawaiians did snacks), was not appealing for development or farming or, well, anything else. Which is why the State’s bureaucrats finally agreed to give protesting Hawaiians (known to bureaucrats as: “those incessant whiners”) an unusable chunk of their island back. So, pretty much the same way bureaucrats treated Native Americans. I imagined how the historic handover went.

“Here you go, brah,” said Senator Gread. “The least desirable land on Maui. Are you happy now?”

“No,” said the head of the Hawaiian Sovereignity movement.

“Is there no pleasing you pushy Hawaiians? I thought you wanted a place to rebuild your kingdom.”

“Yeah, but here? Are you kidding, brah? Please say yes.”

The sensitive authorities bristled with compassion. “What’s your problem, Chief?”

“For one thing, I’m not an Indian.”

“Thank Christ. Otherwise, we’d have to let you build a casino out here. Then you’d be demanding road improvements, electricity, water, a decent lifestyle. . .”

“That’s not a bad idea.”

“Forget it, Kahuna. Meanwhile, pretend this worthless property is sacred or something. Show a little gratitude, a little class.”

“But dis place get no soil, no rain, no beaches, no nuttin’, brah.”

“So what? Check out these forsaken views. They’re all yours. A dream come true.”

“Yeah, right. Wait a minute, wat’s da catch, brah?”

The Hawaiians knew not to trust the government. Even with a shitty deal.

“No catch, besides the exhorbitant taxes and permit fees we’re levying. Think of it as a symbol of our good will.”

Everyone got a good laugh at of that one.

The generous bureaucrat demanded, “Now quit your protesting and enjoy your barren rocks. And don’t come looking for any more handouts.

 

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The Trump Putin Summit

With the Trump Putin Summit in the immediate future, and Donald alienating our allies, I figured I better call the President, mitigate some damage. After the way he “out-negotiated” Kim Jong Un, I fear for America’s future. Well, I already do, but you know what I mean. You put Vladimir and the Donald alone together in a hotel room? With no witnesses except expendable interpreters, anything could happen at the Trump Putin summit. I’ll paraphrase the parts I recall for you.

Vladimir Putin caught whispering, “If you want another four years, here’s what you’ll do.”

 

 

“Hi, Mikey, I knew you’d call with some tips for the Trump Putin summit. You can’t resist butting in, can you?”

“I don’t like to sully myself with politics, but like most of the free world, I’m concerned about you and Vladimir alone in a hotel room.”

“What could go wrong? Oh, heh heh, you mean the pee tapes he’s blackmailing me with?”

“That’s one example. God knows what he’s got planned for our country. You need to stay strong. Don’t fall for that dreamy smile and his romantic promises.”

“Don’t sweat it. Am I not the greatest negotiator in the Universe? Not to mention, one hell of a golfer. I just set a course record for Turnberry. I gotta tell ya, this is some course I built!”

“That’s quite a feat for an unborn.”

“All I know is my name comes ahead of Turnberry, and that’s good enough for me. Too bad you couldn’t make the trip, see how the people here love me. Everywhere I go? Huge crowds, yelling and screaming my name!”

“Love you?”

“Haven’t you seen them waving signs and yelling support?”

“They’re waving signs, all right, but those are protesters. They’re pissed off at what said about Theresa May. Not to mention, how you dissed the Queen.”

“How did I diss the Queen?”

“You showed up late for tea, made a 92 year-old woman wait in the hot sun while you practiced putting.”

‘”So?”

“Some consider that uncool. Then you walked in front of her, blocked her way.”

“I’m a leader, that’s what leaders do. And besides, who cares? The Queen is an old frump.”

“They’re also mad about your criticizing Theresa May, how she wrecked Brexit.”

“Hey, I apologized, sort of, for saying such good things about her.”

“So, you’re saying, you’re sorry you said good things about her, even though you didn’t?”

“Why is that hard to understand? As for the people in the U.K? Screw ’em. None of them vote for me, anyway. Hey, Mikey, how’d you like the way I tore into NATO the other day? Told them they better start living up to their obligations or I might team up with some new partners. I think they knew who I meant.”

“You did?”

“Hell, yeah. I told them, ‘I pulled out of the Paris Climate agreement, I pulled out of NAFTA, and if I want, I’ll pull out of NATO.’ You should’ve their faces!”

“I did see their faces. No wonder they weren’t happy. You don’t think it’s crazy how you praise heinous dictators and alienate our allies?”

“What do you mean, alienate? I insult the hell out of them, and they never insult me back. . .which can only mean they love me.”

“Donald, they’re just being civil.”

“You mean showing weakness?”

“No, man, it’s called diplomacy, showing class, as befitting a world leader.”

“You know me, Mikey, Trump America comes first.”

“You’ve renamed our country?”

“One of the job perks. Gives the U.S. some much-needed class.”

“I know you like to be first. I guess that’s why you walked in front the Queen of England.”

“Hey, I’m a leader, that’s what leaders do. Beauty before age, right?”

“I think it goes the other way.”

“Not the point. They should’ve elected me, I’d have shown Theresa May how to do Brexit the right way.”

“Right. Let’s get back to our NATO partners.”

“What about those slackers?”

“The thing is, they are living up to their obligations. That was fake news that they weren’t.”

“See that? Everywhere I go, fake news follows. Weird, isn’t it?”

“Not really, you’re the one who puts it out there.”

“Maybe so, but I blame Obama for the fake news. Also, for this whole collusion witch hunt. Why didn’t he stop me? You see the Deep State in action here, don’t you? No doubt crooked Hillary is behind it.”

“No, I don’t. As for a witch hunt, Mueller just indicted 12 GRU hackers. Apparently, there were links to your campaign team.”

“Vladimir promised they’d never testify against Donald, Jr. Or be seen again, so I’m not too worried about us getting caught.

Advising the President.

 

I took a deep breath, and said, “Let’s focus on the Trump Putin summit, Donald.”

“Oh, I am, and as always, I want your advice. What do you think I should wear for my big date? I’m thinking a really long tie, and pants that hang all the way to the ground. That way people have to guess if I’m wearing shoes.”

“Why ask? That’s what you always wear.”

“Vladi suggested I show up in something informal, like a dressing gown or a toga.”

“No, don’t wear a toga.”

“So, go with the dressing gown?”

“No, not that, either. Donald, this isn’t the kind of advice I want to give.”

“You don’t want me to look my best?”

“Yeah, sure, but I don’t want you to do everything Putin suggests.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’s got a different agenda for America, and it doesn’t include democracy.”

“When I look into those eyes, and hear the words, “Do you want another four years?”  I’m sorry, Mikey, but I can’t resist. Plus, he’s got the pee tapes.”

“I realize that. So does Vladimir. Why do you think he asked to meet you all alone. Just you, him, the hookers, and the disposable interpreters?”

“Well, that’s private.”

“I meant besides the intimate stuff.”

“Vladi said we’d discuss building Trump hotels all across his ever-expanding real estate empire.”

“I see. And I suppose he’d want a few favors in return?”

“Just the right to locate missile bases on U.S. turf. That and to run as Vice President in 2020. Nothing unreasonable.”

“Putin as Vice President? One heartbeat away from your job?”

“He can’t be worse than Mike Pence, can he?”

“That’d be a stretch, but it’s still a terrible idea.”

“I don’t see why.”

“That’s why I need to be in that room as a moderator.”

“Sorry, Mikey, three’s a crowd if you know what I mean.”

 

America can only hope for the best. If you want some laughs to recover from the real world, check out my books. Start with a free copy of Breaking Good.

 

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Pig Hunting In Hawaii

 

Today’s excerpt from my upcoming book Maui Wowee features pig hunting in Hawaii, and the kind of maniac it takes to hunt pigs Hawaiian-style. To set the scene, it’s late September, 1974, and my Kona harvest was only days away. Why was I on Maui instead of with my plants in Kona? Because my next door neighbor’s exploding greenhouse had taken out a police chopper that morning. It seemed a wise move to make myself scarce till the heat died down. (It’s a long story, but you can read all about it in Kona Gold.) Anyway, in this excerpt, Ray and I are doing a reconnaissance of Happy Valley, making sure the 100 acres of rainforest we might buy was as ideal for growing pakalolo as we thought.

 

Just one of the many problems facing the outdoor pot grower.

 

 

Though off the grid, thanks to a windmill with batteries and a generator, the Sloth’s place in Happy Valley had electricity. No TV reception, but with only three channels to choose from in those days, we weren’t missing much. Radio reception also sucked, but I had a guitar. Which, according to some, also sucked, and was why our stereo was always on. Our main concern  was whether the gorgeous property could grow us a ton of pakalolo or not. To find out, we’d gone for a reconnaissance hike, two of Ray’s white German shepherds leading the way. I knew my pup Rocky, still in Kona at the time, would love running with them.

The stream bisected the valley floor and we set out on the left flank, the one farthest from our gate. Ray, having been there a couple times before, led the way. When not beaching it, he always wore khaki shorts and a khaki shirt with epaulets. One shirt pocket held Tiger Balm to grease up his mustache. The other held that day’s joints. His ego-accommodating Panama hat expanded and featured a pheasant feather lei hatband. On his belt, a razor sharp Buck knife. With his long hair and beard, he looked like a Furry Freak Brother on safari. As for me, I wore surf shorts and a Lightning Bolt Surfboards t-shirt. I had a Swiss Army Knife. It had dull blades, but, also, a lot of other stuff I had no use for and wasn’t even sure what they did. I looked like a hippie lost in the woods.

We soon noticed a few existing trails.

Ray said, “Pigs.”

I nodded, said, “Right.”

 

He meant the kind with hooves and curly tails, not the two-legged breed. We weren’t thrilled to see them, but pig trails are ubiquitous in the rainforest, and unless you’re in a park on a designated hiking trail, the natural trails in the rainforest meant one thing: wild pigs. A grower’s nemesis. As you saw in the photo above, along with narcs and ripoffs, these guys were about as bad as nemesises came. I don’t care how jaded you are, getting porked backdoor-style by an actual porker can’t be any fun. Rape was bad enough, but with the pigs came another nemesis. . .the insane Hawaiians who hunt them with nothing but huge testicles, a sharp knife, and a pack of dogs. I’m not making that up.

 

Upon encountering a pig, instead of climbing a tree or running for their lives like a sensibly panicked haole would do, a local and his dogs will chase the pig down and murder it. For sport. And because they have huge appetites. A grower did not want pigs or pig hunters in his plot. Fierce and belligerent, they’d rip a haole apart. The wild pigs were no picnic, either. As you can see, the pig hunter above was foolish enough to go hunting without his dogs. A lesson learned the hard way.

 

We meandered around the forest for a couple of hours, seeing only a portion of the property, but liking what we saw. An industrious group of growers could put unlimited plants in a place like that, and yet there was no sign the Sloth or anyone else had ever bothered. By the end of the tour, what with a Kona harvest just weeks away, I was impressed though not committed. Now, after the recent debacle in Kona, I was ready to go for it.

 

Have you read Breaking Good yet, the first novel in the Señor Bueno Travel Adventure Series? If not, what are you waiting for?

 

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Scott Pruitt Resigns As Head of E.P.A.

 

Naturally, when I heard the words, Scott Pruitt resigns from the E.P.A., I had to raise my fist into the air. When I heard President Trump saying Scott Pruitt did a great job, only resigned because the fake media said mean things about him, I had to call Donny and give him some shit. The Donald prefers I don’t tape our talks, you know, because of deniability factors, but I’ll paraphrase the salient parts for you.

“So, Donny, you finally started draining the swamp, huh?”

“Hi, Mikey, I had a feeling you’d be calling. Yeah, I took your advice, I let Pruitt resign with honor and dignity thanks to the fine job he’s been doing at the E.P.A.”

“Some fine job. He talked you out of the Paris accord, he deregulated everything that could be deregulated, he spent taxpayer money like a billionaire on a binge. . .”

“Thank God he got all that done before he had to go, right?”

“Wrong. Scott Pruitt resigns has a nice sound to it, but his legacy lives on to undo everything progressive that’s been to slow down global warming. On his last day, that son of a bitch removed a cap on SuperPolluter trucks. Trucks that produce 55 times the pollution limits. I hope you get on top of that.”

Scandal-Plagued Scott Pruitt resigns with honor, dignity, and glory.

 

 

“Ah, why bother? It’s far too late to save the environment now. The newest prediction is that global warming might be twice as bad as they thought.”

“That’s because of policies like yours.”

“Exactly. By the time I get done, it could be four times worse. Shows what idiots scientists are. Besides, where’s the profit in environmentalism? You know how much money Big Coal and Big Oil lobbyists spend every year?”

“Billions?”

“That’s right. Now when alternative fuel sources can afford to, ahem, compensate us so generously, we might change our policies. Till then, Mikey, face facts. This is a capitalist society and the country elected me to make them money, not protect human rights and Mother Earth.”

It’s hard to argue with a billionaire sociopath. Same as it is with his followers, who yell at me, “Forget human rights, look at the stock market index!”

“That’s what I don’t get, Donald. Sure, some fat cats were on your side, but you carried discontented poor people.”

“Yeah, those deplorables fooled everyone.”

“Even women voted for you. I saw a clip of you up in North Dakota the other day ranting about the evil Elitists. You asked what was elite about the Elitists when you were more elite than they were. You boasted how your apartment was nicer, how your boat was bigger. How you were more handsome than any other president or celebrity.”

“Well, aren’t I?”

When I stopped laughing, I asked, “What I want to know, is why were those people, none of whom had a nicer apartment or boat, cheering for you? You’re the epitome of everything you ranted about.”

“What can I say? The people love me. Haven’t you seen the polls?”

“Yeah, I have. They say you’re the most unpopular president in history. Worse than Nixon and George W. Bush. Even Taft.”

“Not the fake polls, Mikey, the real ones my staff takes.”

“Those might be a little biased.”

“All right, how about the ones from Russia that Vladimir sends me? I’m number one over there.”

I sighed. “Well, at least Pruitt’s gone. I’m sure Andrew Wheeler, ex-coal lobbyist, won’t be any better for the country, but hopefully, he won’t have dozens of scandals.”

“Ol’ Scott got carried away, didn’t he? Sure, he had a few scandals, but man, the guy was loyal. . .”

 

A few scandals?

 

“A few scandals? He spend over 100 g’s on a trip to Italy. The guy spent 43 g’s on a secure phone booth. He spent 3 million bucks for a 24/7 security staff of 18. He uses sirens and flashing lights in his motorcade to go to lunch.He put biometric locks on his office door. He flew everywhere first class because he felt threatened. He needs a security team to drive him to various Ritz-Carlton Hotels because he wants a special skin lotion.” I went on like that till I ran out of breath, then asked, “Why is this guy so damn paranoid?”

“You do all the dirty deeds I ask of you, you’ll be paranoid, too.”

“That’s for sure. I wouldn’t be able to look myself in the mirror or sleep at night.”

“That’s what you get for having a conscience. You know, a lot of Scott’s paranoia is your fault.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Thanks to you and that Carl Hiaasen (@Carl_Hiaasen) tweeting about him all the time, people were coming up to him in restaurants, telling him to resign.”

“Heh heh, good. Paranoia is one thing, but Pruitt was depraved, abusive. He sent staffers out for snack food, to pick up his dry cleaning, to buy a used mattress from your hotel. What was that all about? Wait a second, let me guess. . .something to do with hookers and golden showers?”

“Heh heh, sorry, Mikey, I promised not to tell.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

I listed another dozen or scandalous things I knew about Scott. Donald considered Scott’s many flaws and said, “I can overlook petty stuff like that, but the final straw was when he tried to get a Chik-fil-A for his wife. Now that showed bad judgment.”

“Really? Out of all the horrendous things Pruitt did at the E.P.A., you choose the Chik-fil-A scandal as the final straw?”

“Shows bad decision making.”

“So does sending E.P.A. staff to buy a urine-covered mattress.”

“Maybe so, but Chik-fil-A? Really? When he could’ve tried for a McDonald’s? Give me a break. There’s nothing better than chomping down a Big Mac while watching Shark Week with a porn star, am I right, Mikey?”

“That’s what you tell me. I’m not judgmental, you know that. What you pervs do in your private life isn’t my concern. But when one of your cabinet members robs taxpayers blind, and another wants to throw every marijuana user in jail, I’ve got some legitimate complaints. You wanna throw someone in jail, Scott Pruitt’s your man.”

 

The Attorney General job is yours.

 

“Like I keep saying, Mikey, you want Sessions out? You want Pruitt charged? The Attorney General job is all yours.”

“Man, that is tempting. I could legalize pot on a federal level.”

“That’s right. All your life you’ve been crusading for personal liberties, fighting the government the whole way; now’s your chance to change things from the inside.”

Sounds like a dream come true, right? Mikey G. saves the country from madness. I liked the sound the of it, but there remained one buzzkilling problem.

“Do I still have to sign the loyalty pledge first?”

“Of course, you know loyalty is more important than honesty in my administration.”

“That’s what Sarah Huckabee Sanders told me. Look at the toll lying all the time has taken on her.”

“I know, she looks like a ghoul, won’t get a makeover. I gotta find a hotter spokeswomen. Too bad Hope Hicks left.”

“She get tired of the groping?”

“Heh heh. . .”

Something had to be done. I considered the loyalty pledge for a bit. Did the benefits to the country outweigh my personal feelings? Many would say so, but then they’d never ridden around the golf course with Trump watching him cheat and then listening to him brag about breaking the course record. I mean, a man can only take so much. Imagine seeing him every day? Still, if I could change the world from inside the swamp, maybe I should go for it. And if I went for it, I’d go big, like I always do.

“So, if I was A.G., I could run the Department of Justice the way I wanted? Indict evil-doers, end policies that involve kidnapping babies and ignore civil rights? I could protect our citizens from lobbyists and the politicians in their pockets?”

“Sure, go ahead, drain the swamp.”

President Trump and I seemed to be on the same page, which I knew from experience meant he was off his meds. This might be a good time to explore my new position in the cabinet.

“Really? As A.G. I can drain the swamp?”

“That’s right, Mikey boy.”

“Because I’ll start right at the top.”

“You mean Hillary? Jeff Bezos? The media?”

“You’ll see.”

“Wait a second. . .you mean me?”

“If the golf shoes fit. . .”

“Good one.”

“Stop laughing, I’m serious.”

“Don’t waste your time, I’ll just give myself a Presidential Pardon. I can do anything I want! I’m the Teflon Donald.”

What do you think, folks? Should I become Attorney General? Do the pros outweigh the cons? It’s a big decision and I could use some help.

Meanwhile, I better get back to my writing. I’m prepping my first novel, Breaking Good, for a paperback edition. It involves another President who’d gone off the rails, a certain evil madman named Richard Milhouse Nixon, who happened to be my Uncle Dick. If you haven’t already grabbed a free copy, grab one right now and start laughing.

Click here for a free copy of Breaking Good!

 

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The Hana Highway and Happy Valley

 

Here’s another excerpt from the upcoming Maui Wowee featuring the Hana Highway and Happy Valley, home to the Happy Valley Hui and two huge pakalolo plantations. But first, enjoy this image.

 

 

Happy Valley, a hundred acres of isolated rainforest, had the potential for a massive crop. The property was off the Hana Highway, out past Huelo. If you’ve ever driven to Hana, you’ve crossed fifty-seven one-lane bridges. Some have little red dirt roads leading into the mountains next to them. You may have noticed them while waiting an hour for an oncoming train of tourists to cross a bridge, each rental car stopping in the middle to gawk, take pictures, and piss you off. The roads are owned by East Maui Irrigation, and all have a locked gate. They provide access to a vast system of concrete flumes that carry water from the rainforests of the North Shore to the cane fields in the central part of the island. Also, to an extremely well-hidden pakalolo plantation called Happy Valley.

 

With the property came a key to the EMI gate. A gate that eliminated, well, almost everyone else from the area. A hundred yards beyond the first, there was a second locked gate, this one blocking a driveway on the left. Fifty feet beyond the second gate, the driveway took a hairpin turn to the right and disappeared into thick foliage. From the highway, there wasn’t clue a residence might be hiding there.

 

“Welcome to Happy Valley,” said a smiling Ray on our previous visit.

 

I’d smiled right back. Talk about your private property. The nearest residence was Woodrose, fourteen acres of paradise where our friends Spider and Jenny lived, and we’d passed that ten miles ago. With the ocean a rugged half-mile downhill, and nothing but rainforest between us and the summit of Haleakala, I loved Happy Valley at first sight—and not just because of the waterfalls and swimming holes. With a location that sneaky, I had a good feeling about the place. Then again, a grower never really knew. Growing pot was like rolling dice; only they rolled for several months. The insecurity level ratcheted way up with Dr. Strangelove in the picture.

 

On the far side of the gate, the driveway wound its way downhill under an umbrella of massive trees with philodendron vines climbing up the trunks. The mango trees were as almost as big as the banyans and monkeypods. Under the trees: a wild variety of ferns and lush tropical plants with exotic flowers on them. And under those? About a jillion squiggly things I couldn’t see from the truck. Our new partners, the Professor and the Hulk had liked Happy Valley as well. Who wouldn’t? Anyone with a bug phobia, that’s who. A place like that? They were in the air, on the ground, crawling in the trees, and as I’d see, most of them wanted to bite me.

 

Reaching the valley floor, we drove into a clearing. There stood the Sloth’s toolshed. Don’t picture a toolshed, picture the kind of place a rich drug dealer might build: a two thousand square foot, tin-roofed Hawaiian-style house, raised on posts, it’s redwood walls painted green with white trim. Then add a big lanai and an amazing view. As there was no infrastructure (electricity, water, or sewage) along this part of the island, Maui County didn’t give out building permits. At least for homes. Clever hippies found a loophole involving toolsheds. After getting one approved, they’d modify the hell out of it—just like we did with the coffee shacks in Kona without approval. It’s not like the county inspectors, busy playing poker in Wailuku with the Vice Squad and Syndicate thugs, would be back to check.

 

Surrounded by a lawn and flowers, the house sat on a half-acre of cleared land just above the stream, overlooking a waterfall. A flock of peacocks roamed the yard, snacking on insects. Unlike the belligerent African geese that ruled my coffee farm in Kona, they didn’t attack me. I liked them better already. With the peacocks and all the flowers, kaleidoscopic Happy Valley could have posed for postcards. Although there was no beach in the front yard or sexy wahine on my arm, it was exactly the kind of place I’d spent my college years daydreaming about. For me, it was love at first sight. Then again, I hadn’t tried to sleep in a tin-roofed house where nervous peacocks danced all at night.

 

If you haven’t already read Breaking Good, the first book in the Senor Bueno Travel Adventure series and wanna see where Señor Bueno’s misadventures all started, grab a free copy of Breaking Good.

 

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