I’m typically not a confrontational person and there is a very good reason for that and it’s that when you get hit in the face it’s not as enjoyable as boxers make it seem.
In fact, I’d venture to say that it’s not enjoy at all, but that’s just me.
I’ve only been in a handful of fights in my life and I know what you’re thinking, “are we talking about Andre the Giant hands or creepy midget hands?”
Creepy midget hands is the answer.
Whatever the equivalent of a handful of fights is in midget hands is how many I’ve gotten into in my life.
Usually a bully at school would come over, take my lunch and my response to that would be – “My Mom cut off the crust because I told her that you preferred it that way!”
The biggest fight I’ve ever gotten into was in high school. A vicious rumor – that actually happened to be true – was being spread around the school like herpes at that weird sorority party I was at and thankfully wasn’t selected to be part of their “let’s go in the closet” game – I wasn’t so thankful at the time.
The rumor that was spread was a very vulgar one that garnered the name “Sloppy Bobby” – a very clever name that actually just made me laugh. After 13 years – and many diary entries – I can finally give credit to the friends who gave me that name and thank them for the years of torture I endured because of it – ahhhhhhhh, high school, those were the years.
There was one person in particular who decided THE WHOLE SCHOOL needed to hear this story and luckily no one cared enough except a small number of people who really just wanted to fuel this feud between us.
One day ENOUGH was ENOUGH and I told my people to tell his people that we were going to fight in four days! His people said that doesn’t work for him and asked if we could move it one day forward and right after school because he had an orthodontist appointment his mom said he needed to go to.
The day of the fight finally arrived and as people gathered around us in our make-shift coliseum – that was really just a dead end street – we circled each other like warriors fighting to the death. We started setting ground rules and decided to not punch each other in the face because 1. it hurts too much and 2. he had an orthodontist appointment.
The fight lasted about – um – 30 seconds, most of which was me awkwardly slumped over him and us both gasping for air because we were woefully out of shape.
No one won the fight and I officially retired from high school fights as 1. I didn’t like to fight and 2. I graduated high school that year so it would be weird – and possibly illegal – if I fought high school kids.
A few years after retirement I found myself outside of the famed Roseland Ballroom trying to scalp tickets to the Velvet Revolver concert that was to take place within those hollowed walls.
I had mistakenly given up my ticket due to a scheduling conflict and therefore begged for a ride to New York City with my friends so I could pay a ridiculous price for admission into the concert.
The chances of me finding a ticket were dwindling and I found myself doing anything I could to get into the show that didn’t shame my family, like showing my bitchtits.
All the sudden a man walked by me who for no reason at all I blurted out, “hey, got a ticket?”
And he…kept on walking. Completely ignoring my question. I was naive at the time and didn’t realize that’s just the way things go in NYC, especially when walking through a crowd of people blocking the sidewalk.
My response to him was to yell at him, “Dick!”
I didn’t appreciate the fact that he had completely ignored my questions.
It hurt me even.
And as I scanned from left to right, in hopes of finding some other old guy to pester, I see someone standing next to me on my right and I jumped back.
I thought to myself “oh, shit! I hope this guy will adhere to my strict fighting rules of no punching in the face.”
The guy then opens up his wallet – at the same time I thought holy shit I’m going to die the worst possible death anyone has ever died! What kind of weapon does this guy HAVE IN HIS WALLET??? – and he hands me a ticket to the show.
I asked him how much and he just shook his head and walked away. He was like the concert ticket whisperer.
The lesson I learned that day was it pays to call people “Dick!” because sometimes, just sometimes, that could be the persons name.