Comrade Profile Part 1; God Bless You, Mr. Hawkins

There are few things in this life that give me such well rounded joy. Riley and Callista are one. Music is another. So is Mountain Dew and Stove Top Stuffing in the same dinner. But there is not a single person in the world that fills me with such murderous rage and unattainable euphoria like one Michael Hawkins does.

At work, I often get the "new voicemail" alert on my phone, and when I do, I can only hope that it is Mr. Hawkins. "Hellooooo, umm, queer baby. It's Mikey. I, uhhh, hate your guts, and mostly wish that you wooooouuuuuld, um, get caught in an espresso machine explosion where the shards lacerate your skull, hahaha, and ummm, I hate you. Fuck you." There is nothing like a Michael Hawkins voicemail that can spark an imagination full of torture and pain for one person. A return call may sound like "Hey idiot. I hope someone comes knocking on your door, and when you open it, an Orc crushes your feet with a warhammer. While you are in agony, I hope he then laughs, tells you your penis is small, then crushes your skull. Shut up." It's a good back and forth.

As a song writer, the man bleeds music. Though it isn't very good, or thoughtful, or even audible, it is fun to play. Songs like "I love Derrick" or "I love Shane" or "Kiss Me On The Mouth, David Hasselhoff" are all hits, but have an underlying tone I can't quite put my finger on. If you haven't heard this modern Mozarts masterpieces, imagine a baby crying over Kid Dynamite riffs. Then, make your ears bleed.

What's worse is that this man is the quintisential stereotype of Italian. Obsessed with mob movies, always having his face buried in a bowl of some pasta, and weilding some sort of weapon in his trunk, there is nothing like watching Mikey Meatballs get upset. Just to witness the breadsick-bone, marinara-blood, spaghetti and meatball smelling wise guy go off on some latte drinking yuppie or everyday "leave me alone, I didn't do anything wrong and you have a bad temper" person is better than watching a determined Chihuaua try to make it with one of Michael Vicks prize fighters.

This is not to mention the man is obviously mentally disabled (please reference the above picture where he believes he can speak to animals). This man-child has somehow managed to operate in a society where everyone loathes him specifically, thus keeping his temper short and his face constantly red (as well as his eyebrows nicely trimmed and his cleanliness next to godliness [reference; wears socks around the house. all the time.]).

But, despite the horrible person that he is, he's been a good friend. Through one of the most difficult times of my life, he was a staple which kept my head up and my feet moving. As much shit as I give to this man, he is one of my best friends. As much as I loathe him to the core, I love him just as much. If it wasn't for this man, I can't say that I would be the same person I am today. Thank you, Mikey.

So for that, God Bless You, Mr. Hawkins.