I will not lie this is a difficult moment for me. I have a rather hazy memory of getting my ass kicked last night by two little prick lacrosse players who think they're that cat's fucking pajamas because they can suck an olive out of a tender asshole faster than a goddamn Hoover vacuum cleaner (join a fraternity, you'll understand).
Most of the night is a total blank. I recall leaving the bar and cracking my knuckles, and I remember bar patrons gathering around a picture window that offered a ringside seat to the fight that was about to happen outside. I remember strutting back and forth in the street and shouting something about the "mother of all goat fucks." And then I remember finding, at that very moment, my power animal. I chose the ibex, the fiersome-horned and yet flight of foot rodent whose temperment I believed epitomized my ferocity and my gift of flight. .
"I am an ibex!" I said to anyone who would listen. "I'm a fucking ibex!"
Not that I would have expected the patrons to make the connection, inasmuch as I didn't really make it myself until later on, but an ibex and a goat are pretty much the same thing, and so by repeatedly promising a "goat fuck" I was, at best, predicting that I would, at some point, fuck my self.
At some point I had to reflect dimly upon what started this whole thing, but the more I reflected the more the crowd grew -- and the more it grew I began to wonder whether the fight itself was the product of their aspirations, rather than my own -- at the very least I could not identify a single reason why I would want to fight these two douche bags; but then again, it seemed that by the time the first blow was struck, we were not fighting for our own reasons anymore.
It was, for a moment, exhilirating to be fighting for blood and nothing else. The lacrosse kids came out of the bar looking happy and reasonably confident that this fight would confirm all of the lodestars around which we had built our lives -- I was a man of average height and weight, a bald spot forming somewhere in the back of my head where I couldn't see it. If I wanted to see youthfull me, I needed look only in the mirror at the proper angle...there he is. Me at 21, breaking a bottle of bear across a fat irishman's head.
The difference between the lacrosse kids and me is that they are too young to be possessed of self doubt. They have fear because they don't want to get hit, but once they realize getting hit isn't that bad, they're going to bring the wrath of all their douchery to bear upon me.
The inherent unfairness of two people beating up one seems lost in street fighting -- there is not much of a code among hyenas. And so as the fight began it largely involved one of the scroutes trying to awkwardly hold me down while the other wound up to hit me. This did not work with quite the same effect they'd imagined, as I'd developed a "slippery fish" technique in my second semester of middle school.
But what I did do was miraculous. Whilst one of the lacrosse players was trying to drag me down by my arm, I looped around with my right fist and clocked the other twin clean in the jaw. I then watched his head snap backwards like a pez dispenser so that it crashed into the picture window with a thundrous clap. The clap, followed by a collective "oooohhh," of the people inside, was music to my ears, which went nicely with the stars in my eyes after the lacrosse players began attacking me in earnest. It was all over in about two minutes. Their complete victory was, in the end, sullied somewhat by that one, ruthless shot that might have knocked him out had the window been made of brick instead of glass.
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| I am an ibex |
"I am an ibex!" I said to anyone who would listen. "I'm a fucking ibex!"
Not that I would have expected the patrons to make the connection, inasmuch as I didn't really make it myself until later on, but an ibex and a goat are pretty much the same thing, and so by repeatedly promising a "goat fuck" I was, at best, predicting that I would, at some point, fuck my self.
At some point I had to reflect dimly upon what started this whole thing, but the more I reflected the more the crowd grew -- and the more it grew I began to wonder whether the fight itself was the product of their aspirations, rather than my own -- at the very least I could not identify a single reason why I would want to fight these two douche bags; but then again, it seemed that by the time the first blow was struck, we were not fighting for our own reasons anymore.
It was, for a moment, exhilirating to be fighting for blood and nothing else. The lacrosse kids came out of the bar looking happy and reasonably confident that this fight would confirm all of the lodestars around which we had built our lives -- I was a man of average height and weight, a bald spot forming somewhere in the back of my head where I couldn't see it. If I wanted to see youthfull me, I needed look only in the mirror at the proper angle...there he is. Me at 21, breaking a bottle of bear across a fat irishman's head.
The difference between the lacrosse kids and me is that they are too young to be possessed of self doubt. They have fear because they don't want to get hit, but once they realize getting hit isn't that bad, they're going to bring the wrath of all their douchery to bear upon me.
The inherent unfairness of two people beating up one seems lost in street fighting -- there is not much of a code among hyenas. And so as the fight began it largely involved one of the scroutes trying to awkwardly hold me down while the other wound up to hit me. This did not work with quite the same effect they'd imagined, as I'd developed a "slippery fish" technique in my second semester of middle school.
But what I did do was miraculous. Whilst one of the lacrosse players was trying to drag me down by my arm, I looped around with my right fist and clocked the other twin clean in the jaw. I then watched his head snap backwards like a pez dispenser so that it crashed into the picture window with a thundrous clap. The clap, followed by a collective "oooohhh," of the people inside, was music to my ears, which went nicely with the stars in my eyes after the lacrosse players began attacking me in earnest. It was all over in about two minutes. Their complete victory was, in the end, sullied somewhat by that one, ruthless shot that might have knocked him out had the window been made of brick instead of glass.
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