When I was in the second grade, I was frequently bullied by a classmate who was 18, weighed at least 200 pounds, and had legs so hairy they could’ve been comfortable bedding for a pet rabbit. Her name was Tara, and she was big.

During recess, she would line up the li’l ones, which included me, and then systematically proceed to crush our heads between her breasts. This was during an age before I learned to derive any sort of enjoyment out of this, but I feel her breasts were something not even puberty could make fun. It is one thing to be caressed by mounds of smooth flesh, quite another to suffocate in a wild concoction of sweat and hair. No one less manly than Hercules would be aroused.

All my other classmates thought she was absolutely ruthless, but I being the optimist, always believed that deep inside her, beneath the dense layer of fur, lied a nugget of ruth. Maybe not in her breasts, but somewhere on that labyrinthine body, like her belly button.

I got the chance to find out during reading time, when she fell asleep reading The Magic School Bus. I positioned my index finger above her stomach, and like a microscopic vehicle on its fun-filled journey to knowledge, I plunged in.

It turned out her belly button only activates her scream reflex, and for the rest of the school year, I was never allowed to forget about that day. But at least now I know for sure. Her name was Tara, she was big, and if you’re looking for Ruth, go look her up in the phonebook.

Like a preteen girl, I was up all night wondering what name I would give to my future son. I’m sure my wife would be the romantic one, saying things like, “What about a Native American name meaning good child?” And my response would be, “No, honey. I will not name my son Huhuewahehle.”

The first thing I would do is decide on his last name. Yes, a bit unusual, but while I’ve always enjoyed my last name and have often worked it to my advantage, I’m worried my son will be a wimp, and emotionally collapse from a lifetime association with a farm animal. I’m leaning towards a last name so iconic in American culture, like Simpson or Soprano, that upon hearing it, the only logical response is, “That is so awesome it leaks awesome juice.”

As for his first name, I’m reminded that Shiloh Jolie-Pitt has begun the trend of naming children after fictional household pets, and that is something I’m very eager to embrace. Maybe Beethoven?

And finally, for good measure, I’ll throw in a middle initial too, because that would make him one of the very few Asians who have one. The dignity connoted by it should get him so many chicks, he orders chicken feed by the bulk.

I got it. My son’s name shall be Garfield W. Jetson.

I only have bad memories of our family dog, Rover.

I suppose I can explain it by saying he bit my hand when I was four, but that would too conveniently dismiss that time when he stole my screenplay, sold it to Hollywood under his name, and then fail to acknowledge me in his Oscar acceptance speech. Where the hell did he get the idea to become literate anyway? Literacy has always been my thing.

I’ve tried calling him a hundred times, wanting to make things right again, but I only ever get his machine. Woof, woof, message, woof, beep. I don’t even recognize his voice anymore.

My lawyer tells me suing him is not an option. As the lone member of the literate canine minority group, jurors and judges would jump to to his side lest they seem like bullies. I have another plan though. He has no doubt forgotten, but I have in my hands some night vision footage of him humping my leg. I’m sure TMZ would love a piece of that action.

He can’t avoid me forever. If all else fails, I’ll find someone to send Rover to that farm up north. Vengeance will be mine.

I am a man of principles, beliefs so strong they do not falter under any circumstances. The strongest of these is my belief that if you love someone, you should let her go. If she comes back to you, she is yours. If she does not, it was never meant to be. I abide by that one even when, like last summer in Yosemite, the only way to prevent my girlfriend from plummeting off a cliff face was to hold on.

“You cannot be serious,” Melinda said, when I told her my intentions. I looked down at her and replied, “Yes, honey. I’ve thought about it long and hard, and we’ve been together for, what, like six years now, and I want you to know my love is serious.” As I let her go, and saw her shocked expression, I thought, “Now that’s the face of a woman who truly knew she was loved.”

Because of my low self-esteem, I never expected her to come back to me, but she did, surrounded by strange medical personnel, and hidden from view. This must’ve meant she was mine! I rushed up to her, elated, turning over every sheet of plastic until I found the one covering her face.

Oh my God, she’s… mine?

The breakup got ugly, but not as much as she did. I don’t quite remember what I said, the usual nonsensical banter that everybody recites when they want to break things off. It’s not you, it’s me. My own personal problems have rendered me unable to love you anymore, but it did not prevent me from loving someone else behind your back on Tuesday nights. Things like that.

Since that weekend, I had another belief: I can love someone to pieces, but I cannot love someone in pieces. That remains true to this day.

Given the choice, most people would want to have their own show on a channel like NBC or CBS, or HBO if they like to curse a lot, but not me. My show would only fit on CourtTV.

Preparation for the show will begin when my wife, having discovered my womanizing ways and uncontrollable gambling habits, realizes the only way she can keep the house and maintain a life of decency for our kids would be to dissolve me in a bathtub full of acid. Prior to my death, I will make sure to leave enough clues so the investigators will inevitably catch her, but not so many that they wouldn’t have some fun along the way. The blood spatter in particular will be cleverly ambiguous.

The pilot will show me, played by Daniel Day Lewis, engaging in my vices, while my wife, played by Sharon Stone, plans out the murder in lingerie. The episode ends with me rotting in my own liquid flesh. From there, investigators embark on a thrilling 13-part journey of twists and turns until finally my wife gets her comeuppance. Is that karma?

I have no doubt the show will prove so popular, everybody involved would want a second season, but I’m like the British version of The Office, and would like to quit when it’s still good. So maybe just one Christmas special, and then that’s it.