How the drive from Monterey to Cottonwood and back again might go for you
There was a beat up pickup truck, larger than average, with a flatbed area surrounded by wooden fencing made of paint chips and splinters. The bed was full of sheep. They were pressed against the wood, but not making a sound. Had I not looked up while pumping gas, I wouldn’t have seen them at all. Not even a smell preceded their arrival. And they had no idea how old that wooden fence looked. I probably could have karate chopped it to pieces without trying hard.
Tehachapi also hosted the scrawny woman with the mousy brown hair and burgundy corduroy pants. She approached our table during a short food break to give us a religious book, then asked if my son and I wanted to pray with her. Probably could have karate chopped her pretty easily. She didn’t order anything.
Barstow, driven through on the way to Arizona and slept in on the way back from Arizona, held terrors to chill the very soul. From expensive gas stations and herky-jerky stop lights, to the denizens on their bicycles who hang out in a few of the motel’s parking lots wearing very little (it was past 100 degrees at 11 p.m.) with their tattoos and desperation on view for the road weary to witness. What they did wear looked like it had been new back when Cindy Crawford still made movies. My sleepy, caffeine-fueled karate chops would have confused them at first, but then they would have kicked my ass and stole my stuff.
How can you Bruce Lee a heatwave? Mentally it’s possible. Especially from inside a car. With an air conditioner turned so on it’s like love. But that heat kills everything. My dreams of a life without becoming a crabby curmudgeon left a stain on Route 66 when it melted there years ago. But mentally, I totally kicked that 109 degree temp’s ass.
In Paso Robles, there’s always a guy who only has enough money for a soda and sits in the restaurant adorned in torn clothes he probably got from the bicycle-riding crowd in Barstow, because it was always too hot there for them to need it. That guy sits in a booth and sizes up the customers when they walk in. He makes uncomfortable eye contact. He karate chopped with his eyes and I karate chopped back. I could be him after all. I could make those who see me uncomfortable. But I don’t.
And now my eye lids are karate chopping my cheeks. And my cheeks keep karate chopping them open again. And I miss the quiet sheep.
Patrick Whitehurst 
During the last month, I’ve spent no less than 30 hours digging an invasive weed out of my yard. I covered it with cardboard and paper and whatnot then topped it off with a 3″ thick layer of much. Today little sprouts were popping out of those layers. That weed karate chopped me. I shed a tear, gathered myself (including all those loose, frazzled, aching, parts) together, and doused the hell out of it with vinegar. I karate chopped the eff out of that thing.
With luck it’s karate chopping days are over, while yours are just beginning. Next time you might even karate kick it!
Next time I will karate powerbomb it!
And karate microwave it!
And karate riverdance it!
Karate bellyflop it!
Karate jumprope it!
Karate speed walk it!
Karate backstroke it!
Karate squat it!
Karate pole vault it!
Karate thumb wrestle it.
Karate synchronized swimming it.
Karate tap dance it.
Karate tango it!
Karate flap it!
Karate hula hoop it!
Karate electric slide it!
Karate air guitar it!
Karate huff it!
Karate snot-rocket it!
Karate knee-slap it!
Karate stir fry it!
Karate slam-poetry it!
Karate caught in a mosh it!
Karate shotgun it!
Karate shotgun wedding it!
Karate riding shotgun it!
Karate I call shotgun it!
Karate shotgun shack it!
Karate sugar shack it!
Karate Caddyshack it!
I totally was gonna do that one. 🙂 Karate kicking some ass it! 🙂
You totally set it up for me to karate kill it!
Boom!