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  • Writer's pictureFrank T Bird

I Saw Jon Hamm Having a Wank In a Van

Use your words, Frank

Last night I smacked my fucking head on the cupboard in the kitchen

I was making lasagna, and my wife was drying and putting away the dishes. She left the cupboard open, and I cracked my fucking head right on the bastard corner.


My head filled with tiny sparkling wet fannies, all spraying warm fruit juice throughout my brain, which seeped through the millions of various coloured channels into my eyeballs and down my throat. It felt fucking good.


“Are you okay, darling?” asked my wife.


“I saw John Hamm having a wank in a van,” I said.


She laughed. But it wasn’t funny. Somehow I remembered being out walking to the shop the night before and seeing Jon Hamm jacking off in a van while watching a clip of himself acting in Top Gun: Maverick.


I knew it wasn’t true because I had spent the previous evening writing this story, and I became anxious that I had suffered some kind of brain damage. I shook it off, put some of that stinking brown chemical stuff on it and went to bed, hoping things would be normal again in the morning.


I dreamed of an electric man in a purple skirt in the early hours.


“Who are you?” I asked the radiant man.

“My name is Paul,” he said. “I’m here to deliver you a message from the great Pepensibeak.”

I’d heard the name Pepensibeak somewhere before. And I couldn’t help but notice that Paul looked strangely like Jon Hamm.


“You look like Jon Hamm,” I said to him.


“Oh, I am Jon Hamm, Frank,” said the man.


“I thought you said your name was Paul?”


“No. Paul had to go so he sent me in his place. He had an emergency involving his mother. She was a great musician. She was very skilled at playing the finger.


The finger? I thought. Jon Hamm is fucking insane.


“I saw you jacking off in the van watching Top Gun,” I said to him.


“Oh, that wasn’t me either, Frank,” he said. “That was Pepensibeak.”


I woke up dripping with sweat

“Are you okay?” my wife said.


“I’m not sure.”


I was starting to feel better once I got up and showered, but that morning at the gym, I felt this insatiable urge to say,


You go, Girl,


to everyone there.


Thankfully, most people at my gym are older Chinese, so my words were treated with easygoing nods and smiles. But there’s this one hairy steroid buffalo. I walk passed him as he curls my entire body weight with one arm.


“You go, Girl,” I say.


“What the fuck did you say to me, Bro?” he says.


I mumble some random turd past his abnormally large eardrums and into his cannellini bean brain.


“What’s that?” he says, leaning forward.


My brain starts to echo the words,


Fuck you, bald ape

Fuck you, bald ape

Fuck you, bald ape


It echoes again and again into my consciousness. And my eyes dart around the gym, looking for a hard object to maul the small bones on the top of this gorilla’s feet if he tries to attack me.


I figured the 2kg dumbells should just about do it — light enough to drive down firmly again and again yet heavy enough to shatter every bone in this fucker’s feet.


That’s what Bourne would do, I decide. He’d use the 2kg dumbell.


Thankfully, the words of my primary school teacher Miss Sampson echo above the violence as usual.

Use your words, Frank.

She always said that. And by using your words, she didn’t mean to insult people. She always said every word that comes out of your mouth should make people better — even giant fucking hominids like this bastard.


I take a deep breath.


“Soon, you’ll have to be a millionaire just to get out of bed,” I tell him. I’m not sure where it came from. I think it came to my head when I had paid eight dollars for a damn coffee this morning.


His eyebrows shoot up, then dip, then soften, and he starts nodding.


“It’s true, Man,” he says. “I’ve been trying to build my Instagram business for over a year, and it’s not going anywhere. And it’s gotten to a point where I don’t know if it’s the right thing for me anymore because things are getting expensive, and I might need to work full time and — ”


It turns out he is a chatty monkey. He’s this big gentle furry Russian orangutan like Harry in Harry and the Hendersons, and I misjudged the bastard.


“Are you posting every day?” I say to him. “Because different social platforms require different frequencies of posting.”


He knows that.


Next, he tells me that he’s been waiting for a sign of what to do next and that he was about to give up because he hasn’t received any signs, and he thinks that God has abandoned him.

“Well, which God are you praying to for a sign?” I ask like a spiritual salesman noticing a failing product before beginning my pitch.


“Still trying to figure it out,” he says. “I believe in God, but I’m not religious.”


I nod and look up at his giant face.


“If I was God,” I say to him, “what would you say to me right now?”


“Look, God,” he says, “With respect, I keep asking you for a sign, and I get nothing day after day. I feel like you have abandoned me.”

I feel the surge of power. Having someone speak to me like I am God makes me want to start a cult. Although, it could be the cupboard injury talking.

I draw a mandala around him in my mind, and I walk into it.

I see him playing with a dog when he was young, and I see the death of his mother. Then I see the girlfriend and friends that abandoned him for no apparent reason.

Next, I step up onto the second platform. It’s purple with beautiful green women dancing naked all around. It’s part of his nature.


If only he could know this, I think to myself.


The man is lonely. Of all the emotions I could have projected on him from a distance, it wouldn’t have been loneliness. And, it seems when he was asking what the fuck I said, he was connecting with me. It was me who was projecting aggression into the interaction.


There’s a loud bang, and I‘m sucked back into my body.

A young Thai bloke is punching the bag behind me.

I breathe through the bliss and put my hand on the big Russian’s shoulders.


“It’s coming,” I tell him, “They’re coming. And if you don’t see any signs, it means you are on the right track.”


His pupils dilate, and he smiles.


“I’m Vladimir,” he says.


“Frank,” I say back, shaking his colossal hand.


“Thank you, Frank,” he says, getting back to his training.


I nod and walk past the Thai guy smacking the shit out of the bag. He looks angry.


“You go, Girl,” I say to him.


“What the fuck did you say, Man?” he says.


He looks like Asian Jon Hamm.



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