Hello Bonzo

Hi Bonzo,

It's me again. I was thinking today about violence. And how we're supposed to control our feelings, and remain calm. Even when we're seething inside. At least, that's the message that has been transmitted to me through various sources, supposedly authoritative.

You know what, Bonzo? I think it's a load of bollocks. I think when you get angry, you should let fly. Ya know why? Cos if you don't you get cancer. Either that, or you store it up and when you finally release, one of you ends up in hospital.

Take my friend Sam for instance. For years, he tolerated his mixed-up, spoilt, good-for-nothing little brother. He kept reminding himself to be patient, as his brother pissed away (or snorted) about a thousand dollars a week and then lived off their mom. He held himself in when his brother went out with him, a student not earning barely anything, taking it for granted that big brother would pay. He talked to him, tried to help, but inside, Bonzo, inside, there was all this resentment built up.

"You really shouldn't treat Mom like that."

"Who do you think you are, big bro? Piss off."

Well, you get the picture. Anyway, it all came to a head one day when they'd both been drinking. Dick, the little brother, convinced big brother to go to the corner bottle shop for another bottle of whisky. Then Mom showed up, because Dick had called her to pick him up, on the sly.

Sam: "Oh hello Mom, whatchoo doing here?"

Mom: "Dick called me. Said he wanted to be picked up."

Sam: "Oh, OK then. Bye."

Dick: "Nah. We just got a new bottle. You can wait until we finish it. Go rest in Sam's bedroom or something."

Sam (turning red): "You can't talk to Mom like that."

Dick (retreating behind Mom): Aw piss off you big fucking idiot. I'll talk to her however I please."

Sam reached out over his tiny mother, who barely came up to Dick's chest and took a swing. And once he started, he pounded the scrawny drug-addicted alcoholic loser (if you think I'm biased Bonzo, I am) into pulp. He also practically pulled Dick's arm out of its socket. An hour later, their Mom (who had called the police) drove Dick to hospital.

He was stitched up and is now obliged to go for physiotherapy once a week. For his arm.

Sam was telling me this story over a wine. His eyes lowered, he expected me to be shocked. But you know what Bonzo? I wasn't. And as far as I was concerned, Dick had it coming.

"So did it feel good?"

Sam looked up, his sombre expression lightening considerably: "You know what? It actually did."

"You and me, Sam, we're one of a kind. We store things up until it has to explode and it's always ugly, isn't it?"

"Yeah," he shook his head ruefully.

I know I am supposed to muse on the nature of violence or something, but tell you what, you do that for me, OK Bonzo. Only I have to warn you, if you get too preachy, I will delete what you say.

And if you should happen to fling a few Bible verses at me, I will forgive you, for you know not what you do.

Love
Me