Tuckus Ruckus

Get your hands off my ass!

Illustration by Adam Valenzuela


Me: 25, male, Asian, running shorts, and Barbara Kruger T-shirt
You: Pervert

I was making my way downtown.
Walking fast.
Faces pass, and now…
I’m totally
NOT homebound.

To be honest… you must have been following me for a while after the train stop, Mr. SickNasty. I don’t know — I was on the mobile with Mom, giving her the capital “T” in truth about my roomie situation (don’t ever live with couples by the way) and my perpetual job search (unemployment
cha-ching) when you crept up behind me and grabbed my Kardashian.

You touched my ass dude!

But wait for it…

Not just the top of my ass, but kinda near the crack, kinda close to my you-know-hoo, if you know what I mean.

Did you really not notice all the signs of don’t-try-that-shit visibly decorated on me? I mean, did my “I’m With Her” pin or the bold font on my tee: “Your Body Is A Battleground” not scream anti-harassment and feminist to you? WTF?

Even my physician needs permission to get that close bruh, so having a complete stranger evading that and gaining direct access so abruptly, so completely out of the blue, triggered my fight-or-flight response. Oh and trust me, I “fight” and I play to win.

You must have thought you were so slick. I saw that smirk on your damn face as you tried to skedaddle away. You ran off and I chased you down so easily.

Don’t worry baby, it’s not that you’re slow, it’s just that I run fucking fast. You’re honestly telling me you didn’t suspect it when you grabbed my well-formed muscled posterior? I don’t wear running shorts for nuttin’ henny.

But MAN, was it all worth it when you realized you couldn’t outrun me. I was a little worried that I might scuff my Prada’s when I tackled your ass (no pun intended) down and that you could have really done some damage to me, seeing as I’m 5’7” and you were like 6’0″. I know it hurt when I grabbed you by your jersey and punched you directly in the nose.

So then you looked at me in shame and went into fetal position. You might not remember, but I was screaming at you: “Are you sorry? Are you sorry huh!? Say you’re sorry bitch!”, and guess what? ya did.

That felt great.

And in that moment, I was thinking, “How do I complete this full circle? How do I teach him a lesson?”

Think of a bowling ball and how one holds it.
Now visualize me grabbing his ass like so and really giving him the fucking finger.

“Run on home, you asshole! Run home!” and you did that, but not until after I kicked you in the hole.

To all my ladies and men (those packing heat in the back) these sicknasties are cowards who run in fear when confronted with any kind of resistance. They are weak and pathetic and they WILL run.

To the two guys and girl who ran out of their apartments when they heard me screaming “ya sickfuck” — thank you for being so aware and so willing to help out, especially — Logan, was it? — who walked me home. It’s great to know that there are people out there in Los Angeles who care about the safety of others. Muchos Gracias.

My mom was really worried, because she heard me start spewing un-Catholic adjectives and then the phone went dead (honestly, truly Mom, I had to chase down a motherfucker) and she thought I had been mugged. When I saw Mom the next day, she told me not to be so aggressive, and pointed out that he could have had a gun or something.

Okay, true. You’re right, Mom.

But you’re unlucky if you’re from this neighborhood, Mr. SickNasty. Cause I’m here ALL THE TIME (no job, remember?) and next time…