The other day I found myself on the business end of a very busy grocery-line, hot and bothered by the Virginia humidity and my fellow motorists who seem like they learned how to operate a motor vehicle at the "James Dean School of Driving" - clutching a couple of 40oz's and a few TV dinner's in both of my hands solely because a chick that I'm temporarily renting my penis to insisted that we have something resembling a romantic dinner before I make her perform the most deviant of sex acts. Exhibiting that "thousand yard stare" that keeps my impatience from snapping people's necks due to lengthy waits, in front of me I noticed a father angrily berating his sobbing child. Since I see children as simply a tool to one day fetch me beers during ball games and for me to live vicariously through if I happen to spawn an All-Star athlete, I ignored the mini fracas and told myself that the little bastard probably deserved it anyways. But as I listened closer I realized that the father was calling his child a "sissy" along with other colorfully unflattering feminine slurs based on his fear of heights, apparently the kid refused to help the father do some minor repairs on the family's roof due to his phobia. I knew right then and there that what I was about to do would be included in my highlight reel that I show to St. Peter at the pearly gates.
I inappropriately placed my bottles of malt liquor and inexpensive frozen plates of pasta dishes on the same rack that you get your chewing gum from, knelt down to look the young boy in the eye and said: "There's no shame in being scared of heights, I'm scared of heights - matter of fact I'm also scared of snakes, germs, flying in airplanes, the voice of the dude who hosted "Unsolved Mysteries", and women who have lower back tattoo's aka the "Tramp Stamp". See, I'm scared of a lot more things than you are, and I can beat the living shit out of your old man right there!" Despite the fact that I sort of threatened to pummel the boy's father in the most public of fashions, I guess the young kid appreciated my advice by the way he stopped crying and giggled when I very cavalierly labeled every woman who has ink on the lumbar region of the back as a "whore".
Walking out of the supermarket after purchasing my pre-coital goods, laughing off very pedestrian "you're lucky I'm with my son" exclamations from the man that I had just casually threatened - I suddenly realized that my lack of fear of another person is offset by me being scared of everything else. Also, don't get me wrong, I'm not trying to be macho when I say I've never been scared to face someone - there are more people out there who can say "I handed HumanityCritic his ass to him" than I'd like to admit to. It's sad, man, I can eloquently tell people how to slip a punch, but I can't seem to stop wearing three condoms to the point that my phallus looks like one of those balloon animals that you make for kids at birthday parties - a ritual that has drastically affected my sex life, by the way. If you want to take someone's knee out, or know about the one punch knock-out, then I'm your man - but if you want to know how to not scream like a toddler with a scraped knee whenever you see a snake, I'm definitely not the guy to go to. Chokeholds that put men to sleep, debilitating kidney and liver shots - I could write "The Idiot's Guide to Finishing Moves" if the price was right. But when it comes to the way that my legs stop functioning at extremely high altitudes, the last thing in the world that I want to do is document that embarrassing phobia.
It's become abundantly clear, in a "My Name is Earl" sort of way, that I have to exorcise my phobia demons by attempting to put my violent history to some good use. This post, entitled "Cowards have the Worst Pokerfaces", basically details the actions of people who don't really want to fight you, but desperately want you to believe that they do - exhibiting the worst pokerfaces imaginable. (A guide that lets all you Gandhi loving bastards out there know that your brand of civil disobedience won't be met with a well placed uppercut.) Shit, if the advice of a chronic pre-ejaculator with anger issues can at least help one person out there, then I've done my job - and hopefully, in a karma sense, I can finally board an airplane without a vodka I.V. flowing through my veins.
Making more scenes than Scorsese: How many times have you seen one of the participants of a heated argument making an ass out of himself - talking loudly, pacing in a circle like a dog chasing his tale, bugging out his eyes like one of those minstrel performers back in the day. Usually, if a person really wants to fight you, they won't feel the need to put on a one-man show, putting you through Brando-esque dramatics as if they were auditioning for the role of a lifetime. Those people don't want any part of you - they just want to scare you out of a fight. So since I'm trying to be responsible here then I suggest that you simply walk away knowing that your mere presence almost had them in desperate need of an adult diaper. But I must say, nothing feels better than grabbing a chair and smashing it over the person's head during their brand of "acting", only to hover over the person's lifeless body while slowly pulling your open hand over your face and calmly saying, "and... scene."
You're lucky my girl is holding me back: I can't tell you how many times I've heard the "You're lucky that my woman is holding me back" excuse, as if a chick weighing 100 pounds soaking wet could restrain a grown ass man with nothing but the worst intentions on his mind. Take my advice, if you ever see a woman physically stopping a guy from tearing you a new one and that woman isn't Buffy the Vampire Slayer - chances are they don't want any part of you, like a lifelong crackhead that donated his vital organs. Or, if you are an asshole like me, talk enough shit about the girlfriend that she loosens her grip and lets her man defend her honor - usually resulting in the guy still standing there looking as if you just asked him the square root of something.
Mapquest motherfuckers: Rakim said it best: "It ain't where you're from it's where you're at" - a sentiment that goes for mic skills or hand-to-hand combat - but people still want to tell you where they are from before a fight like it's really supposed to mean something. Sometimes people use the broad approach, "I'm from the West Coast!!" Or they might get a little more specific with a "You know who you're messing with, I'm from Michgan baby!!" But my personal favorite is when people tell you exactly where they live as if they were giving you directions to their house party, "I'm from 105th and Maine, you will get your ass kicked up in here!!". Mapquest motherfuckers, the whole lot of them - nothing informs you better that the person has no interest in fighting than when they give you their address, so just leave them to their blatant idiocy with the knowledge that their heart pumps Kool-Aid. But then again, you can do what I do and say, "So what? I'm from Virginia baby, Kempsville to be exact!! Home of Timbaland, Pharrell, Pat Robertson, not to mention that we have some of the best public schools in the country. Get your ass kicked if you want to!! What!! Bring it!!"