Beav Has To Choke A Bitch
pro·jec·tion ( P ) Pronunciation Key (pr-jkshn)n.
8. Psychology.
a. The attribution of one's own attitudes, feelings, or suppositions to others: “Even trained anthropologists have been guilty of unconscious projection of clothing the subjects of their research in theories brought with them into the field” (Alex Shoumatoff).
b. The attribution of one's own attitudes, feelings, or desires to someone or something as a naive or unconscious defense against anxiety or guilt.
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I am not a fighter. I do not get in fights. I have never been in a "real" fight, and I do not seek fights. As nearly as I can tell, there are only 3 reliable ways to get me to take part in any violent goings-on.
1) Directly (and physically) attack me.
2) Directly (and physically) attack my friends or family.
3) Flagrantly disrespect a lady.
It's debatable as to whether consistent acts of jackassery over the course of a night or maybe longer are sufficient to have me ready to throw down...but I'd say they have more of a priming effect than a causal effect.
I've been truly ready to fight about twice in my life. The first time it was method 3 of getting me pissed off. Last night, it was method 2.
7/24/05 11:00 PM
I am on my way to hang out with a bunch of people from work. One of my co-workers, let's call him BirthdayBoy, is turning 25 and we're going to the Villager hotel to celebrate. I'm looking forward to this because I work with cool people (for the most part) and also some hot girls, so those make for good partying. When I get there, lots of the people I work with are sitting around in a little bar and drinking. Nothing especially noteworthy happens in the couple hours that we're all there other than us starting to get drunk.
7/25 1:20 AM
It's time to leave the little tavern where we've been hanging out. We've gotten some kind of ridiculous break on our bar tab, and we've hooked the bartender, who is a friend of BirthdayBoy up for his troubles. Now we're getting a room to have after hours.
3 people are shitty by the time we leave:
1) BithdayBoy (because people keep buying him shots)
2) His girlfriend (because she's small). Let us call her TheGirlfriend.
3) My douchebag co-worker (because he has low self-esteem), who I will call Redneck
Backstory: I haven't liked this kid since day one. Here is a kid who (to the best of my knowledge) has lived in Lincoln all his life, yet talks with a trace of a southern twang, isn't a very good worker, and is generally dumb, ugly and obnoxious. He's that guy who puts a little bit of one-upsmanship in everything he does, because he's ragingly insecure at his core, and it shows. He's that guy who thinks he's an expert on every subject, even though anyone with three brain cells stuck together can tell he's full of shit. I take one look at how drunk this toolbox is and I just know something more will come of it later. In a related story...I'm frequently right.
1:30 AM
TheGirlfriend has rented a hotel room for after-hours. She is shitbombed. She first tells me that we're going to room 443, then proceeds to take us to room 435 and wonder why the keycard won't work. I let her try it about 5 times and then kindly remind her that she told me we had room 443. She proceeds the wrong way down the hall to rectify the situation. I decide to go the right way and wait for her. She comes back down and tries the correct room, and while the card is working, she's having a hard time operating the door. Finally the one sober guy in the whole group does it for her, and we're ready to party.
1:40 AM
Here we go. We have about 12 people hanging out in a room at the Villager, and we're ready to party like rockstars. Everybody has been having a good time up to this point, but things are about to take a turn.
Redneck has been flagrantly hitting on the new girl, but she is obviously unimpressed. He takes this as his cue to step up his attempts to make himself look important. His method of choice up to this point has been bragging about his dubious merits and drinking a shit ton, but now he decides to pick on one of our mild-mannered guy employees (who we'll call 'Son) so that he can look macho in front of the girls. To give you an idea of the physical comparison between these two, Redneck is maybe 5'11 and looks like he goes somewhere in the 160 lbs. range. He isn't fat, but isn't muscular either, and he doesn't look to be in good shape. 'Son is around 6'2, probably about 185 pounds, and is muscular. He played high school football and clearly is in good shape. Personalities aside, this is an unwise choice of persons with whom to fuck.
Reckneck starts slapping 'Son in the chest and shoving him, and then following it by professing that he's "just playing". This is obvious bullshit to any guy who has ever witnessed a fight. The look in Redneck's eyes clearly indicates that he's looking for a throwdown, but he's using the "just playing" line as an alibi so he can avoid being pegged as the instigator. He makes a habit of following his comments about how he's "just playing" with remarks on how if he wasn't playing, 'Son would "know it" because various bad things would happen to him. This continues for around 5 minutes, while everyone in the room grows increasingly uncomfortable.
'Son is a nice guy, and about the last person you'd expect to be involved in a fight, but at the same time, he is not about to be punked by some dipshit in front of the 3 hottest girls we work with. Call it a guy thing, but I don't blame him. He keeps it friendly, but doesn't for a second back down from Redneck's threats, nor does he miss an opportunity to throw Redneck about 10 feet backwards on his ass with one hand during some 'play fighting'. Redneck's own friend repeatedly mocks him for getting tossed. I've been sitting in a chair, sipping my beer and watching this scene play out, but I can see that this particular tinderbox is getting hotter and hotter, and we're a mere spark away from flashpoint. I take my watch off and get up because I'm anticipating Redneck starting a fight and his one remaining friend who came with him jumping in on his behalf, leaving me to back up 'Son to make things 2-on-2. Somehow, though, it doesn't happen.
I decide to go stand in between Redneck and the girls, because if a fight does break out, I'll be damned if I'm letting them get hit in the fray. I'll take one for the team. Redneck now starts up with me, and decides that he's going to make fun of my shirt. I'm wearing the t-shirts made by our improv troupe, The Huge Embarassing Failures. It is a chocolate brown t-shirt that has pink lettering that says "I'm A Huge Embarassing Failure" on in. This shirt speaks for itself, and there's really not a way to make fun of it, but drunken assholes seem to like to try anyhow. All they ever seem to be able to say is "Dude...you're a huge embarssing failure. Your shirt says it all. You're wearing it...so it must be true." It's tough to stand strong in the face of such well-structured and intelligent arguments, but somehow I usually manage. Redneck grabs me and roughhouses a little bit. I push him back and give him a warning look.
"Just playing, right?"
"Yeah man, I'm just playin'."
"Good."
At this point, Redneck goes outside, and I go to the bathroom.
Things stay calm for a while and I drink beer while attempting to reassure 'Son that there's no need to prove that he could wail on this dipshit; it's already obvious to everyone. He is willing to be peaceful, but is obviously agitated, as well he should be. Meanwhile, BirthdayBoy is intermittently vomiting while TheGirlfriend tends to him, my flamboyantly gay co-worker ($3 Bill) and my melodramatic co-worker (BrownEyes) are off having some sort of profound talk about whatever is slightly wrong with her today. The next time I go to the bathroom, $3 Bill and BrownEyes are in there trying to dry his phone off because he dropped it in the courtyard pond and she had to wade in and get it. They decline to leave the bathroom while I go, and somehow I am not bothered by the notion of having my cock out in front of my gay and female co-workers, respectively. This must mean I'm getting pretty well buzzed.
7/25/05 3:00 AM
The girls have left, and 'Son is on his way down to the courtyard area to make his peace with Redneck so that we can all drink and have a good time. I, for one, see where this is headed. BirthdayBoy is down there, but he's so faced that he can't hold a thought, let alone intervene in the fight that will likely begin. Only the 4 of us are down here. 'Son tries to make peace, and Redneck starts again about how he's just playing, and how 'Son is lucky that he's just playing, etc. 'Son isn't hearing any of this bullshit. He is now openly standing up to Reckneck and basically waiting for his cue to fuck him up. More play fighting ensues, but really it's more like the beginnings of real fighting in 5-10 second bursts. During one of these skirmishes, 'Son's head gets turned down and away from Redneck. Redneck rears back and throws a drunken haymaker, which misses.
Oh fuck no.
No fucking cheap shots.
I rush in, grab Redneck's left arm from behind with my left, rip him backwards, lock my right arm around his throat, lock the choke hold in by securing my right hand into the crook of my left arm, shove his head forward with my left forearm, and drop him to the concrete all before 'Son has stood back upright.
Redneck hits the ground with a grunt and starts looking around in complete bewilderment. It takes a good 5 seconds for him to decipher that he is on the ground, and that I am the one who did it. He fails to understand that I could end his life if I wanted to, but I'm being merciful.
Redneck's face increases by about 5 shades of red with each passing second, but I've only got the choke on him at about half-strength. I'm willing to give him a chance to knock it off before I end him.
"You need to settle the fuck down."
"What the fuck? What's your fuckin' problem?"
"You need to fucking settle down, that's my problem."
"Man, me and him was just playin', but you're fuckin' trippin' now. You're fuckin' trippin'. Let fuckin' go of me!"
"You gonna knock it the fuck off?"
"Let fuckin' go of me!"
"I'll let you go, but if you don't knock this shit off, I'll choke your ass out."
The comedy of him having to grunt his threats at me because my bicep is pressing on his larynx is not entirely lost on me, nor are his flailing attempts to hit me with the arm I don't have pinned down. It reminds me a lot of restraining a toddler having a temper tantrum.
I let him up, and he swings at me. This kid is so shithoused that he's about 3 seconds behind the action. His swing doesn't even land in my same zip code. I catch a glimpse of 'Son, and he's grinning from ear to ear. He clearly wants to see me stomp this jackass out...but I just stand my ground. Sometimes I wish I were more violent, but honestly, this is too easy. I step back a few paces into the center of the grass. While relocating, I look to see where BirthdayBoy is.
Somehow in the fray, BirthdayBoy has found the 5' X 5' pond on all this real estate with his right foot and is now calf-deep in mud and staring, utterly baffled, at the muddy, broken flip-flop in his right hand. This spectacle saps most of my rage, and it's all I can do not to bust out laughing then and there, but I'm still aware that I might be attacked by a drunken hick.
Redneck is now attempting to whip himself into a rage, and is propagandizing me with all sorts of information about what I'm in for if he decides to come after me. I inform him that I'm not trying to start fights, but I broke things up because I saw him take a cheap swing at 'Son. He continues to remind me that I'm trippin', and I extend my hand and offer to shake. I'm not gonna ruin my friend's birthday just because somebody needs to be on the losing end of a 2-hit fight so he can learn not to be a dick.
'Son, also negotiating for peace attempts to force Redneck to shake with me, but he won't do it. 'Son gives up after a bit and decides that if Redneck won't show any class, he isn't opposed to watching him get his ass kicked. Redneck resumes talking shit, and says "I ain't shakin' that bitch's hand." I reply with something to the effect of him being the bitch because he's a big enough piece of shit to start fights on his friend's birthday, and probably also add that I've never liked him because he's an idiot. I'm unsure about the details at this point because adrenaline is detrimental to the memory. What happens next is the sort of pure entertainment that only true morons can provide.
Redneck stops, ponders the situation a moment, then looks at me squarely and says, "You know what, man? You got an alcohol problem!"
I break out laughing at this, because I'm in full control of all my capacities, while this twit can't even walk straight. The psych major in me just can't let this one go.
Beav: You know what, (Redneck)? You have a projection problem.
Redneck: Projection problem? What is that, some kind of drama term or something?
Beav: Yeah. Yes it is. Projection is a drama term. You hit the nail right on the head with that one. Wow, you're really smart, (Redneck). Have I ever told you how smart you are?!?
Redneck is able to figure out at this point that I'm mocking him, and I can't remember what he says, but by now I'm tired of standing around and listening to idle threats. I decide that I'm ready to fuck this moron up, and I'm not damaging my favorite shirt in the process. I pull my shirt off, throw it down, and call him out. Seeing this, BirthdayBoy jumps up to intervene, and steps in the pond again. I wish I could be a casual observer watching all this, because it's gotta be quite the spectacle. BirthdayBoy uproots himself from the pond mud a second time and comes scurrying over to me.
"Please don't dude, please don't fight."
These prove to be the words that extinguish my fuse. Redneck or no, BirthdayBoy is one of the nicest guys I've ever hung out with, and if he asks me not to fight on his birthday, I'm not gonna fight. I may be pissed off, but I've still got some class. I walk off down the hallway and the rest of the people left at the party arrive on the scene to remove Redneck from the courtyard. BirthdayBoy begins a campaign to calm me down despite my repeated assurances that I am calm, I was just acting in defense of my friend and then of myself.
Redneck comes around the corner to press the issue, but 'Son steps into his path and BrownEyes takes Redneck by the arm, informs him that he's not fighting anyone, and starts pulling him back toward the hotel room. Redneck shoves her off of him and she reels backwards into a door. I grab BirthdayBoy by the shoulders, turn him around and tell him that he needs to go tend to his boy over there because if he hurts her, I'm giving him a free ticket to the ER. Several of the bystanders take Redneck and drag him off, and I decide that it's probably time put my shirt back on.
In the debriefing that follows, 'Son and I explain to BirthdayBoy and TheGirlfriend what happened. 'Son thanks me for backing him up, promises to do the same for me, and expresses his shock that I of all people would attack somebody with such swift, precise ferocity. Somehow people are always shocked that I'm capable of getting angry, and even moreso that I'm good at it. I guess we all learn something new every day.
SO what did we all learn from this? Well, I learned that next time I've got the choke on some deserving asshole, I might as well squeeze. As it is, I won't have to deal with his stupid ass ever again because, fittingly, he's leaving today to move to Alabama. The general consensus has been that he'll fit right in there.
8. Psychology.
a. The attribution of one's own attitudes, feelings, or suppositions to others: “Even trained anthropologists have been guilty of unconscious projection of clothing the subjects of their research in theories brought with them into the field” (Alex Shoumatoff).
b. The attribution of one's own attitudes, feelings, or desires to someone or something as a naive or unconscious defense against anxiety or guilt.
********************************
I am not a fighter. I do not get in fights. I have never been in a "real" fight, and I do not seek fights. As nearly as I can tell, there are only 3 reliable ways to get me to take part in any violent goings-on.
1) Directly (and physically) attack me.
2) Directly (and physically) attack my friends or family.
3) Flagrantly disrespect a lady.
It's debatable as to whether consistent acts of jackassery over the course of a night or maybe longer are sufficient to have me ready to throw down...but I'd say they have more of a priming effect than a causal effect.
I've been truly ready to fight about twice in my life. The first time it was method 3 of getting me pissed off. Last night, it was method 2.
7/24/05 11:00 PM
I am on my way to hang out with a bunch of people from work. One of my co-workers, let's call him BirthdayBoy, is turning 25 and we're going to the Villager hotel to celebrate. I'm looking forward to this because I work with cool people (for the most part) and also some hot girls, so those make for good partying. When I get there, lots of the people I work with are sitting around in a little bar and drinking. Nothing especially noteworthy happens in the couple hours that we're all there other than us starting to get drunk.
7/25 1:20 AM
It's time to leave the little tavern where we've been hanging out. We've gotten some kind of ridiculous break on our bar tab, and we've hooked the bartender, who is a friend of BirthdayBoy up for his troubles. Now we're getting a room to have after hours.
3 people are shitty by the time we leave:
1) BithdayBoy (because people keep buying him shots)
2) His girlfriend (because she's small). Let us call her TheGirlfriend.
3) My douchebag co-worker (because he has low self-esteem), who I will call Redneck
Backstory: I haven't liked this kid since day one. Here is a kid who (to the best of my knowledge) has lived in Lincoln all his life, yet talks with a trace of a southern twang, isn't a very good worker, and is generally dumb, ugly and obnoxious. He's that guy who puts a little bit of one-upsmanship in everything he does, because he's ragingly insecure at his core, and it shows. He's that guy who thinks he's an expert on every subject, even though anyone with three brain cells stuck together can tell he's full of shit. I take one look at how drunk this toolbox is and I just know something more will come of it later. In a related story...I'm frequently right.
1:30 AM
TheGirlfriend has rented a hotel room for after-hours. She is shitbombed. She first tells me that we're going to room 443, then proceeds to take us to room 435 and wonder why the keycard won't work. I let her try it about 5 times and then kindly remind her that she told me we had room 443. She proceeds the wrong way down the hall to rectify the situation. I decide to go the right way and wait for her. She comes back down and tries the correct room, and while the card is working, she's having a hard time operating the door. Finally the one sober guy in the whole group does it for her, and we're ready to party.
1:40 AM
Here we go. We have about 12 people hanging out in a room at the Villager, and we're ready to party like rockstars. Everybody has been having a good time up to this point, but things are about to take a turn.
Redneck has been flagrantly hitting on the new girl, but she is obviously unimpressed. He takes this as his cue to step up his attempts to make himself look important. His method of choice up to this point has been bragging about his dubious merits and drinking a shit ton, but now he decides to pick on one of our mild-mannered guy employees (who we'll call 'Son) so that he can look macho in front of the girls. To give you an idea of the physical comparison between these two, Redneck is maybe 5'11 and looks like he goes somewhere in the 160 lbs. range. He isn't fat, but isn't muscular either, and he doesn't look to be in good shape. 'Son is around 6'2, probably about 185 pounds, and is muscular. He played high school football and clearly is in good shape. Personalities aside, this is an unwise choice of persons with whom to fuck.
Reckneck starts slapping 'Son in the chest and shoving him, and then following it by professing that he's "just playing". This is obvious bullshit to any guy who has ever witnessed a fight. The look in Redneck's eyes clearly indicates that he's looking for a throwdown, but he's using the "just playing" line as an alibi so he can avoid being pegged as the instigator. He makes a habit of following his comments about how he's "just playing" with remarks on how if he wasn't playing, 'Son would "know it" because various bad things would happen to him. This continues for around 5 minutes, while everyone in the room grows increasingly uncomfortable.
'Son is a nice guy, and about the last person you'd expect to be involved in a fight, but at the same time, he is not about to be punked by some dipshit in front of the 3 hottest girls we work with. Call it a guy thing, but I don't blame him. He keeps it friendly, but doesn't for a second back down from Redneck's threats, nor does he miss an opportunity to throw Redneck about 10 feet backwards on his ass with one hand during some 'play fighting'. Redneck's own friend repeatedly mocks him for getting tossed. I've been sitting in a chair, sipping my beer and watching this scene play out, but I can see that this particular tinderbox is getting hotter and hotter, and we're a mere spark away from flashpoint. I take my watch off and get up because I'm anticipating Redneck starting a fight and his one remaining friend who came with him jumping in on his behalf, leaving me to back up 'Son to make things 2-on-2. Somehow, though, it doesn't happen.
I decide to go stand in between Redneck and the girls, because if a fight does break out, I'll be damned if I'm letting them get hit in the fray. I'll take one for the team. Redneck now starts up with me, and decides that he's going to make fun of my shirt. I'm wearing the t-shirts made by our improv troupe, The Huge Embarassing Failures. It is a chocolate brown t-shirt that has pink lettering that says "I'm A Huge Embarassing Failure" on in. This shirt speaks for itself, and there's really not a way to make fun of it, but drunken assholes seem to like to try anyhow. All they ever seem to be able to say is "Dude...you're a huge embarssing failure. Your shirt says it all. You're wearing it...so it must be true." It's tough to stand strong in the face of such well-structured and intelligent arguments, but somehow I usually manage. Redneck grabs me and roughhouses a little bit. I push him back and give him a warning look.
"Just playing, right?"
"Yeah man, I'm just playin'."
"Good."
At this point, Redneck goes outside, and I go to the bathroom.
Things stay calm for a while and I drink beer while attempting to reassure 'Son that there's no need to prove that he could wail on this dipshit; it's already obvious to everyone. He is willing to be peaceful, but is obviously agitated, as well he should be. Meanwhile, BirthdayBoy is intermittently vomiting while TheGirlfriend tends to him, my flamboyantly gay co-worker ($3 Bill) and my melodramatic co-worker (BrownEyes) are off having some sort of profound talk about whatever is slightly wrong with her today. The next time I go to the bathroom, $3 Bill and BrownEyes are in there trying to dry his phone off because he dropped it in the courtyard pond and she had to wade in and get it. They decline to leave the bathroom while I go, and somehow I am not bothered by the notion of having my cock out in front of my gay and female co-workers, respectively. This must mean I'm getting pretty well buzzed.
7/25/05 3:00 AM
The girls have left, and 'Son is on his way down to the courtyard area to make his peace with Redneck so that we can all drink and have a good time. I, for one, see where this is headed. BirthdayBoy is down there, but he's so faced that he can't hold a thought, let alone intervene in the fight that will likely begin. Only the 4 of us are down here. 'Son tries to make peace, and Redneck starts again about how he's just playing, and how 'Son is lucky that he's just playing, etc. 'Son isn't hearing any of this bullshit. He is now openly standing up to Reckneck and basically waiting for his cue to fuck him up. More play fighting ensues, but really it's more like the beginnings of real fighting in 5-10 second bursts. During one of these skirmishes, 'Son's head gets turned down and away from Redneck. Redneck rears back and throws a drunken haymaker, which misses.
Oh fuck no.
No fucking cheap shots.
I rush in, grab Redneck's left arm from behind with my left, rip him backwards, lock my right arm around his throat, lock the choke hold in by securing my right hand into the crook of my left arm, shove his head forward with my left forearm, and drop him to the concrete all before 'Son has stood back upright.
Redneck hits the ground with a grunt and starts looking around in complete bewilderment. It takes a good 5 seconds for him to decipher that he is on the ground, and that I am the one who did it. He fails to understand that I could end his life if I wanted to, but I'm being merciful.
Redneck's face increases by about 5 shades of red with each passing second, but I've only got the choke on him at about half-strength. I'm willing to give him a chance to knock it off before I end him.
"You need to settle the fuck down."
"What the fuck? What's your fuckin' problem?"
"You need to fucking settle down, that's my problem."
"Man, me and him was just playin', but you're fuckin' trippin' now. You're fuckin' trippin'. Let fuckin' go of me!"
"You gonna knock it the fuck off?"
"Let fuckin' go of me!"
"I'll let you go, but if you don't knock this shit off, I'll choke your ass out."
The comedy of him having to grunt his threats at me because my bicep is pressing on his larynx is not entirely lost on me, nor are his flailing attempts to hit me with the arm I don't have pinned down. It reminds me a lot of restraining a toddler having a temper tantrum.
I let him up, and he swings at me. This kid is so shithoused that he's about 3 seconds behind the action. His swing doesn't even land in my same zip code. I catch a glimpse of 'Son, and he's grinning from ear to ear. He clearly wants to see me stomp this jackass out...but I just stand my ground. Sometimes I wish I were more violent, but honestly, this is too easy. I step back a few paces into the center of the grass. While relocating, I look to see where BirthdayBoy is.
Somehow in the fray, BirthdayBoy has found the 5' X 5' pond on all this real estate with his right foot and is now calf-deep in mud and staring, utterly baffled, at the muddy, broken flip-flop in his right hand. This spectacle saps most of my rage, and it's all I can do not to bust out laughing then and there, but I'm still aware that I might be attacked by a drunken hick.
Redneck is now attempting to whip himself into a rage, and is propagandizing me with all sorts of information about what I'm in for if he decides to come after me. I inform him that I'm not trying to start fights, but I broke things up because I saw him take a cheap swing at 'Son. He continues to remind me that I'm trippin', and I extend my hand and offer to shake. I'm not gonna ruin my friend's birthday just because somebody needs to be on the losing end of a 2-hit fight so he can learn not to be a dick.
'Son, also negotiating for peace attempts to force Redneck to shake with me, but he won't do it. 'Son gives up after a bit and decides that if Redneck won't show any class, he isn't opposed to watching him get his ass kicked. Redneck resumes talking shit, and says "I ain't shakin' that bitch's hand." I reply with something to the effect of him being the bitch because he's a big enough piece of shit to start fights on his friend's birthday, and probably also add that I've never liked him because he's an idiot. I'm unsure about the details at this point because adrenaline is detrimental to the memory. What happens next is the sort of pure entertainment that only true morons can provide.
Redneck stops, ponders the situation a moment, then looks at me squarely and says, "You know what, man? You got an alcohol problem!"
I break out laughing at this, because I'm in full control of all my capacities, while this twit can't even walk straight. The psych major in me just can't let this one go.
Beav: You know what, (Redneck)? You have a projection problem.
Redneck: Projection problem? What is that, some kind of drama term or something?
Beav: Yeah. Yes it is. Projection is a drama term. You hit the nail right on the head with that one. Wow, you're really smart, (Redneck). Have I ever told you how smart you are?!?
Redneck is able to figure out at this point that I'm mocking him, and I can't remember what he says, but by now I'm tired of standing around and listening to idle threats. I decide that I'm ready to fuck this moron up, and I'm not damaging my favorite shirt in the process. I pull my shirt off, throw it down, and call him out. Seeing this, BirthdayBoy jumps up to intervene, and steps in the pond again. I wish I could be a casual observer watching all this, because it's gotta be quite the spectacle. BirthdayBoy uproots himself from the pond mud a second time and comes scurrying over to me.
"Please don't dude, please don't fight."
These prove to be the words that extinguish my fuse. Redneck or no, BirthdayBoy is one of the nicest guys I've ever hung out with, and if he asks me not to fight on his birthday, I'm not gonna fight. I may be pissed off, but I've still got some class. I walk off down the hallway and the rest of the people left at the party arrive on the scene to remove Redneck from the courtyard. BirthdayBoy begins a campaign to calm me down despite my repeated assurances that I am calm, I was just acting in defense of my friend and then of myself.
Redneck comes around the corner to press the issue, but 'Son steps into his path and BrownEyes takes Redneck by the arm, informs him that he's not fighting anyone, and starts pulling him back toward the hotel room. Redneck shoves her off of him and she reels backwards into a door. I grab BirthdayBoy by the shoulders, turn him around and tell him that he needs to go tend to his boy over there because if he hurts her, I'm giving him a free ticket to the ER. Several of the bystanders take Redneck and drag him off, and I decide that it's probably time put my shirt back on.
In the debriefing that follows, 'Son and I explain to BirthdayBoy and TheGirlfriend what happened. 'Son thanks me for backing him up, promises to do the same for me, and expresses his shock that I of all people would attack somebody with such swift, precise ferocity. Somehow people are always shocked that I'm capable of getting angry, and even moreso that I'm good at it. I guess we all learn something new every day.
SO what did we all learn from this? Well, I learned that next time I've got the choke on some deserving asshole, I might as well squeeze. As it is, I won't have to deal with his stupid ass ever again because, fittingly, he's leaving today to move to Alabama. The general consensus has been that he'll fit right in there.
posted by Beav at 2:38 AM
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