I have a confession. I don’t like taking shit. From anybody. I’m human. I’ve taken shit. From lot’s of people. But it sucks. You know it. I know it. Lately though, I just have refused to do it.
A few weeks ago, I had been playing poker with this fat fuck who kept needling me, for about a year. I’m sure he is a nice guy, really. But for some reason, like the school yard bully, he thought that he could keep needling me, insulting me, treating me with disrespect, because he out-weighs me by 100 lbs., give or take a gross of twinkies. One night, after some same-old same-old give and take, I had enoough, and, long story short, I threatened to kill the M’ Fer. In front of two, count ’em TWO, tables of Texas Hold ’em players. Guess what. Ole Teddy blinked. He later took me off his Evite list, but he don’t fuck with me no more…Oh, and Ted, I meant it, old chap.
More recently, whilst up in Michigan for Uncle Jim’s memorial service, I had a run-in with one of the most notorious tough guys in Farwell, Michigan–if you listen to him at least. Always he talks tough, wants to measure his dick against yours, yada yada yada. Driving home one night from a bar, he explains how he is gonna kick my ass if I don’t do this, that or the other thing. So I pull over, on the highway, at about 2:00 a.m. Complete darkness, snow blowing, deer doing what deer do, etc. Can’t even get the car off the highway–too much snow. I get out, he gets out, and we get it on in the middle of the highway.
Fortunately, no traffic was coming. It was very Fight Club-esque. Gritty. Snowing. Mid-twenties. Wind blowing. Deserted highway for miles. He out weighed me by 10-20 lbs., and it was packed in a Neanderthal frame 4 inches shorter, 18 years younger, and several evolutionary branches below me. But that night, I had the “I don’t give a fuck anymore attitude” in my favor.
I wish I could give you a blow by blow description, but I can’t. A few beers does that to you. All I remember is blood covering all his front teeth, and a look of disbelief that this old man had punched him, hard, in the mouth, and then him raining blows down on me while doing his best hockey thug imitation (he pulled my jacket up over my head while pummeling me–HEY, you ripped my lambskin leather jacket you punk!).
The rough housing was over in mere minutes. Remarkably, no cops showed up and arrested us. I still have the scabs and lumps from his fists to the top of my head–I ducked when he had my coat over my head and was thumping me. But you know what? I have never felt so good in years. I’ve spent my life avoiding fights, acting civilized. Haven’t fought since just out of high school 30+ years ago.
I made a discovery. Fighting is fun. Not giving a shit is fun. Nobody wants to fuck with the weirdo who just doesn’t care. I’m not talking about going around looking for a fight. That’s what punks do. I’m talking about not backing down when some other dude comes looking for it. Being a pacifist is way over-rated.
Fortunately, younger, bigger, tougher dude was so astounded by my aggressiveness that he agreed to a truce. Before he killed me. But you know what? I did not care. For that night I was ready. I felt like “Fight Club.” And you know what? I’ve found that nobody likes to mess with a 50+ old geezer who is armed and dangerous and who no longer gives a shit.
WARNING: Kids, don’t try this at home. I’ve lasted long enough that I have all my teeth and can afford facial reconstruction should I lose a fight. Oh, and I have several thousand dollars of life insurance with my wife as the beneficiary.
pssst. Don’t tell my wife, who occasionally reads this blog. TIA