Middle-Aged Bully Reminisces On Nerd Bashing Days

Chaz Braundochenko sits in a dingy one bedroom apartment on the upper east side of Iowa City.  His entire body quivers like a fragile wad of clenching fury.  His varicose veins create a bulgy grid of weakly pulsing blood that travels to all of his flabby extremities and back to his fat-encrusted heart.  In his prime, Chaz was the all star varsity scrubber for his high school's curling team, as well as the tri-county bullying champion.  Ranking nationally in wedgies, depth and emotional scarring taken into consideration, leading in spitballs into teachers' mouths accuracy, and second in the state in squeezing milk cartons so it comes out of kids' noses, Braundochenko enacted many changes within the bully community.  Now, he's just some guy remembering stuff.

We think we've used this picture before, but that kid is just such a wuss.

"Remember when the Mighty Ducks coach talks about taping that guy's buns together in The Breakfast Club?  Yeah, I invented that," boasted Chaz while compulsively giving a noogie to a softened peach as arthritis has claimed his knucky-knucks.  "A lot of people think that bullying is all lunch money and stuffing dweebs in lockers, but to be completely honest, it's so much more than that.  There's chicks too.  Fuck yeah."  

Chaz began his bullying career early on.  In elementary school, he witnessed something that would change his life forever.  After seeing seventh grader Tommy Bununuh whale on some pale kid for absolutely no reason, Chaz aspired to be one of the greatest playground tormenters the educational system had ever known.  Billy "The Goober" Randolph, Charlie "Horse" Plompkin and Rhonda The Emasculator.  These were Chaz's idols.  He would sit on the monkey bars for entire recess periods observing their handiwork; learning the proper number of twists for maximum Indian burnage and how to not only take off the shoe when giving a Flat Tire, but the sock and some heel skin as well.

 If you think we feel good about showing you this, you're right.

"Those were the days," reminisced Chaz.  "By fourth grade I could give some pansy the Purple Nurple of a lifetime right through his parka."  Entering middle school, young Braundochenko flourished immediately at dealing out massive beatings and psychological trauma to his peers.  "What Chaz did to us was brutal, but...sort of beautiful at the same time," whispered Melvin Tiddle, still jumpy from too many Fire Cracker Buttcracks during his youth.  "The way he'd snap his towel at our wieners instead of our backsides.  How he didn't mind ripping out a little bit of neck hair with his headlocks.  And by god, those classic Swirlies.  No pre-flush or anything.  Turd in there?  So be it.  One time he held me under for so long I spoke to my dead grandfather.  That was a big day for me."

As the wetness of Chaz's willies increased dramatically with each semester, teachers tried desperately to put an end to his reign of terror.  "We did everything we possibly could," said student counselor Mr. McGuss.  "But that boy's father just wouldn't have it.  Every time I met with him, it ended with me feeling a whole lot worse about myself.  He used to call me Booger Nose.  As if that even makes sense...still hurt though."  Parent-Teacher conferences proved pointless in correcting Chaz's behavior.  One teacher who referred to Mr. Braundochenko's son as a "bad egg" was subject to a near-lethal short sheeting that cost him his legs.

This guy just wouldn't stop hitting himself.

When the ruthless asskickery persisted, parents of the victimized children took to forming a coalition against Chaz.  After calling his mother, the group discovered that Chaz never really stood a chance at normalcy.  "I mean, I knew the dad was a meatheaded mongoloid, but that mom of his was something else.  Just pure evil," said Dave Chunke, father of Walter Chunke, a particularly doughy lad who was beyond ripe for pink bellies.  "After about thirty seconds on the phone with her I found myself checking to see if my refrigerator was running.  It was gone.  Not to mention she cast a spell on me or something.  Whatever it was, my penis has been shrinking by a few centimeters every year."

As he neared high school, Chaz truly came into his own.  Finding himself far beyond puberty while many of his classmates were discovering their first pubeskis, he unapologetically exploited his physical advantage.  His mass consumption of lunches led to a minor famine in the school district.  Gym classes became grisly scenes of contusions and dodge-balled groins.  Surprisingly enough, the suicide rate among teens plummeted as tales of Chaz's cruelty spread like a wildfire with cargo shorts.  Students everywhere were convinced that if they took their own lives to escape the madness, Braundochenko would be waiting for them on the other side with a wad of bubblegum to cram in their armpits.  The golden age of gut-punching seemed to have no end in sight.  And there really wasn't.

Sort of like this, but with its nose stuffed in a pile of crap.

Upon graduating 8th grade, Chaz was practically foaming at the fists to unleash his signature wave of destruction upon an unsuspecting population.  "I trained every day that summer," said Chaz as he examined his forearms, seeking strength long since faded.  "Pulling kids' pants down, pushing them into mud puddles, sitting on people's chests until they passed out.  Just classic stuff."  The ease with which Chaz performed these feats would prove to work against him.  When he finally entered high school, he was met with more formidable foes than expected.

"Yeah, I remember Braundochenko," recalled Tony Musklebund, whose liver spots could kick most moles' asses.  "He came waltzing onto my turf, goosin' and bruisin'.  Had to teach him a lesson."  And teach Tony did.  After introducing himself and his squadron of goons, the group hit it off immediately.  Taking Chaz under his wing, Musklebund showed him the ropes.  "Those ropes proved to be really helpful," said Chaz of the various types of rope found in some shed.  "I tied a whole bunch of people to toilets and flagpoles and stuff like that.  This one time I even tied a kid to a big pile of rope.  He was just like 'what?'.  How is that sonofabitch Tony doing anyway?"  When we told Chaz that Tony died of a massive coronary during our interview with him, he farted and laughed.  

Or maybe he laughed first, then farted.  Either way, a man died.

When it finally came time for Chaz to go away to college, he struggled with the decision.  "On one hand, I wanted to join the workforce.  Maybe as a plumber or veterinarian.  Get out into the real world and do some serious damage.  But then again, the idea of hurling a keg at somebody appealed to me.  I actually got to do that a couple times at frat parties.  It ruled."  He eventually settled on Pradley Punyversity, pursuing a degree in nothing in particular.  His choice to go there was made due to the large congregation of wimps in the nuclear science program.  Also, the dean of the school gave Chaz a full ride scholarship when threatened with a brain-altering nose flick, which would be dealt out anyway, turning the dean into a vegetable for the rest of his agonizing life.

As with all great legacies, a downfall is required.  Tragedy struck when a misunderstood "Kick Me" sign resulted in one student being beaten to death in a bad neighborhood.  Chaz was forced to take a break from bullying by the Buzzcut Brigade, a league of machomatic manly men and the only institution Chaz had even a shred of respect for.  Having a penchant for aggression and knowing little else besides harassing others, Chaz found it difficult to assimilate into society.  "I got into a few tussles with grocery store clerks when they accused me of stealing candy bars.  I mean, I totally was, but they didn't know that, so I punched their god damn lights out."

 Is that a Whatchamacallit in your pants or are you just aroused from damaging my internal organs?

Now as Chaz nears 50, he is forced to look back on his expansive career and wonder if he did all he could to make the lives of others a living hell.  Reminders of his glory days linger throughout his abode.  Elastic bands torn clean off of undies hang from lampshades, demolished art projects decorate the walls and a necklace of chipped molars rests on his nightstand.  "All those weaklings were just so...weak.  And I am so strong.  I felt like I'd be doing a disservice to my country if I didn't savagely assault their weak bodies with my much, much stronger body.  My only regret is not suplexing Connor Sanders.  That kid sucked.  I think he died of cancer or something.  Stupid idiot."

When we suggested that perhaps his skewed outlook was the product of his parents' ineptitude and violence in the media, he stared at us until our souls soiled themselves.  Then we actually soiled ourselves.  Then we left.  As we shut the door, he was still staring.  As we write this, we're still soiling.