EITHER YOU LOVE ‘EM, or you hate ‘em. There’s not much in between. I’m wearing one right now. It’s white with large green hibiscus plastered all over. A beautiful shirt. I have ten of them. In different colors, red, blue, green, and yellow. When I wear them people ask. “Why do you have so many Hawaiian shirts?”
The answer is because I have some Hawaiian in me. It’s from drinking a lot of Hawaiian Punch as a kid.
TOO MUCH OF IT. I Drank so much Hawaiian Punch, I wondered… is this how you become Hawaiian? Consume insane amounts of Hawaiian Punch?
You know this drink, right? It’s only made of sugar. There’s no water in it.
Do they even make it anymore?
If they do, it’s not made the same way it used to be made. Hawaiian Punch had more sugar than Coke, Sprite, and RedBull combined. It was a can packed with sugar cubes. Then they dropped some red dye in and shook it up.
But there was something scratchy in Hawaiian Punch too. Every time I drank it, I remember feeling something itchy slide down my throat. I Googled it, and discovered what it was. They put Hawaiian-sand in the punch. Those motherfuckers sprinkled it in from the beach! You’re not supposed to do that. If you take sand from the beach in Hawaii, it’s bad luck. You get cursed. Did you know that? It’s the truth. Hawaiian Punch spread curses in cans, folks. That was their marketing slogan.
“Drink Hawaiian Punch. We guarantee, a curse in every can.”
I got cursed a lot because I drank too much of it. But I turned out alright; I’m a decent guy. I’m not the best guy in the world, but I ain’t the worst. That child molester, Jared from the Subway commercials, he’s the worst.
Anyway, if you’re reading this, I feel like I can trust you. So I’m gonna be honest, I didn’t get Hawaiian in me from drinking Hawaiian Punch. That drink is made in Poland, Romania, or any random Eastern-European country. And nobody knows what’s in it.
There’s nothing Hawaiian in it though.
THE TRUTH IS, I got Hawaiian in me from some time I spent in a Hawaiian prison. Their jails are rough, which is surprising. I don’t know if you can tell by looking at me, but I’m not a big guy. I’m a little dude. Slightly less than an-average-size-American male. I’m five-feet-eight-inches tall; I weigh a-buck-seventy-five. But Hawaiian guys are huge.
Or maybe that’s Samoan dudes?
I don’t know. What I’m saying is, the Polynesian guys in this prison were like Sumo wrestlers. I’m talking six-feet-three-inches tall, three-hundred-ninety-pounds of man beef. And the thing is, if you’re that big. If you’re hauling that much weight around on a daily basis? You’re naturally strong because you’re carrying more than three-hundred pounds of bacon with you everywhere you go.
Here’s what I’m thinking.
I have to exercise hard to stay in shape. But super-huge dudes? They’re literally walking inside a gym every day. Their bodies are gyms, and they’re trapped inside. Every movement is a workout for them.
Come with me on this.
If your arm weighs forty-five pounds, every time you raise it, you’re lifting the equivalent of a five-year-old boy with that arm. It’s the benefit of being big that I don’t have. Nobody talks about this? We’re afraid to debate the advantages of fatness?
ANYWAY, I GOT ARRESTED for wearing annoying Hawaiian shirts in Hawaii. They don’t like that shit over there. So they threw me in jail, and I got circled by these huge bruddas. <Brudda means dude> I stood my ground, but they were too big. Ten of them surrounded me. They blocked all the light in the room, it was so cold.
Then they made a gap in the circle. I ran to it because I wanted to get out. But this celestial stepped into the space, and he came at me, all three-hundred-ninety pounds of him. And I figured… I gotta fight this guy?
I pushed him with my right hand, but it got stuck in the folds of his skin. I pressed him with the left -to pull my first hand out- but it got stuck too.
I lost both arms, folks.
The guy laughed at me. A high-pitch evil laugh. But I was stuck; I couldn’t move my arms. So I kneed him in the stomach. Then my leg got stuck. I had one leg left. So I kneed him with that one.
It got stuck too.
I HAVE A QUESTION. Have you ever seen a body floating, facedown in dirty river water? Their arms and legs are dangling beneath the surface? When you look at them from the top, all you see is the rear of their head, and their upper back and butt?
That’s what I looked like.
Except, I was wedged between this guy’s stomach and his man-flaps. I know man-flaps isn’t the politically correct term. But this dude’s tits were pressed against the sides of my face.
What do you want me to say?
Anyway, I tilted my head back from his boobs, and gasped for air. Then he slapped the back of my head with those forty-five-pound arms. He bitch slapped me three times.
And that’s when it happened.
I mean, I’m not really sure what happened. I passed out from the combination of bitch slaps and suffocation. Who could survive that?
But you know what happened. It was the worst day of my life, folks. That’s how I got Hawaiian in me. He put it in.
Hold on a second.
I fucked that story up. That’s not what happened.
HERE’S WHAT REALLY HAPPENED. The Hawaiian guys surrounded me, and the massive dude stepped into the circle. He stopped in front of me, and I looked up. This dude was the size and shape of the friggin moon. But he was brown. Like a brown-moon. Anyway, he spoke really-quick in Hawaiian slang and had a super high voice.
“Howzit, brah? We gun Luau. You like Luau’s?”
I thought to myself… I love Luaus. Who doesn’t like Luaus? They roast pigs, and serve alcohol? Maybe some Maui-wowie? I mean, I am in Hawaii? Then I thought… maybe this is a prison-gang initiation thing? Like they’re testing me to make sure I’m cool? And I passed the test? Now I’m in the gang?
So I smiled. “Yes. I love Luaus. Thank you for asking.”
Then he said. “Eh, you wun grind pig?”
I knew grind, in Hawaiian slang meant eat. But the way he said it was confusing. I couldn’t tell if he meant.
“Pardon me for asking. But do you like to eat pig?”
“Pardon me for asking. But do you like to eat, pig?”
It sounded more like the second one. So I asked him.
“You wun grind pig?”
He said it the same way. Too much emphasis on the word, “pig.” Then one of the other guys said. “Eh, ee lolo!” And everyone, except brown-moon, laughed. I knew lolo meant stupid, and I figured… I can’t let him call me stupid!
But before I could speak, brown-moon dropped his forty-five-pound arm on my shoulder. Then he spoke to the other guys while shaking his head.
“Nah, ee na lolo.”
He stared into my eyes.
“No need beef, brah. Eveeting fine. Onee podum fa you? Oo da pig. We gon take a poka-n’ stick it in.” He jerked his thumb up and scowled his face. The universal sign for jamming something up a butt.
These guys are gonna eat me?… is what I thought to myself.
I was scared because, when brown-moon first mentioned Luau, I liked the idea. But I don’t like it anymore. His cannibal Luau is the opposite of Luau’s I’m familiar with. Plus, I didn’t know eating people was a thing in Hawaii? I read the brochures on my Hawaiian airlines flight. There was nothing in there about the dangers of cannibalism in Honolulu prisons! I would’ve remembered that.
BUT I GOT LUCKY. The prison guards rushed over, and they spoke in super fast Hawaiian slang. “Eh! Lee dat buggah’lone! He da kine!” They told the gang to leave me alone, and broke the whole thing up.
But the prison guards were Hawaiian. And that’s when it happened.
I passed out, so I don’t really know what happened.
But you know what happened.
There’s no mistaking what they did to me. They put it in.
Worst day of my life, folks.
After that, I was released from jail. Then I got tested. The results confirmed it. I’m twenty-percent Hawaiian now.
I can’t talk about this anymore. I feel really sad, and cold.
I’m burning this Hawaiian shirt though.
That’ll warm me up.