The Real Housewives of ’Possum Hollow: Desperate Deena

While I’m not exactly proud to admit it, I’ve slept with a few married women. And all these blushing brides lived in ’Possum Hollow, that quaint little community nestled between two mountain ridges in Northern Michigan. Here are their stories, with names and certain details changed to protect the guilty… not that they deserve it.

I should’ve known she was trouble the moment Desperate Deena walked in to Sawdust Corners with her girlfriend, Hot E. Tatrotsky. She was hot, drunk, and making it known that she was looking for some action. Her gigantic boobs were bursting at the seams of her low-cut blouse and if her jeans were any tighter, I would’ve sworn they were painted on. The tramp stamp and thong were nice touches, as was her wedding ring. Fortunately, this last detail meant little to me, as hooking up with the Real Housewives of ’Possum Hollow had become a bit of a hobby of mine. But despite my experience in humping Hollow honeys, I wasn’t prepared for the level of weirdness that Desperate Deena brought to the party.

Her story was as old as ’Possum Hollow, itself: she got married straight out of high school, pushed out a couple of rugrats, and now she’s unhappy with life in the trailer park with her no-good pig of a husband. Boo hoo! I reassured her that I was all about having a good time and at precisely that moment, the conversation took a sharp left turn that left ’Possum Hollow and entered straight into the Twilight Zone. All of a sudden she started getting loud, insisting that I had better “love her and treat her like a lady” before she’ll go home with me that night and fuck my brains out. She’s not the kind of girl who “does this kinda thing,” after all, yadda yadda yadda.

That’s when I excused myself and headed outside for some fresh air, hoping Deena would eventually forget I was there. Ten minutes later, Hot E. Tatrotsky came outside and we got to talking about Deena’s outburst. Tatrotsky said, “I don’t think she understands how the game is played.” Although I’m unsure what else was said, I do remember Mrs. Tatrotsky and I began making out, with me eventually removing both of her boobs from their holster, unzipping her jeans, and using my finger to diddle her clit, making her entire nether-region rather moist and welcoming. Before we could get any further, however, Desperate Deena came stumbling outside, screaming Tatrotsky’s name at the top of her lungs as if the two had somehow gotten separated in the deep, dark woods.

Then, Deena’s eyes fell upon Tatrotsky and I in our rather compromising position.

When Deena began shrieking at the top of her lungs, Hot E. Tatrotsky moved faster than I’ve seen another big girl move. In one fluid motion, she leaped off the hood of the car, inserted her boobs back where they came from, and zipped up her jeans. Deena kept going on and on, saying, “I can’t believe you’d do this to me!” and other drunken ramblings. Tatrotsky ran to her and, putting an arm around her shoulder to hold her up, led Deena to the car and eventually stuffed her into the passenger seat amid her protestations. When I tried to get Tatrotsky’s phone number, Deena screamed, “Take me home! Now!” Poor Hot E. gave me a helpless shrug before getting into the car, the wheels spitting gravel as she peeled out of there and down the long, dark country roads leading in and out of Sawdust Corners, the culture center of ’Possum Hollow.

Like Hot E. Tatrotsky, I also shrugged my shoulders at the whole thing. This kind of shit can happen in the strange world of hook-ups and random sex so it’s best to have a you-win-you-lose-some outlook on the whole thing. Besides, Deena’s meltdown brought all my friends out of the bar, so we had plenty of laughs – and rounds – discussing this sordid yet short-lived affair, which marked my last fling with any of the Real Housewives of ’Possum Hollow.

A word of advice, ladies: This is the world of booty calls, hook-ups, and one-night stands, NOT drama class. The men are only playing the role of Prince Charming, so don’t start actually believing you’re Cinderella.

J.P. Ribner is the author of three novels: Legacy of the Bear, Prophecy of the Bear, and World So Dark.

The Real Housewives of ’Possum Hollow: Pyrite Pattie

PattieWhile I’m not exactly proud to admit it, I’ve slept with a few married women. And all these blushing brides lived in ’Possum Hollow, that quaint little community nestled between two mountain ridges in Northern Michigan. Here are their stories, with names and certain details changed to protect the guilty… not that they deserve it.

Pyrite Pattie is perhaps the most interesting Real Housewife of ’Possum Hollow. This tall, thick brunette with exotic looks was a hot commodity among the many horny Hollow hillibillies who’d hit on her at the local waterin’ hole. Thing is, Pattie wasn’t just looking for a one night stand behind her hubby’s back, she was looking for hubby’s replacement… someone to take her away from her dead-end job, dead-end home, and dead-end life. And because there was more at stake for her, she wasn’t just going to jump into anyone’s bed right away. I experienced this firsthand when, after a month of kissing and heavy petting, Pattie had yet to deliver. The only thing she did give me was her infamous I-need-to-be-sure-you’ll-love-and-respect-me-in-the-morning speech. I was wise to this angle, however, and with the help of horny honey from the Hollow, I was able to beat Pattie at her own game.

So, one night I’m at Sawdust Corners, stuck in another dead-on conversation with Pyrite Pattie. All of a sudden, in walks “2D,” a young lady who’s so skinny, she’s damn near two dimensional. I mean, if she turned sideways, she’d disappear! As luck would have it, 2D had a little crush on me but I never pursued anything with her because I prefer big girls… girls built like Pattie. On that night, however, I was happy to leave with my arm around 2D’s tiny little waist while Pattie watched on in shock, horror, and fury. About 10 minutes later, I was lacing my fingers through the grooves between her ribs and used it as leverage to slam my hard cock deep inside her wiry little body. It was better than going home alone, I suppose.

The following weekend in ’Possum Hollow was an interesting one, to say the least. It was as if Pyrite Pattie was waiting for me to walk into Sawdust Corners, and she practically whisked me out of there and broke the speed limit back to my buddy’s house. With one hand on the steering wheel and the other on my cock, she described a myriad of carnal pleasures I’d be enjoying on the 10-mile drive back to my buddy’s house. And while I’d like to say she made good on her promises, my night with Pattie wasn’t exactly worth the wait. Upon reaching the bedroom, she promptly wrapped herself in a blanket, turned off the lights, and stripped out of her clothes before sliding into bed. I slid under there with her and proceeded make her big body shake and quiver, not that I got to enjoy the visual.

Getting her to leave turned out to be as difficult and time-consuming as getting her into bed.

She wouldn’t back out of the driveway until I took her secret cellphone number and email address – two accounts her husband didn’t have access to – and make a solemn promise to contact her. Then she went on a long-winded tirade about how different I was from the guys in ’Possum Hollow and how much she liked and respected me, before transitioning into how badly she wanted to move out from her husband’s house even though she just didn’t know where she could go. While she was telling me this, she kept eyeballing my GMC 2500HD pickup truck parked in my buddy’s driveway. Needless to say, I made no attempt to contact her in any way… though that didn’t stop her from asking about me through mutual friends, all of whom gave her evasive answers as to my whereabouts until Pyrite Pattie finally got the hint.

Moral of the story, ladies: Be careful when you’re running a game because you’ll never know when you might be the one who gets played!

J.P. Ribner is the author of three novels: Legacy of the Bear, Prophecy of the Bear, and World So Dark.

The Real Housewives of ’Possum Hollow: Dirty Debbie

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Dirty DebbieWhile I’m not exactly proud to admit it, I’ve slept with a few married women. And all these blushing brides lived in ’Possum Hollow, that quaint little community nestled between two mountain ridges in Northern Michigan. Here are their stories, with names and certain details changed to protect the guilty… not that they deserve it.

“Dirty Debbie” was the hottest thing to hit ’Possum Hollow since indoor plumbing, or so she thought. And why shouldn’t she? Every time her husband pushed or slapped her, he’d buy her something like an SUV, diamond earrings, or a Jet Ski and beg her to stay with him. Without realizing it, hubby created an incentive for her to pick fights with him. Hell, I’d let him hit me with everything he’s got if I knew I could get a GMC Denali out of the deal. (Four-by-four with air conditioning, leather seats, and power windows, of course!) Yes, I am making light of Dirty Debbie’s alleged “victimhood.” I find it hard to believe that a woman whose terrified of her abusive husband would be taking the risk of making out with me at Sawdust Corners, the most popular waterin’ hole in the Hollow.

I got a literal taste of Debbie’s dark side in the back seat of my friend’s car. While we were making out, she gave my lower lip a little nip. It hurt, and I told her not to do it again. She nodded and our mouths hungrily met each other once more as we began to metaphorically devour each other with passionate kissing. Then, perhaps to show me whose boss, Debbie clamped her teeth down upon my bottom lip again and this time she pulled her head back – and my lip with it – like she was trying to tear the meat off a fucking turkey drumstick. Maybe she thought she was being cute, or maybe she was angling for a fur coat or Coach purse, I don’t know. There was only problem with what she did – I’m not her husband. Out of reaction, I delivered a slap-chop strike to her jaw a’ la Vince Shlomi and it was hard enough to get Debbie the human pit bull to release my lip. When she did, the telltale taste of blood soon came gushing into my mouth.

“Wh … why did you do that?” she said, her voice heavy with tears.

“You fuckin’ bit me!” I replied.

She apologized just as we were pulling into my buddy’s driveway and surprisingly, she was rarin’ to go. I quickly surmised that a quick shot to the mouth was foreplay in her home, and who was I to deny her? We never even made it to the bedroom; instead, we landed in row after row of begonia’s – my friend’s ex-wife’s begonias – though we didn’t allow that to stop us. Within moment, she was naked and on all fours in the flowers. Still tasting the blood as it coursed into my mouth, my erect and enraged member furiously thrust in and out of Debbie’s own “flower patch” as her as fleshy, flabby belly and pendulous boobs hung down beneath her, swaying in the dirt.

Thrusting myself even harder, Debbie went face-first into the muddy flower bed. As I continued to pound the hell out of her, I pulled her hair to raise her face above the mess. “Do me harder!” she moaned, and I aimed to oblige. Shoving her forward again, she landed back into the mud with a splat, and that’s where she stayed, minus the few times I yanked her head up for air. She was covered head-to-toe in soil, with leaves and twigs tangled in her rat’s nest hair. Quite an ignominious end for the woman who was too proud to respect my wishes not to be bitten.

When all the moanin’ and groanin’ and the huffin’ and puffin’ was done, she turned and looked over her shoulder at me then said, “Call me next time you come up.”

After spitting a huge glob of blood out of my mouth, I said, “Yeah. No problem.” Too bad I didn’t mean it.

This sordid affair leaves me with advice for you women, although I shouldn’t have to say it. You ladies need to remember, “No” means no.

J.P. Ribner is the author of three novels: Legacy of the Bear, Prophecy of the Bear, and World So Dark.

Real Housewives of ’Possum Hollow: Nellie Oleson

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Nellie

While I’m not exactly proud to admit it, I’ve slept with a few married women. And all these blushing brides lived in ’Possum Hollow, that quaint little community nestled between two mountain ridges in Northern Michigan. Here are their stories, with names and certain details changed to protect the guilty … not that they deserve it!

They say you’ll never forget your first, and my first “Hollow Housewife” was a rather memorable lass for all the wrong reasons. I call her “Nellie Oleson” because she sported curled blond tresses much like the infamous “Little House on the Prairie” character. But it was being a spoiled rotten little cunt that made her most like her fictional counterpart. I didn’t see that going into it, though; all I saw was a pretty face, a round ass, and something cute enough to get my mind off my ex-wife, whom I’d just divorced. In these regards, Nellie seemed like a dream come true, even though the bitch was a fucking nightmare.

Sex with Nellie was good. It had to be considering the shit I allowed her to put me through, but more on that later. In the beginning of our on-again, off-again relationship, it seemed like Nellie and I were going at it like rabbits. I remember she once claimed that penetration alone was not enough to give her “the big O,” but I showed her how wrong she was, and had the puddle on my bed to prove it. We also explored the breath-mint blow job trick that’s supposed to heighten a woman’s senses while her lover is batting around her clit with the tip of his tongue, but it seems the minty freshness of the moment wasn’t as pleasing to her as she’d be told, so she quickly pulled me inside of her and we both finished each other off the old fashioned way.

Then one day, all this allegedly awesome sex she kept telling me we were having started to dry up. I also found myself spending less and less time with her, as there was always someplace else she just had to be. It got to the point that she was inventing reasons for us to argue and go “on a break” so she could go do whatever she wanted without a guilty conscience. Then, after her flights of fancy had run their course, Nellie would call me up again and we’d meet somewhere halfway and end up making up and making out (and more) in my car. On more than one of those occasions, I utilized “the Shocker” on her – two in the pink, one in the stink – long before it was ever called that. (I think I referred to it as “Ribner’s Three-Pronged Pleasure Inducer,” though calling it the Shocker is a bit more succinct.)

Truth be told, I didn’t exactly mind our little “breaks” either, as they allowed me to go out and sow some wild oats as well. What did piss me off, however, was Nellie’s belief that she somehow deserved the best of everything, and it was somehow my responsibility to provide her with it. This attitude proved to be our undoing one fateful Labor Day weekend. We drove out to my friend’s lake cabin for what was supposed to be a relaxing weekend. Unfortunately, the entire ride there was dominated by Nellie’s consistent bitching, whining, and complaining about how she deserved a house on the lake and how horrible it was that I couldn’t afford to buy her one. This went on and on until I finally stopped the car, turned to her, and said, “Bitch, have your husband buy you one. You know… that guy you haven’t divorced for the past two years!” Let’s just say that Nellie and I didn’t get married and operate the local mercantile in Walnut Grove, Minnesota!

I think it’s safe to say that my experiences with Nellie shaped the way I behaved in my dealings with the other Real Housewives of ’Possum Hollow. They also helped me come to a conclusion: barely occasional sex isn’t enough to make me want to put up with a woman’s shit. Word to the wise, ladies, your little pussies aren’t exactly rimmed in gold!

J.P. Ribner is the author of Legacy of the Bear, Prophecy of the Bear, and World So Dark.

Le Grande Chatte Pet

queefSexy September continues with a true story about those awkward moments that can occur when you’re bumpin’ uglies.

What else could I have expected when I fucked a woman nicknamed “Miss Piggy?” She’s so named because of her wide nostrils and long blond tresses, though these qualities aren’t the only things that make her pig-like. The extraordinarily long labia dangling from her crotch like two strips of uncooked bacon also added to the effect. Anyhow, those two flapping slabs of lovely lady flesh didn’t make for the tightest of seals around my cock, leading to one of the most awkwardly hilarious moments in my man-whore career.

After three dates and I don’t know how many beers, I was finally porking the pig. While up top, she was a’snortin’ and a huffin’, down below, those dangling bacon strips were just a’flapping in the breeze. On a side note, I was glad none of my appliances were attached to The Clapper. Somewhere in the middle of it all, right before my big finish, a horrifyingly familiar sound was heard ripping through the air on that crisp autumn night…

“Ffffffrrrrppppppp!”

The sound rumbled through my bedroom and I froze mid-thrust. So did Piggy. I recognized it immediately as something the French like to call “le grande chatte pet,” otherwise known as a “big pussy fart,” aka a “queef,” here in the U.S. A perfectly natural occurrence caused by too much air being forced into the vaginal orifice, its vibrating nature might have been somewhat arousing if not for the highly embarrassing nature of it. I mean, what woman wants her hoo-hah to be the one that expels such a noisome disturbance?

Life offers up plenty of awkward moments, and it’s always worse when pelvic thrusts are involved. Miss Piggy’s south of the border disorder was followed by a moment of silence in which I felt compelled to fill with something, anything… just as long as it would bring things back to normal and ensure a swift return to me stuffing my sausage through the bacon strips and into the pork paté.

“That wasn’t me,” I said.

Inwardly, I was cringing at my social clumsiness, until I realize the foolishness of believing there would be an appropriate response to such vaginal flatulence.

“I know,” Queen LaQueefa replied, her voice tight and jaws clenched in a sense of mortification.

And just like that, I was back into the groove, firing the ol’ bacon torpedo into the Bay of… well, you know. In retrospect, the saddest thing about that night was that this unexpected disturbance was its highlight.

J.P. Ribner is the author of Legacy of the Bear, Prophecy of the Bear, and World So Dark.

 

Misadventures in Oral Sex

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timerEveryone likes gettin’ some head. It’s fun, sexy, and a great stress reliever. And if you’re in a relationship, it’s always good to reciprocate so your partner is enjoying it as much as you are. But something as intimate as oral sex can be fraught with problems on both the giving and receiving ends. Gleaned from the history of my random sexual peccadilloes are the following tales of when “going downtown” goes horribly wrong.

Everyone remembers their first, and for me, it was “Lilly. With her blond hair and big, blue eyes and freckles, she was the All-American girl-next-door with an 80s punk rock twist. At the time, she was healing from knee surgery, so sex was out of the question, but a blow job wasn’t. I started begging her for some head-bobbin’ action and it turned into an episode of Let’s Make a Deal. We were haggling over minutes, and I was making promises for dinner and/or trips to the mall to get more out of the bargain. Eventually we agreed upon a time and she grabbed her crutches and limped off toward the kitchen. I laid there wondering what the fuck when she came back with a baking timer.

A fucking baking timer!

You know, one of those old-fashioned wind-up ones that had a rocket ship-looking shape on the dial that everyone’s mother had. Clearly I wanted Playboy Channel, but she was thinking Food Network! I couldn’t even enjoy the feeling of her lips gliding up and down my shaft because I was too damn focused on the foreboding “tick-tick-tick-tick” of the timer. Needless to say, my fun ended without the big bang I’d been hoping for. To this day, I still get a twinge of disappointment whenever I hear that telltale “ding!”

My second misadventure in oral sex happened during my alleged “man-whore days” in ’Possum Hollow, a quaint little community nestled between two mountain ridges in Northern Michigan. My girlfriend was “The Eagle,” – so named due to her free-spirited, soar-high-above-the-clouds outlook on life – and she was quite the bird of prey when she swooped down on my dick for some hot, pole-smokin’ action. Her idea of hot oral sex consisted of her opening up as wide as she could and sort of hovering above my throbbing member, making hardly any contact with it at all. It was more “air job” than blow job, and it was neither sexy nor satisfying. She went from eagle to sucker fish, but then quickly became a barracuda when her teeth nicked the tender, blood-engorged ridge of my helmet. Now it was my turn to shriek like an eagle and soar ever higher above the bed to escape her razor-sharp jaws.

“Go down on me,” she said. “It’ll be fun,” she said. That’s what I get for trusting “Fuzzy Kitty.” She was one of those women who swears she can “only” get off when a guy goes down on her, and being the egalitarian, open-minded boyfriend that I was, I was only happy to oblige. My following misadventure proves the old adage, “Look before you leap,” or lick, in this case. Anyway, one night I decided to taste the wonders of Fuzzy Kitty only to discover that she was packing a Main Coon inside her pretty pink panties. Undaunted, I dove tongue-first into the her dense, dark brown forest and began to prod and probe. It took me a while just to find her little button, and oh how I wish she had some bobby pins handy! In the end, Miss Kitty was wiggling, moaning, and screaming while I was the one coughing up hairballs.

Ladies, if you wanna please your man – and you should want to – learn how to give as well as receive. For starters, let’s take the “job” out of blow job by showing a little enthusiasm. Get a good hold on the base of the shaft and suck it like it was that first bowl of Haagen-Dazs chocolate gelato after your boyfriend dumped you. Here’s another tip – obey the “helmet laws,” ladies. Seriously! That area is tender and your teeth can be a deadly weapon. And if you want us to go downtown, show us the courtesy of trimming the trim. When I’m going downtown, I want to know I’m pleasuring my woman, not making out with a hipster with full-on goatee and waxed handlebar mustache!

J.P. Ribner is the author of Legacy of the Bear, Prophecy of the Bear, and World So Dark.

 

You Want Sex? You Got It!

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Judging by the amount of traffic my wife gets on her blog, one thing has become clear to me – ya’ll are some horny motherfuckers! I guess the old saying “sex sells” is true. With that in mind, I’m devoting all of next month’s posts to be completely of the prurient variety. No bullies, no violence, and no trauma, just sex, sex, and more sex. We might as well call it “Sexy September.” I’m sure you horny bitches and bastards will love it, but don’t say I didn’t warn you! I plan to utilize the same raw realism you’ve come to love from my bullying posts to talk about my wild, crazy, and sometimes dangerous sex life … prior to meeting Rosie, of course. So the fun starts tomorrow, good people, with a little post called “Misadventures in Oral Sex.” I’ll bet you can’t wait for the clock to strike midnight!

Streetfight Study 5: Pre-Emptive Striking

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Sometimes you just gotta throw the first punch … and the second, third, and fourth, if need be!

If you’ve been following this series, you’ll know that I’ve discussed a wide range of topics revolving around confrontations that develop into self-defense situations. We’ve covered the concept of giving would-be attackers a face-saving exit if you don’t want to fight. We’ve also discussed the myth of perfect technique as well as the fact that your zip code doesn’t make you tough and other related topics. Tonight, I’d like to discuss a topic that’s near and dear to my heart because it’s one that I believe is WIDELY misunderstood: pre-emptive striking. This is perhaps the most important thing you need to know if you find yourself confronted by an angry street thug or just about anyone else who wants to knock your head off your shoulders.

The concept of pre-emptive striking simply means being the one to punch first. This is a touchy topic in martial arts circles as well as amongst the general public because the traditional belief is that you should “let the other guy throw the first punch.” I’ve never understood why people feel this way. Maybe it’s because they think that will protect them if the police get involved, or perhaps they just don’t want to look like “the bad guy” for being the first one to act. For whatever their reasons, the concept of striking first when the bad guy is barking and snarling in their face is a foreign one. Then, there are some people, such as the man in this video, who understand its effectiveness.

Peach Shirt did the right thing by clocking White Shirt when WS got in his face. He also did the right thing by not stomping and/or hitting WS while he was down on the ground, as THAT definitely would’ve invalidated any self-defense claims. The only thing PS did wrong was not getting the fuck outta there after he knocked WS down the first time. He walked away slowly, perhaps proudly, allowing WS the chance to get up and chase him down. Luckily, PS put him down a second time and WS didn’t have any friends around to “take up” for him by swarming and attacking PS.

In my experience, assailants stand in front of you, barking and snarling for two reasons: 1. They want to see how frightened/nervous they can get you before punching you in the face. 2. They’re also working THEMSELVES up to attack. As I’ve said before, only a predatory criminal or sociopath will just smash someone in the face completely out of the blue. In most cases, your attacker will pull the ol’ bark ‘n snarl routine to draw a crowd and pump up their own courage to attack. In most cases, they’ll push you first, then go for the haymaker (a big punch to the face) after you push them back. The pre-emptive strike short circuits this whole routine and it’s usually the LAST thing your attacker is expecting.

I’ll bet this pimp didn’t see the chop to his carotid artery coming. It definitely cut off the flow of blood to his brain, though:

WARNING: a pre-emptive strike might win the battle, but you’ll have a hard time proving your innocence in a court of law. The criminal justice system should be renamed the criminal justice industry, because that’s what it is. Police, prosecutors, and judges will all have dollar signs in their eyes if they get involved in a situation where you delivered a pre-emptive strike. Be prepared for the possibility of having to defend your decision to “knock that motherfucker out” in a court of law. That same 6-foot-tall animal that was going to smash your face in will be sitting in the witness stand, looking like an innocent little lamb. And the story he’ll tell will not be ANYTHING like what really happened at the bar a month before. And prosecutors have a penchant for asking nasty little questions, such as, “But how did you know the victim was going to hit you, Mr. Ribner?” There’s no good way to answer it.

So if you decide to deliver a pre-emptive strike, don’t say I didn’t warn you. It may or may not be legal under the statutes of self defense in your state. Use at your own risk. Only you can make the decision whether your life is truly in danger … and only you will have to live with the consequences. That said, I’d love to hear your thoughts on this.

Until then, stay safe, good people!

Streetfight Study 4: Battleship Mouth, Rowboat Ass

If you don’t want to fight somebody, then shut the fuck up. I can’t make it any more straightforward than that!

Although I only have this abbreviated news report of the this jumping, I’ve seen the original video a while back and it illustrated my point perfectly. What point? Refusing to fight someone while simultaneously asserting your right to offend them is a deadly combination. Here’s the news report of this horrific attack:

What the news report doesn’t focus enough attention on is the victim’s behavior that contributed to him being assaulted. As I recall from the original video, the victim says “I don’t wanna fight you” or “I’m not here to fight you” at least once during the confrontation. To makes matters worse (for himself), he does the typical talk-to-the-hand gesture, even going so far as to make contact with one of his assailant’s faces and pushing the man’s face away from his personal space. It’s at this point that one of the other men throws the first punch, connecting with the victim’s face and the jumping commences. While most people will say that pushing the man’s face away from him was the victim’s first mistake, it was actually his last in a line of tactical errors he made that morning.

Mistake number one was was announcing his intentions NOT to fight. I don’t know what started the argument between the three thugs and the victim, but making it crystal clear that you don’t want to fight, or that you’re not going to fight, is like ringing the proverbial dinner bell to people like the three assailants in this video, and it gives them the confidence needed to escalate their behavior.

Mistake number two was continuing to debate with his assailants. Again, I couldn’t find the original video, but I seem to recall that right after the victim announced his intention NOT to fight, he then went on to criticize them and chastise them for picking on him. In other words, even though he didn’t want to fight, he continued to have a warrior’s pride about him, allowing his ego to take control of him. Classic case of “battleship mouth/rowboat ass.”

Anyone who’s ever had any experience with a bully can likely cite what the victim’s third mistake was. If you answered “making contact with his attacker,” you get the gold medal. Here’s the bottom line: no matter what a bully does to you, their body and personal space are SACROSANCT. This means NO ONE can touch them, even if it’s something as harmless as accidentally brushing up against them. Such transgressions are always dealt with in a physical manner, as it’s a challenge to the bully’s ego and reputation. In short, from the attacker’s perspective, that face-shove “forced” him to react in the way he and his friends did.

Sadly, this confrontation is typically of what happens when a square from the 9-to-5 world crosses paths with thugs who grew up in generational poverty. Squares are used to fighting their battles with words, which they’ve honed to sarcastic perfection; nobody at the office or golf course is likely to take a swing at them. Thugs, on the other hand, live in a world where one’s reputation hinges upon being tough or “hard.” The thug knows that any perceived sign of weakness could invite attacks by other thugs who perceive him as “soft,” so they ferociously guard their reputations and have no compunction against using violence.

What the square should’ve done was apologize to the thugs while backing away from them and heading to a different car. In most cases, saying, “I’m sorry, man! I know I can be a real asshole sometimes. I shouldn’t have said that” is usually enough to allow the thugs to feel they’ve “won.” It doesn’t matter if he’d mean the apology or not, it’s simply the best option a person who “doesn’t want to fight” has in these situations. The question is, would HIS ego allow him to do it?

Oh, and if anyone can find the original video of this entire confrontation, please share it with me!

Streetfight Study 3: The Myth of Perfect Technique

Do you need to execute perfect technique in a self-defense situation, aka a streetfight? The short answer is, “No.”

By now, martial artists and MMA enthusiasts alike are warming up their keyboards, a prelude to putting me in my place before challenging me to a fight. Thing is, I’m not talking about combative sports such as boxing, kickboxing, or MMA. In those arenas, it’s always best to have perfected your technique, not to mention your stamina and a host of other qualities needed before the bell goes “ding.” In a self defense situation, however, the need for flawless execution of technique diminishes in the face of such things as mental preparedness, conviction, and above all, situational awareness. Or, to put it bluntly, a wild haymaker and the determination to use it can be far more deadly than having a McDojo black belt but not knowing when the bad guys (or girls) are sizing you up for an attack.

One of the first things the School of Perfect Technique will tell you is this old chestnut: wide, looping punches (aka “haymakers”) are very easily to block or dodge, and leading with one is sure to get you knocked out or worse. While this is sound tactical advice, YouTube is FILLED with clips of people getting laid out by these “wild” punches. Here’s one where I swear the kid throwing the punch HAD to have had his eyes closed:

Also on the subject of punches, fight gurus will preach on and on about the correct way to throw a punch and what parts of the knuckles should make contact with your opponent. They’ll all criticize lobbing a straight, stiff-armed punch, which tends to strike with the inside of the palm and knuckles. Not only is such a strike telegraphed and easily blocked, fight experts swear that the punch is ineffective because it hurts the puncher’s hand far more than the victim’s face. Internet fight sensation Sharkeisha might disagree; with just one of the aforementioned clumsy punches, she practically destroyed a young woman her age:

If you think that was brutal, this stiff, straight-armed punch conributed to a man’s death:

Here another piece of fight advice from the technique gurus: never throw high kicks to the head/face in a street fight. Such kicks can be blocked and the kicker can be knocked off balance. Worse yet, such kicks are highly dangerous on the street, in a bar, or any other place where the terrain is uncertain an could cause the kicker to slip and fall. Despite this sound advice, here’s at least one streetfight where a head kick was a gamechanger… luckily, the victim’s friends had the presence of mind to save him!

Last but not least: “Never go to the ground in a streetfight ’cause the guy’s friends could stomp your face while you’re down there.” Technically speaking, I can’t exactly argue with this advice. Going to the ground with your opponent does present certain, undeniable risks, especially in this day and age where it seems like no one fights without a little help from their “boyz.” And Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu and other wrestling arts are largely used for sporting competitions such as MMA and grappling tournaments. That said, they also have plenty of application in self-defense, and there are cases where these techniques have been used effectively in self-defense situations, aka “on da streetz, yo!” Here’s some basic BJJ moves used to neutralize an attacker:

So the School of Perfect Technique is full of shit, right? Wrong! Just because I showed instances where streetfighters went against the experts and came out victorious, that doesn’t mean that we as martial artists should quit honing our techniques. I will agree that wild haymakers can easily be blocked or dodged, and that they have a high probability of missing. I’ll also agree that the stiff-armed punch increases the risk of breaking one’s hand, and that a good strong hook or overhand right might be more effective. And when it comes to head kicks, I never used them in my competitive kickboxing days, let alone on the asphalt or inside the bar. And every martial artist should hone his/her ground game if for no other reason than they might find themselves there… whether they wanted to pull guard or not. (Also keep in mind that while most fights go to the ground, ALL of them start standing up.)

Simply put, sloppy techniques also work. Just about any technique will IF you execute it with determination and conviction. In other words, you have to WANT to knock out your attacker because he or she wants to knock YOU out. You gotta do something and do it quickly, and with all your strength behind it. Try not to worry about all the little things, such as “Is my footwork in the proper position?” or “Did I rotate my shoulder enough on that punch?” Those thoughts will cloud your mind and take you out of the mindset needed to survive a confrontation with the thugs and roughnecks out there waiting to prey upon YOU.

Stay safe, good people!

J.P. Ribner is the author of Legacy of the Bear, Prophecy of the Bear, and World So Dark.

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