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If I could dunk on anyone it would be none other than John Rambo.

John Rambo’s lost it all. He’s lost his mind, his honor, his Vietnamese girlfriend, and his necklace, but he’s lost his pride. At least not in the paint, and my plan is to end that by dunking all over him!

This is my plan. “The basketball court is a warzone out there”.

First things first. I need to convince John Rambo into thinking there is a war on the court. He has to be really pumped about this otherwise the dunk is pointless. I might as well dunk on my grandma. We know that Rambo has pretty solid ties to Buddhism so he doesn’t get mad for nothing. It has to be for a war.

Second thing. Probably should have been the first thing. Metal Detect John Rambo. More then likely John Rambo is going to have a hunting knife, a compound bow, explosive tipped arrows, a crab cracker, grenades, napalm, a compass, a can of sardines, multiple gauge ammunition, and a plethora of fire-arms. I know people say that in war there are no rules, but this is just self preservation.

When I arrive at the arena, I realize that dunking on Rambo is gonna be tough because more than likely he’s booby trapped everywhere inside the 3 pointer line. So here is the third thing that needs to happen.

I get a super official looking guy to tell Rambo that there is a call from the American Embassy. When John Rambo reaches for the red phone it’s my chance to dunk on this heavily roided American schizophrenic super-soldier.

While he is on the phone hearing the heart breaking tale of how some villagers in some country are being treated like crap by Russians or I guess Al Qaeda now, I make my move. Rambo sees me making a break for that basket so he pulls out his bow and arrow but since he went through the metal detector he has nothing but suction tipped arrows. One sticks to me, but I keep it on because I like the comedic effect.

I easily finish a nice clean one handed windmill dunk and hang onto to the rim just long enough to grab my nuts and tell Rambo that he has failed.

I finish the dunk and it is so epic and so legendary that Rambo is filled with total and complete post-traumatic stress disorder. I want to do something so epic that every time he see’s a person walking towards him he will think that they are attempting to go OVER THE TOP* with a dunk. His last lonely days will be miserable.

Then to show that I’m a dunk SPECIALIST* I will take a leak on the following Rambo medals: 1 medal of honor, 2 silver stars, 4 bronze stars for valor, 4 purple hearts, and 1 distinguished service crosses.

Because to be honest he simply hasn’t been through enough yet.

*Sick Reference!

Lear Bunda is a writer/director/editor based out of Atlanta.

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If I could dunk on anything it would be the crunchy tube-snake that scarfed up my main bro Codhi.  Now don’t get me wrong, this isn’t meant as a slam on Gaia.  I know that Mother Earth works in mysterious ways, and while I may not understand it, I can accept that it was Codhi’s time to dork a ride out through her heaven-hole.  I also know that the yarfy shred-wall that slurped up my besty is just as much a part of Gaia as you or me, which means I can’t blame that wave without pointing the finger at Gaia.  And Mother Gaia hates getting fingered.

But I, like that wave, am only human.  While I spend my days shredding waves, I feel like I want to literally shred that one specific wave, like the way you would shred cheese to sprinkle over some spicy guac.  And my heart is like the avocado in that same scenario, because it’s been hacked to pieces, and is now suffocating under the blanket of shredded wave-cheese that got sprinkled over my spicy-guac soul earlier in this metaphor.

The tides taunt me. I put a seashell to my ear and hear the ocean whisper, “suck my dick, Tane”. It’s torture. I inked off a raggy tribal tat to cheer myself up, but it only reminded me of that buff back-piece Code got of a wolf howling at the moon only if you looked closely the moon was the earth because the wolf was actually standing on the moon.

And now I am that wolf, ready to unleash a gnarled-up dunk on Mother Gaia’s wave-child. Apologies to Gaia, but it has to be done. An eye for an eye. I and I.

The stage is set as the rainforest canopy descends around me, the court rising up from the soil. I’m more juiced than the time I shoved four peyote buttons up my starfish and listened to The Gandharvas for 16 hours.

I summon Gaia’s fury by calling a hummingbird fat, and she trots out her starting five:

Guard: Ants

Shooting Guard: Some rocks

Small Forward: An apple

Power Forward: Mist

Center: THE WAVE

Game on, mon. The apple steps out to guard me in the corner as the wave prowls the low block, frothing and roiling, goading me into the lane. I can smell Codhi’s tanning oil still churning within it, mixed in with the foul dredgings of a century’s worth of oceanic cruelty. My anger runs thick like the gummy sap of a Jacaranda tree.

Can an apple guard a wolf? Absolutely not. I blow by it and drive hard up the baseline, the moist forest air filling my snarling nostrils. Five feet from the hole I elevate both literally (through jumping) and figuratively (heightened consciousness through tantric meditation) and prepare to right the wrong perpetrated on Codhi’s bong-print thong.

I draw the ball back, fully extended, and stare up at the towering wave cresting above me. For a moment I’m transfixed by its shimmering majesty, its soft curves and staggering height. Whoever said size doesn’t matter never tried dunking on a wave in the form of a wolf, I promise you that.

But it’s too late to turn back. I close my minds-eye and bring the ball thundering down towards the rim, my paw penetrating the foaming mass with the force of a thousand thrusting swordfish. I hammer the rock through the rim, teeth bared, nipple rings glistening. A piercing, pierced silhouette in the late afternoon sun.

The wave explodes, littering the forest floor with its dank contents: Used condoms, a styrofoam cup, the shit of a wayward pelican. But then, rising out of the retchy garbage-rain comes a familiar figure: A hazy purple spirit-cloud wearing a buff thong speedo and riding on a thinner, but similarly coloured surf-board shaped spirit-cloud. The surfer-cloud whispers “Tane, it’s me” before gliding skywards, arms spread to embrace Gaia, exhausted but finally home.

I feel like calling out Codhi’s name, but can’t be super-sure it’s him. If not I hope he says hi to Codhi once he surfs his way to heaven.

I stop by Code’s favourite surf spot, Bobocobo Cove, on my long voyage home. I look out at the water, smooth as glass, cut only by two water snakes writhing around in the throes of intercourse. The cycle continues. Will their snake baby be as magnificent, as life-altering as Codhi? I don’t know, probably. But what I do know is that Codhi has returned to Gaia, and that his painful journey through a condom-filled death-wave has come to a merciful close.

In peace, love, beauty, joy, harmony and peace.

Peace,

Tane

Marty Flanagan is a writer living in Toronto, and a close personal friend of Tane. They are going through a difficult time.