I only have fond memories of our third grade field trip to the anger bottling plant. It was presented to our parents as an opportunity to build our character, to prepare us for an increasingly uncaring world, but for those of us who knew better, it was just another attempt to appease Angry Andy.

Andy was a small kid, shorter than the rest of us, and wore a flat, round face beneath his delicate bowl-cut. His eyebrows slanted at an angle, converging just above his nose, giving him a look of constant contempt. But his anger was not purely cosmetic: when Susan asked to borrow his eraser, he punched her in the face, then demanded to know where her family was so that he could finish the job. And when Daniel asked what job, we could all see the regret in his eyes, realizing that those would be his last words.

The highlight of the field trip came at the end, when we were each given a bottle, and were told to put inside it our most undesirable thoughts. If anyone irritated you, just quietly bunch up that anger, and squeeze it through the opening. Tighten the cap, and resume whatever you were doing.

Andy was never the same again. When Susan once again forgot to bring her eraser and had to ask Andy, this time in a squeak of a voice, she did not receive another punch. Instead, Andy turned around, fiddled with his bottle, and then turned back, his eraser in hand. Susan reached for it carefully, hypnotized by the unexpected beauty of the moment, as most people are after a near death experience.

The school year continued without a hitch, and ended before long. Andy left the school to attend a better one, then moved on to become a successful entrepreneur. This is not, however, a happy story. The last I heard of him was in the local newspaper: he had beat his girlfriend, then jumped out of his high rise window, a broken bottle lying beside him. It seemed that in an alcohol-induced daze, he had reached for the wrong bottle, and in opening it, unleashed years of pent-up anger. Not cool.

But I do not mention this because I want to make you sad. I mention it so that you can understand my fear of opening my own bottle, which stood in front of me on my table, after years of being hidden away in an unmarked box. I no longer remembered the contents, but I knew I had to face them sooner or later, and would much prefer to do it while I was sober.

I carefully twisted the cap, set it on the table, and waited with my hands over my mouth. I told my girlfriend to leave the room, and she did.

It started like a balloon, a rubbery blob slowly expanding at the bottle opening. Too big to fit through the hole, it turned and shook as it freed itself, until finally it pushed its way out with a pop, then stood beside its former abode. If I had to describe how it looked, the closest would be perhaps an oversized jelly bean.

“HI!” it said.

I could see that it was gaining texture. And hair. A face began to form, and tiny limbs shot out. I wondered if in the moments before Andy killed himself, he too was greeted by what appeared to be a miniature monkey.

“HEY I SAID HI!” It raised its tiny arm.

“Um, hi? Are you, uh, my anger?”

“NO I AM MONKEY! HEY WATCH ME JUGGLE!”

I was about to ask it to stop, but by then it had already gotten to five balls, and to be honest, was quite impressive. When it stopped, I felt the urge to applaud.

“Hey, are you going to make me beat my girlfriend and make me jump out the window?” I said, “Because that’s not cool.”

It thought for a moment, its little hand on its chin. Finally, it held up a finger and declared, “I LIKE PAPAYA!”

This was quite unexpected. It stood there, staring at me, and I stared back, not knowing what I was supposed to do. Then oh, right. I ran to my fridge, and pulled out some leftover papaya, and handed a small piece to my rather peaceful anger. It devoured it, papaya juice spilling onto its lips.

“MORE!”

I pushed the whole piece towards it, and it finished with a satisfied grin, rubbing its little belly.

“HEY WANT TO GO TO KOALA LAND?”

Slowly, I began to understand. I was never really an angry kid, so did not have the anger to bottle up, but in wanting to better fit in with friends, I have had to put aside my most random thoughts. And as I aged and had to be more mature, the more I had to put these away, lest people found me weird.

“THEY HAVE HUGGABLE KOALAS.”

It reached out to hold my hand.

“LOOK AT MY WINGS!”

Then, yes, wings grew from its back.

“WE FLY TO KOALA LAND OKAY?”

I realized then that my problem was not unlike Andy’s: in order to fit in, we had to hide who we were. Perhaps not so much for me now, but there will come a time when I can no longer afford to have these thoughts. Successful people in their mid-life do not think about koala amusement parks.

“I don’t know,” I said. Already I worry about the effects this will have on my career and my life. Perhaps it was indeed time to stop it all, and just grow up. Be mature.

Finally, I sighed.

“Yes,” I said. “Let’s go.”

Because fucking hell, they have huggable koalas.

For the last couple months, I lived my life as a transgendered, in that I transcended gender, and lived my life as an amoeba.

Life was pretty easy-going, just drifting here and there in various fluids, absorbing nutrients through phagocytosis, a process at which I had gotten quite good. Ladies would wave at me and ask if I was single, and I would answer yes, in that I was single-celled. Reproduction was as easy as mitosis and splitting myself in half.

After a while, however, the reality of microscopic life began to dawn on me. Without a developed nervous system, I could not comprehend even the simplest forms of entertainment. Anything beyond VH1 made my nucleus hurt. And I missed dicks terribly, in that I yearned to understand all the old detective novels I used to read.

Last week, I decided I had enough. I introduced myself to a fellow cell, and convinced it that this whole survival thing would be easier if we worked together as one organism. Soon after, others took an interest and joined us, allowing each of us to be designated increasingly specialized roles. I have always wanted to take part in an orgy, and this was the closest I’ve gotten, in that things were inserted into other things, and we became a salamander.

From then on, we continually adapted to our surroundings, and got fitter, by working out and occasionally growing more hair. It was around this time that we didn’t have to crawl anymore, and just walked on our two feet. We held a rock, and it became a hammer. We pushed a button, and the television changed channel. We had become me.

I know what you’re thinking. That is the most ridiculous case of evolution ever, bordering on nonsense. But to this day, it is still the only time macroevolution has been observed. No, really, ask my roommate, Greg. He saw the whole thing.

I have to say: life as a human being is infinitely better. Conversations can actually be thoughtful, sunsets actually conjure up emotions, and cheesecake tastes better. Also, I was finally able to get back to the dick I missed, in that I regained my penis.

About the only drawback I can come up with is that reproduction has gotten considerably harder. Is there an alternative to mitosis that I have forgotten? Because this is hurting like a bitch.

When I was a smooth criminal, I was bad.

Not bad in a positive kind of way, but rather actually terrible. In fact, the adjective in my nickname did not refer to my cool demeanor as much as it did my notorious wrinkleless balls.

This much was evident during my last heist, which took place in 1935 when my partner, Ben Shamone, told me he wanted to be starting something. The local bank had installed a new safe, and the prospect of beating it seemed thrilling.

We arrived at the door at 3:34 after midnight, him in his fedora and white glove, and I in my billie jeans. Once we were inside, I rolled out my tools, and began drilling in a wall, hoping to reach the wires within.

“Shh. We are not alone,” Ben said.

Appearing out of the darkness was a slender woman, a pretty young thing of perhaps twenty-six. As she walked closer, the light carved out her features: a cute, pointy nose, and eyes that glowed like blueberry jam. Her skin was not a color I was familiar with, but for me, it did not matter if she was African American or white.

She introduced herself as the banker’s wife, who had heard about our job and wanted to help. She was looking to get back at her husband for his infidelities. “A man should be faithful,” she said, “and walk when not able, and fight ‘til the end.”

I nodded, because that made complete sense, and got back to work.

“Ow!” I said, as a piece of plaster flew off the wall and hit my face. It seemed I made a horrible mistake. I had broken a pipe, and now water was gushing out, quickly creating a flood on the lobby floor. The alarm rang.

“He.. he.. is running away,” the woman said.

“Who!?” I did not know why I asked that in such a shrill voice, because I already knew who it was. I spun around, and then around again, and there was Ben, who at the first sign of danger, just upped and ran away.

I laid down my drill, and slowly accepted my fate. But if I was not going to remain a free man for much longer, then at least I could make this girl mine. It seemed she had the same idea.

“It looks like it’s just the two of us,” she said, as she slid closer. “So why let my husband have all the fun?”

I wrapped my arms around her waist, and defied gravity as I leaned her back and kissed her. In the distance, I heard the approaching sirens.

“Looks like we don’t have much time,” she said.

I assured her that she needed not worry, for women did not call me a speed demon for nothing.

“Tell me why you want me,” she beckoned.

I pulled at her earth-colored thong, and declared, “I like big butts and I cannot lie.”

She pushed me away and looked offended, as if what I said was inappropriate and grossly out of place. Noticing my error, I corrected myself.

“Your butt is mine,” I said. “Gonna take you right.”

A smile replaced her scowl, and she came back into my arms. That was a close save.

She placed her lips against my ear, and told me her name. Her hands glided to my belt.

The headlights of police cars pierced through the windows. People outside were shouting. We had at most half a minute, but I wasn’t going to stop until I had enough.

“Is it true what they say about your balls?”

Oh, Diana. You dirty.

Getting stranded on an island with my best friend gave me the perfect excuse to try cannibalism. When our ship overturned, and our lifeboats drifted out of reach, I knew this was a dream come true. And as we draped ourselves on a nearby buoy, determined to kick our way to that piece of land in the distance, all I could think was that my dinner was currently being marinated in the freshest sea salt.

Once we were on the island, I knew I had to act quickly. At any moment, we could be rescued and brought back to the mainland where sympathetic crowds would clamor around us, offering me tissue as I sobbed. They would shake their heads, each imagining what fate had befallen me during the ordeal, but the truth would be that I cry only because the tissue I really wanted was biological.

My friend, however, refused to cooperate.

“Hey buddy,” I cooed, waving at him below the boiling sun. “Wanna check out that cave with me?”

Being the type that planned ahead, I had set up a makeshift kitchen in a nearby cave. A stack of flat rocks became my table, a row of sharp rocks became my knives, and a large, round rock became my chair. It is indeed true what people say about caves: there are a shit load of rocks.

“Uh, I think I’m gonna go over there instead,” he said, pointing somewhere away from me.

I was a tinge disappointed that he seemed to remember that late-night chat we had many years ago when after a few drinks I mentioned that given the chance, I would like to eat human meat. He also knew that I never called him “buddy” unless I wanted something. My approach at this point was not helped even when I altered my strategy.

“Come on, ol’ fella, what say we chaps go have tea in that splendid cavern!”

I suspect you’re wondering why I had to get him into a cave at all. With no one around, I could get away with anything. But this exposes you as an amateur. First, caves are cooler than the sunny outdoors and would allow me to store the meat for a much longer period of time. As for getting the meat first and then transporting it into the cave, the problem arises when, during the chase, the prey leads me away from enclosed spaces, making the meat too far to be carried. The human body is also much heavier than you would expect, and having spent the energy in acquiring it, I fear not much would be left to carry it. The fact that this paragraph was written with a straight face is evidence of the thought I have to put into it, and the respect I think it deserves.

Days passed without progress. I looked at my friend longingly as my vision of him was gradually replaced by a roast chicken. This may seem alarming to the casual castaway, but I was well-versed in this phenomenon from watching Saturday morning animated documentaries.

“Hey,” I said, now so drained of energy I could no longer afford to be wordy. “Bud.”

My friend turned around. He sat next to me and was in much better shape than I was, having ate fish that he caught earlier in the day. He had offered me some, but I declined. I did not travel to an uninhabited island thousands of miles away from civilization to eat fish.

“Dude…” I said, my voice now trailing. “Sure don’t want cave?”

He sighed. He pushed some more fish towards me, urged me to take a bite, but I declined once more. My friend was not a gentleman and did not understand that no means no.

“Cave…”

He stood up, looked down at my withering body, and said, “If you’re going to die, you might as well be where you want.”

He reached down to grab my arms and began dragging me across the ground. I was fairly certain we were going to the cave. In between moments of unconsciousness, I smiled, dreaming of the forthcoming man meat.

When we arrived at the entrance, I thought I sprung to attack, nimble like a ninja, striking all his pressure points with deadly accuracy to inflict mortal damage without ruining the meat. In actuality, however, I had fainted.

My friend shook me, and my eyes slowly widened. He had found my makeshift kitchen.

“What’s all this?” he asked.

“Kitchen…”

He began laughing, and said how stupid I was. At first I was confused, because I may be many things—tall, dark, handsome—but I was most certainly not stupid. Then I suddenly remembered that same night when I told him I would like to try human meat. He had said, “Me too.”

“Nooo!” I screamed into the cave.

But in the end, the joke was on him. He had his mouth on my thigh.

Which makes him gay.

Every once in a while, when the moon is full and the fog is heavy, you can hear women in the distance lamenting the death of chivalry. “Why won’t he open the door for meeeee?” they would wail, their voices blending into the cold wind, forgetting that only moments ago, before the transformation, they had asserted quite aggressively that they can open their own doors, thank you very much.

But this post is not about generalizing women as impossible to understand. Instead, I wish to answer the question of chivalry once and for all.

Last night, in an atmosphere of loud music and alcohol, my friend and I walked up to a couple of young attractive women. I introduced myself, and they themselves.

“Nice to meet you,” I said.

“Charmed, I’m sure.”

Etiquette demanded I bowed my head slightly, out of respect, and because one lady wore a particularly low top.

As the night rolled on, and they came to our tables to rest, I was quick to pour them drinks. I made sure the alcohol content was potent enough to subdue a bull, lest they thought I was cheap. And whenever they took a sip, I immediately topped their glasses again.

“Finish it!” I said, perhaps too loudly, but I have been told to be supportive of women. To be even more supportive, I would raise the glass to their lips, giving strength to their arms when their own was dwindling. I knew I was being appreciated when the mumbled syllables coming out of their mouths resembled a “thank you”.

When the night was ending, I took it upon myself to drive one of the ladies home. No gentleman would allow such an incapacitated woman to spend the night without shelter. And as she writhed in the front seat, unaware that her movements were pushing her clothing to reveal more of herself, I held back from covering her. Perhaps in a foregone era, yes, but women have since fought for and won the right to do whatever they wanted, and I agreed.

I woke up the next morning, still dizzy. I turned around, and she remained in slumber. Thinking back now, I should’ve realized what was about to come when I noticed that she has shapeshifted into someone fatter.

Her eyes slowly opened with the glow of hellfire.

When she looked up to see me, she jumped up at once, and reared her head. A fiery burst of words spewed forth from her mouth, demanding to know who the fuck I was and what the fuck I was doing in her home. I was about to answer and give her a truthful account of the previous night when she rushed at me, her claws extended. Her growl thundered as it echoed in the chamber of her room. I took the opportunity to get the fuck out of there.

So, back to the original question, and what my story hopefully proves: no, chivalry is not dead, and I will continue to do my part as a gentleman to ensure its survival.

But dragon-slaying—that’s never coming back.