I started off in Martial Arts taking Shirenji Kempo Karate in this brown belt’s garage. The first thing he did, was take me out back to the big tree, and have me hold onto a branch above my head…Then, he kicked my hard in the nuts! Then he said “How does that feel?” I was on my knees coughing up blood at the time, but I managed to say “I really hurt bad!” “Okay!” he says “Now, do you ever want that to happen to you again?” (The feeling was starting to come back in my nut sack) “Hell no!” I said “That hurt like hell!”
“Good!” he said, getting in front of me in a horse stance “Now, I’m going to teach you how to defend against that! Now pay attention.”And he proceeded to teach me a strike that will hurt someone’s foot when they try that. I paid attention. I learned that day, how to defend my nuts if someone ever tries to kick me there. Whew! Got that lesson out of the way…As I got older, and took more Martial Arts from different schools and styles, I made a big study of Bruce Lee’s writings and his style of Kung Fu. Bruce also taught ballroom dancing and he was an expert at footwork.
So was Mohammed Ali. See, Mohammed Ali “Danced like a butterfly and stung like a bee” because he could move around and no one could hit him. Later on in his fighting career he started doing “Rope-A-Dope” which was basically lying on the ropes taking punches till the guy wears himself out, then you deck him.
Unfortunately for Mohammed Ali, he took a lot of punches that hurt his brain permanently. In the military they teach you “Cutting the pie” which is moving in an unpredictable circle so that someone can’t shoot at you while you take them out. I did a lot of “Cutting the pie” dancing when I fought with Satan’s Sister.
She would start drinking beer early in the afternoon, and I would literally go outside and start stretching and warming up for the coming bout. By 3pm she would switch from beer to Gin and Tonics, and I knew I was in trouble…To say that she is a mean drunk would be the understatement of all understatements.
We would be in the middle of an escalating “squabble-gone-bad”, when I would invariably call her a “retard” or an “idiot.” That really made her violent! She would smash our brand new CD player on the floor, and say “Look what you made me do!” “No” I would retort, “I…would not have been that stupid! That thing costs money, and you had a perfectly good old microwave to smash. You, fucking Retard!” Oops, there goes our microwave…She would throw wine bottles, and smash them against the wall, spit in my face, and throw anything at me that she could get her hands on…Try to smack me with the broom, skillet, or turkey baster…And, let me tell you, you only have to get beaned with two or three cans of creamed corn, and you figure out to move around…And god help you if she got near the kitchen knives.
Then, after she has you beat, or is too exhausted herself, she would call the cops and tell them I did it all…AND that I beat her up! (I never touched her). I didn’t have to….I had fancy footwork…But, if she didn’t get me into jail that night, she would throw all my shit out into the yard, on the grass, in the trees, and all over the bushes. After that, she would lock me out house in my socks and underwear, leaving me with only one contact lens.
I used to go pack up a suitcase full of whatever I thought I needed for “camping” that night at 4 O’Clock when she switched to Gin. And then, I’d throw it out the window, so it would be there when I finally got out there around 2am. And, invariably I would be between taking off my clothes and putting on my pajamas when the shit usually hit the fan….So, I would take off my socks (so I could feel for broken glass during the bout) and fight her in the kitchen in my tighty whiteys.
We should have filmed it…it would be worth some money. Dodge!Weave! Cut the pie! CRASH!! Cover the knives, cover the phone…Duck! Get away! Cut the pie! BANG!!! It was when she got her back to the pantry, and started a volley of assorted canned goods at your head… It’s time to get aerobic on her ass! Dodge! Duck! Weave! Cut the pie!...Speed up, slow down, Duck!...on and on it went.
Or, sometimes, she would simply open up the fridge and start pitching leftovers…It’s a great way to cleaned out the fridge, but you have to take care of the stuff from the walls, couches, chairs, and lamp stand the next day. It was a lot like playing dodge ball, except that a mistake can literally kill you! Like, if she were to hit you in the head with that family sized can of Sauerkraut she just picked up! Duck! Dodge! Weave!...Oh, and – FYI – Just so you know…Frozen Bratwurst leaves a nasty purplish blue mark if it slaps you in the ass just right…(And it hurts!) ….Cut the pie!...And, I found all kinds of strange facts.…Do you know that Blackberry Jam in a glass jar, is the most difficult mess to clean up the next day? And, it will stain a white wall just as much as wine.
But, she always started out with the expensive shit, because it was more shocking. And, that’s when you knew that you had arrived at the transition between verbal jousting and thermonuclear war…That was the opening bell of round one! In a fifteen round, winner take all, sudden death overtime, heavy weight championship of the world! In other word, “IT WAS ON, HOMEY!!”
The only way I knew if I was going to get to safely sleep on the couch that night….Was if she grabbed the children, poured soda or spaghetti sauce over my head, and locked me out of the bedroom. And, even then, I’d sleep with one eye open for fear that she would come hit me in the head with a hammer while I slept. Good Times!!
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