Story 7, Edited and reposted, Part 1

Learning hot to fight?

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The first time I have to kick somebody out of the bar scares me shitless. Gina is doing what she does best, yapping and making a round of drinks. Right as she pours the drinks, this drunken guy walks by and knocks over all the drinks she is making so that they spill all over her. Word to the wise, do not under any circumstances piss off a lesbian, it never ends well. The guy has a body shape similar to what I assume an industrial size Jello bowl would have. He is I guess more of a summo-wrestler type. You can see the cheese beneath his boulder thigh, he is wearing a dog chain around his neck and has a striking resemblance to a one aging Mr. T. Little does he know, that one should never piss off a lesbian, especially Gina. They will make sure you pay and get what’s coming to you. She is so angered she snaps for me to kick the drunken mess out. Being her servant, barback for the evening, I stop and think of how I will get this guy out of the bar. I also start to wonder how such a large person could fit into the doors of the bar and if when he goes on airplanes, does he need to purchase 2 seats?

Gina’s selective butchness kicks into high-gear once a shift, where she usually ends up kicking drunken messes out when we need her to. This time, she tells me that it’s my turn to be the man of the group.
While Gina’s logic is true, I have never really had to confront another man in that way and tell them to leave an establishment. I have been in little quirels before, but nothing like this. I am the kid that has always been picked on for no reason other than my general awkwardness.

While I have never really been hit or injured from a fight, I have been threatened to be beaten up many a time in my young life. I have never really been in any major physical confrontations though. In my dreams I have imagined that in the right situation I will reach into what I learned from years of playing "Mortal Combat." The truth is that in reality, I would need a controller to do the things I could do in that game. I wont have a game controller in real life. Often these threats, in real life are harmless and once some kid threw their yogurt at me while I was leaving school. After being mortified, when I got home, I washed the strawberry yogurt out of my hair and then ate a gallon of strawberry ice cream to heal the pain.

I ask the guy nicely if he will walk out with me to the exit since he has had too much to drink and maybe needs some fresh air. His response is of course less nice. My slutty co-workers, in this situation will ask these guys to come out side "I'll show you my dick outside." Then, once outside they leave the drunks high and dry. If only I was that smart.

Doushy Mc Dousy informs me on how I am “a little faggot mouse” who has not right tell him what to do. Calls me a fag in a gay bar? WHAT?! I am infuriated. I am so angry that I'm steaming inside, but outside I can't talk. Not knowing what to do, I just freeze not sure of what my next move should be or what to say. Then Gina comes right up from behind the guy, puts her arms around him in what looked like an old fashioned bear-hug, while restraining his arms down. She then walks in a waddling fashion (similar to the way one walks when conscealing a fart) with him to the door while keeping his arms tight to him. She leaves him outside of the door with the doorman and then tells me that next time she won’t be there to help me.

The concept of even possibly getting into a fight makes me think about how my father always makes me spar with him even as an adult. It’s been this way ever since I was a small child. Sparring is another term for practicing boxing, punching a given hand, item or punching bag. This is a great self-esteem strengthening exercise for an awkward kid like me. Little do I realize how this practice will come in handy when I will be dealing with drunken assholes for a living. This will lay the bricks for many things later on in my life. It is like an informal training on how to “handle it” as my good friend Tracy would say. My dad always explains it like this, “one day you’ll be walking down the street with a hot girl and some guy picks a fight with you. What will you do? Chat it out? Compramise? No, you’ll hit him harder than he can hit you and look good in front of your girl.” Such simple cut and dry logic.

My dad always fancies himself to be this amazing boxer much in the way that others dream of being a rockstar. He has an unusual obsession with boxers, their world and life they live. He idolizes boxing legends like Mike Tyson (before the ear bite), Lenix Louis, Mohamad Ali. According to him, some of these guys are on par or equivalent to modern day gods. He replays Tyson’s fights any time he needs inspiration or something to do. I have consequently seen every Mike Tyson fight at least 3 bazillion times. Where I fall asleep to “Golden Girls” and “Roseanne,” he falls asleep to the fights.
Living in the city of Angels, my muscular father is like most Southern California men. He is obsessed with going to the gym and making sure that people know he does such. The difference is his preference of gym. My 5’7, fair-skinned, four-eyed, bald-head father travels to Compton and workout at this place call the Broadway Gym. Dad says that he can’t go to another gym because real men don’t workout there. Apparently he needs a Rocky Balboa type to workout there or a man with tears tattoo on his face working out at a gym to feel like he fits in.
(To BE CONTINUED)