Damien Galeone

Reginald slips the 9 tram into the terminal station as smoothly as laying a worn dollar bill on a satin G-string. As he does, I scurry to the cockpit to peer out through this window. The 1 tram is parked in front of us and Joyce the driver is moving around the car performing post-drive duties such as bum removal, condom scraping and clearing empty boxes of wine and bottles of Tučnak. As we queue up behind the 1 tam, the 16 tram ticks past us on its way out of the station. The 16 tram driver is Jane, a light-haired brunette with a nose you could land a 747 on, who smiles as the two trams pass each other.

And so, for the third week in a row, the love story continues.

Read the rest of this entry »

If you’re anything like me, and dear God I hope for your sake that you’re not, then nothing infuriates you more than a pet store employee. Just the sight of one of those smug bastards sorting dog toys and cleaning bird poop awakens the devious sadist within.

Surely it’s no surprise that I have devoted a good portion of my life to torturing these name-tagged zoophiliacs. After a lifetime of research, I have compiled this list of the five best ways to torture them.

5. Speak in Latin. Actually, you can speak in any other dead language, but Latin allows you to use the scientific names of the animal about which you are inquiring.

“Hello, could you please show me your best Felis silvestris catus?”
“I’m sorry, what is that?”
“It’s a common pet. Is this not a pet store?”

I think you can see where this is heading. This can be both accompanied and made more effective by a combination of muttering and crying. Also, wearing a shirt with the Latin phrase and picture of a dinosaur on it seems to really seal the deal.

Read the rest of this entry »

The man in the picture on Lee’s iPad depicts a seemingly good-natured, friendly person. Otherwise, however, he doesn’t really exhibit any attributes deemed valuable by females. Honza is not an altogether unattractive man, it’s just that he seems to have gone out of his way to choose the single worst picture ever taken of himself. He is wearing a light red workout suit and he is engaged in some kind of demented dance move which makes him look like the least cool Mick Jagger impersonator on Earth. This effect is enhanced, I guess that’s the best word, by the fact that he is holding ski poles.

He has clearly aggravated his barber in some way and his mouth is held in such an unnatural contortion that he must be singing Tuvan throat music Karaoke. He has a mole on his nose, which at this point I am fairly convinced that I transplanted onto him to complete the Arc de Triomphe of his dismal appearance. I’m surprised that I haven’t given him buck teeth and hair plugs.

Read the rest of this entry »

As with every visit to The Šaš (my physician), we are discussing Thai women. The Šaš is holding an Otoscope into my ear and offering sage advice on what I should do as a young man in this world.

“Go to Thailand, perhaps Bangkok, and open a language institute that caters to high-class Thai prostitutes,” he says.

“You mean open my own harem?”

He removes the Otoscope. “Sure,” he says. “They need English.”

“I need to buy a whole lot of pillows, then?” I ask

“Your ears are fine,” he says. Then adds, in the same Marlon Brando meets Kermit the Frog drawl, “No pillows, rubber sheets and coconut oil.”

Read the rest of this entry »

Whenever I wake up in a grumpy or sad mood – every day, different reason, this morning is a stubbed toe – I go to the most cheery webpage online. Recent Deaths on Wikipedia.

Before you judge me as ghoulish or morbid for reading the obituaries over my morning coffee, let me explain a couple of things.

First of all, Recent Deaths is just the start off point. Any given Wikipedia page has the tendency to lead to several other, totally random pages, and Recent Deaths is no exception.

The problem with this is that it makes me a font of useless information, even more than does being an ESL teacher. And that’s saying something.

Read the rest of this entry »

Milton Snavely Hershey and J.P Morgan were supposed to be on the Titanic. Hershey, of course brought delicious, calorie-packed milk chocolate to America, revolutionizing the fat industry. He evidently took a chocolate ship to Happy Land and J.P Morgan instead journeyed across the Atlantic on a yacht made of cash and investors’ souls.

In reality, Hershey had to return from France early and Morgan stayed at a spa in France, deciding to deal with his investors’ souls at some later date.

According to Greg Dougherty’s Seven Famous People who Missed the Titanic also among those supposed to be on the Titanic were radio pioneer, Guglielmo Marconi and the novelist Theodore Dreiser. Contrary to popular belief, Celine Dion was not on the guest list.

Read the rest of this entry »

There is a full length mirror in the hallway near my office that I am almost always able to avoid. Once in a while I’ll check my teeth after a salad or check my beard’s progress as I walk by at a quick pace.

But sometimes, like this morning, I let my Inner Sadist out for a walk and take a good, long look at myself in the mirror. Normally, the Inner Sadist would focus on my belly or ridiculous nose, but before He can indulge in such a self-beating, we both realize I am wearing all brown. Every stitch of outer wear is some hue of brown. My camel brown pants complement my burnt umber shoes. In an unintentional breach of fashion laws that suggests an inability to discern colors, my jacket and hat are both chocolate-brown with olive trim. Adding cosmic insult to injury, my bag is the same.

Removing my coat reveals a seal brown shirt.

Oh the Inner Sadist is going to have a field day with this whole thing.

Read the rest of this entry »

Two pigs are to be slaughtered today, which is 200% more pigs than I have ever seen slaughtered. The first one, who I secretly name Forsythe, is led out of her cage while emitting cries and squeals that are sure to make cameos in my future nightmares. These squeals are truncated when she meets her maker via bolt pistol at 7:14 a.m.

At 7:14:30 the first shots of domácí slivovice (homemade plum brandy) are passed around as everyone snaps into action like a reverse ER crew. Forsythe’s carotid and jugular are sliced and the women catch her blood in pots; then she is hoisted into a wooden trough and covered with resin to make her hair easier to remove. Then the  men  pour boiling water over her. We three Americans—Collin, Conrad and I—are immediately put to work. They scrape off Forsythe’s hair with metal bell-shaped tools and I scoop the water, resin and blood out of the wooden trough with a brown bowl decorated with cartoon hens.

After her eyes are cut out, Forsythe is hung by her Achilles’ tendons to a metal rack and her head is cut off. At 7:31 a.m. the next round of slivovice is brought around as Igor and a man called Uncle (no joke) begin eviscerating Forsythe. At 7:35 a.m. Conrad and I are assigned the task of going to pick up the second pig with an older man missing his bottom ridge of teeth.

A half hour later, we load the second pig into the cage on the man’s truck as it exhibits a clear sense of understanding that this is not going to be its day. On the way back, the man tells Conrad about his pet goats and I sit in the back of the truck, the slivovice rushing through my blood as I pledge a life of vegetarianism and plan out a tofu farm.

Read the rest of this entry »

The twelfth one comes in. She looks like the eleventh. And the tenth. They are all young and attractive; their eyes shine, their smiles are radiant and they are a whole voter younger than me

There are two of us doing the interviews for the study abroad program. One of us is the interviewer, the other is the assessor. I am the interviewer; I begin my rigmarole

“Good morning, I’m Mr. Galeone and this is Professor ———ova. Welcome to the oral test for the Unmentionable Study Abroad Program.” A vine of hives spreads up the candidate’s chest onto her neck as her pre-interview jitters get the better of her. I smile. “Just relax, could you tell us a little about yourself?

As this is the 300^th interview I’ve been a part of in the last three weeks, this is where things start to blend together. Therefore, I slip into a kind of dreamy trance during the interview. Do I need bread? Would it freak this kid out if I just started vomiting right now? Look up on Wiki: Nipple Cancer.  

Read the rest of this entry »

A fact of life for any unknown writer is trying to get a book review from someone other than their grandmom. My grandmom thinks my novel is a masterpiece, much better than “that Southern fella who writes about all the lawyers,” but that doesn’t help sway the New York Times Book Review into taking a look.

Getting a review in Kirkus Reviews, which is a highly regarded literary review, costs a lot of money. A lot. And since I am an educator in the Czech Republic, selling my soul has become a necessary evil.

Below is a list of ten services I am offering to raise the money for a review in Kirkus. I based it on my strengths, people’s needs, and of course, porn.

Read the rest of this entry »