Ninjas Killed My Family, Need Money And Apparently Sex
Gainesville is crawling with vagrants, like bearded zombies in the night, dragging their feet and hollering “CHAANGE.”
I was working on an article about them for the New Student Edition of the paper, and while I was interviewing this girl at American Apparel, I heard about a guy in town with a sign that read “Ninja’s Killed My Family, Need Money For Karate Lessons.”
“Some other people were sitting and talking with him,” she said. “I didn’t think it was very funny.” I’d heard about this guy, or at least this spanging tactic online before, so I was a bit intrigued.
The next afternoon I got a call from my girl, Jordan, telling me she was sitting with the guy in front of a local ice-cream and coffee bar. I figured this was the perfect opportunity to get a quote from the man I was already going to reference in my article. So, I drove downtown and stalked up all pro-like with my notebook and pen.
The first thing I noticed about him was his smell. It was strong and pungent. A nice olfactory companion to his grody mess of teeth which spread open into a gnarly smile and said in a lazy, saliva-drenched lisp, “Care to adopt a hippie?”
I told him no, I already had three staying with me for the weekend (which wasn’t really untrue) and asked him for his name. Teaamont Hadez Cuningham, he said. He claimed he’d be 34 come Halloween and said he’s been homeless and traveling for about the past 14 years.
He said he wasn’t homeless by choice, the simple fact was he was born here illegally and couldn’t get a job. That doesn’t stop half of California but, meh.
“I can’t get an ID cause I was born in a gypsy camp,” he said. “Everyone who witnessed my birth is dead.”[box] He said his mom brought him to America from Romania when he was only about a month old. She did this by “whoring herself out to a boat captain.” Upon landing in Alaska, she shacked up with the boatman’s best-mate and they lived in some icy shack that was soon covered by “an avalanche and a blizzard.” Cuningham’s mom died trying to save her seven-month-old son, she froze to death clawing her way out of the snow, and he would have died too if it weren’t for the motherly-instincts of a nearby polar bear.[/box]
Cuningham told me that momma polar bears bring babies to wherever they’ve seen that species before, so, believably, she dropped him off on the outskirts of the nearest Alaskan town. Baby Cuningham was found in the morning and brought to a local orphanage, which ushered in the next stage of his life-story, the rebellious-but-lovable-scamp period. For the next 17 years he was moved from orphanage to orphanage because of his ability to get himself into trouble, or probably, fuck the nurses.
“I stayed in 30 orphanages,” he said. “Every one in Alaska except for the big Catholic one … That’s where I was headed but I was saved and adopted three months before my eighteenth birthday.”
It was around this time in the conversation that he just looks at me and says, “Those are great.” What? I say. “Your tits.”
So I laugh, because that’s what I do when I’m nervous or happy or tired or high, I’m a giggler. “I get that a lot,” I say.
“When you laugh,” he said, “they move around so nice.”
Yeah, I think to myself, this dude is a fucking creeper. But I’m a journalist, I can flirt my way through the rest of this interview without puking, at least.
I continue on, asking who adopted him. Turns out, it was one of the dude’s who ran an orphanage from his past, who’d taken a liking to him and took him in when his place was shut-down by the government, because too many kids were molested. Cuningham assured me he was never molested, although he did loose his virginity inside that place. But it was consensual…
“38 double-D,” he blurts. I’m repulsed, but the only thing I can do is stare at him because, well, he’s damn close.
“I consider myself an expert of tits,” he said. “My dick is 8 1/2 inches long, 3 1/2 inches wide.” Now, I tell him I’ll be the one asking the questions, and if I don’t ask it, I don’t really want it answered. He’s all smiles.
I ask him how he likes Gainesville. He said he loves it. It’s apparently his fourth time here, he’s been coming and going since the late ’80s. He said it used to be a lot cooler, there used to be more drug dealers and they used to be more friendly to strangers. He tells me about how he’s watched the main strip of University Avenue change so many times, how he’s notices one building become a vacant lot, then a Starbucks, then a vacant lot again. Now it’s a mega-church for college kids, might as well be a Starbucks.
I ask him about his sign. He said he’s been using the phrase in some form or another for the past 15 years, he said it started as a bumper sticker on his dogsled. I ask if it helps him make more money. “Oh yeah,” he said.
I asked him how much he makes on average, he wouldn’t say but he said it was enough to buy weed (which he smokes all day everyday), herbal ciggs, and food. He said, thankfully, he doesn’t have to pay child support. I congratulate him on that, taking it to mean he’s managed not to bring anymore skeezy, fucking useless mother fuckers into the world after him.
“I have 36 kids that I know of.” SMASH!! There go my hopes…
He tells me his first son’s name is Dank Indica “Nuggets” Bud. His first daughter is Mary Jane Chronica. Both Dank and Mary have children of their own now, god save them all.
“I have the perfect reason not to name your kids on acid.” Oh sweet jesus this is gonna be good, I think.
So, while he’s trippin balls with his newest baby-momma, the story goes that they decide it’s time to name their new bundle of girlie joy. Neither parent wants to share their last name with it, I’m told. Momma’s little toes are bigger than her big toe, so Toe becomes the sir name. Cuningham has always liked Camels (Omg I know…), so Camel is the first, and Munch is the poor, unknowing child’s aunt.[box] “Three or four days later when the acid ran out,” he said, “I’m just standing there looking at the paper like ‘No fucking way did we just name our daughter Camel Munch Toe!’”[/box]
I get a couple more good quotes for my story from this guy before I decide I’ve heard enough. I asked him if he smokes, he said yes, and I told him I’d give him a cigg on my way back to the paper office from the gas station, a way of saying thank you for your time, mister sleezebag. He tells me I can keep the cigarette if I let him cop a feel. Fuck no.
Then, as I hand him his gift, he says he has one more question for me.
“What’s your hair like down there?” I tell him, that’s for me to know and you to never know. “Well,” he yells as I walk away, “If you ever want a tongue-bath, come find me.” I just laugh, because that’s what I do, and I get the fuck out of there.
Biased Moral of the Story: Next time you think you want to give your money to a homeless guy because his sign is funny, that dude probably spawned 400 kids that he named after drugs and doesn’t give a fuck about, and he’ll probably rape your sister if you turn your back too long, so fuck his ass, make him work for his karate lessons. Run and tell that, homeboy.