Transcript of best comedic scene from Tarantino yet:

KKK leader: Damn, I can’t see fuckin’ shit out of this thing.

KKK man in group: Are we ready or what?

KKK leader: Ah, hold on. I’m fuckin’ with my eyeholes. Shit, just makin’ it worse (yanks off hood).

KKK fat man: Who made this goddamn shit?

KKK man: Willard’s wife.

Willard: Well, make your own goddamn mask!

KKK leader: Look, nobody’s saying they don’t appreciate what Jenny did.

KKK man: Well, if all I had to do was cut a hole in a bag, I could’ve cut it better than this.

KKK man: What about you, Robert? Can you see?

Robert: Not too good. I mean, if i don’t move my head, I can see you pretty good, more or less, but when I start ridin’, the bags movin’ all over and I’m not lying.

KKK fat man: Shit, I just made mine worse. Anybody bring any extra bags?

Willard: No, nobody brought an extra bag!

KKK fat man: I’m just asking!

KKK old man: Do we have to wear ‘em when we ride?

KKK leader: Well, shitfire! If you don’t wear ‘em as you ride up, that just defeats the purpose!

KKK man: But I can’t see. I can’t breathe in this fuckin’ thing. And I can’t ride in this fuckin’ thing.

Willard: Well, fuck y’all. I’m going home! You know, I watched my wife work all day getting thirty bags together for you ungrateful sons of bitches and all I can hear is criticize, criticize, criticize! From now on, don’t ask me or mine for nothin’! (Willard leaves.)

KKK leader: Now, look let’s not forget why we’re here. We gotta kill a nigga over that hill there. We gotta make a lesson out of him.

KKK fat man: Ok, I’m confused. Are the bags on or off?

KKK man: I think, we all think the bags was a nice idea, but not pointin’ any fingers (pause), they could’ve been done better, so how about no bags this time, but next time, we do the bags right? And then we go full regalia!

KKK leader: Wait a minute, I didn’t say no bags.

KKK fat man: But nobody can see.

KKK leader: So?

KKK fat man: So, it’d be nice to see.

KKK leader: Goddamn it, This is a raid. I can’t see. You can’t see. So what? All that matters is can the fuckin’ horse see?! That’s a raid!


Safety First



Just when you thought that senseless acts of violence against innocent schoolchildren were overwhelmingly unique to America, this:

“Chinese Man Attacks 22 Children, 1 Adult With Knife Outside Primary School”

While Adam Lanza was attacking children in Newtown, Connecticut, mentally unstable 36-year-old Min Yingjun was doing the same thing at an elementary school in Chengping, China.

The difference?

No casualties.


Ming Yingjun had a knife, not a gun.

To Be Righteous

Another year. Another trip to the Confucius Temple in Tainan.

In one section of the temple, there are four large character plaques on the walls. The meanings of the characters are righteousness, filial piety, integrity and loyalty. I was told to sit under the character that resonated most with me. I chose to sit under righteousness. Which would you choose and why?


Filial piety



Moving On

The future is blank.

The Little White Orb

You entrusted me with a chicken egg. I wanted to keep it close, so I went out with it in my coat pocket. The shell wasn’t strong. But the contents were hard-boiled not soft. I thought it’d be ok. I didn’t tell anyone that I had it, but I knew it was there. For awhile, the egg stayed intact but with enough impact and friction, the shell formed a web of cracks.

I admit. I never should’ve kept it in my pocket, but safely tucked away.

When the egg fell from my pocket and onto the floor, the shell split in two and a little white orb rolled out. I gasped in horror. How could I have been so clumsy with our egg? I hurriedly picked up the orb. I’ve been trying to wipe it off and glue the protective shell back over it for a good while now, but there’s no denying it’s pocked, and my hands are soiled with dried up superglue chunks. I want to give you back the pretty egg you entrusted me with, but it appears I can’t.

I sigh. I’m exhausted.

If I continued on, I think, all I’d produce is a messed up heap of egg whites, yolk and shell scraps anyway. I stop in resignation and place the two eggshell halves next to the orb. I’m so sick of looking at that damn egg.

Part of me thinks that after I’ve washed my hands and cleared my head, I’ll have the patience to glue the shell back together. I’ve become quite emotionally attached to that pathetic little orb.

But part of me thinks I should just give up on it. Even if I succeeded in gluing the shell back into one piece, the ugly result would dismay us both. People keep telling me about all the other good eggs out there. New, shiny, cage-free and organic.

For some reason, I can’t abandon our hard-boiled egg though. No matter what scrambled or sunny side up thoughts my subconscious plays with, I know if I bought a new egg, I’d just crack it open and spill out its contents too.

So I pick up the shells of our egg and that little white orb that’s dented and dirty. It’s one of a list of flawed items in my possession: dog-eared books, coffee-stained manuscripts, stretched out pants, scuffed shoes, broken technology tools, bruised limbs, and bitten nails.

I go to you. I want to distract you with a tale of how Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall, had a great fall, and all the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put him back together again. Instead, I tell you about my own carelessness and how I allowed the egg to fall out of my pocket. I hand you the fractured shell and the orb.

Isn’t there something you can do to fix it?

Despite its blemishes, I know it’d be the best-tasting egg out there. Your eye always picks out the best.

You examine the orb and shells for a moment, then drop the shells to the floor. You hold the little white orb up to the light, then look at me and soften your expression.

With a forgiving smile on your face, you ask,

“Should I wash it off and devil it?”

Speaking in Tongues

Sitting next to me on a plane from Los Angeles to Las Vegas is an athletically-built, middle-aged Australian man. The skin on his face is rough from too much sun exposure. He wears a loose-fitting green T-shirt, checkered shorts and black flip-flops. Soon enough, he’s speaking to me about his mining companies in Australia and how he’s come to America to purchase horses for himself, his wife, and five children. He begins to ask about my spirituality.

“What religion are you?”

Oh, that question.

“I’d say I’m accepting of all religions, but an amalgamation of what I’ve found to be valuable across various societies, cultures, and religions. I try to practice love and compassion for all.”

“Do you believe in Jesus?”

He hadn’t specified what element of Jesus’ existence I did or did not believe in, but we get the point.


“That’s good. That’s very important.”

“Yes. I find Jesus’ message very inspirational. Many people forget what his message was.”

“Yes they do.”

Nods of agreement.

He remarks, “I was a member of a Catholic church once. It was too bogged down by ritual and repentance. After so much confession and asking for forgiveness of my sins, I started to feel worthless. But then seven years ago, I found this new church, not a Catholic one. After I went the first Sunday, I was hooked. I went three times a day every Sunday.”

“Wow. What was it about this church?” I ask.

“It was the energy of the people and what we gathered from the scriptures… And then there was this other thing…”


He continues, “I had an encounter with the holy spirit.”

“You did?”


“What happened?”

“I was new at the church. The pastor put me on the spot and had me say an individual prayer for each member of the congregation. There was one woman at the church who I’d been deliberately avoiding for awhile. She was the sister of a mutual friend and had heard that I was a nasty person. But she got in line at the front of the congregation for me to say a prayer for her. When she approached me, I placed my hand on her shoulder. And suddenly, it was like I had been infused with the holy spirit. The room and the woman disappeared from sight. I just saw ancient Hebrew script before me. I was also speaking Hebrew.”

“How long did this go on for?”

“I don’t know, maybe thirty seconds. Have you ever done this, speaking in tongues?”

“No. I’ve never experienced speaking in tongues.”

“Well, weeks later, I was sitting outside of the church and the woman I’d been avoiding before the encounter came up to me again. I was kind of embarrassed. I apologized to her for such a strange occurrence, you know, me speaking in tongues and all. She looked at me and said ‘What are you talking about? You talked to me in perfectly understandable English.’ And then she walked off. I’ve never forgotten about this and it keeps bringing me back to the church.”

“Yeah, that must’ve been quite a remarkable experience.”

“Have you ever had this kind of encounter with the holy spirit?”

“Hmmm. Not really like that.”

“Well, I hope that at some point in your life, you’ll have this kind of wonderful encounter.”

“I hope so too.”

“Oh, is that Las Vegas?” He points from our plane window to a few protruding hotels amidst the brown, barren land below.

“It is.”

“In the middle of nowhere.”


The plane lands.